In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  ‘I would count it a great accomplishment if I could feed myself.’

  ‘And it would be.’ Máthair Gobnait pats her arm. ‘Now that you’re well on the road to recovery you will find patience your greatest challenge. We must give the healing all the time it needs.’ She looks down at Méone. ‘Meanwhile, we’ll see that you aren’t in want of company or amusement.’ She rises and moves towards the door, turning once to give Áine a smile before she vanishes outside.

  Áine glances down at Méone. His eyes are fully closed, his body heavy against her. It is a reassuring feeling and she tries to recall the last time she felt this secure and comforted. ‘You are good to remain behind on such a summer’s day,’ she tells the cat. ‘I’m sure there is much you would rather be doing outside.’ Méone opens his eyes and looks up, his green eyes wide and unblinking. A moment later he closes them once again. After a while a gentle snore rises up.

  ~

  Máthair Gobnait holds to her promise and Áine is able to cradle her bowl and spoon porridge into her mouth the next morning while the rest sit at the table to break their fast. Máthair Gobnait leads the blessing and the women reach for their share of porridge and bread. From her position propped on her pallet, Áine can see the women who have assembled. There are only a few now that aren’t familiar. The cailecha wear their familiar grey garb over a linen léine, drawn in at the waist with a leather belt and the grey veil covering their hair. One of the workers has a small child in her lap. She can see even from her pallet the frayed edges of the woman’s sleeves and the shabby quality léine that pokes out from under it that suggest she might even be a slave. Beside her, Siúr Mugain spoons more porridge from the large bowl placed in the table’s centre into the poor woman’s vessel. The woman nods her silent thanks, dips in her spoon and attempts to feed her child, but the child will have none of it.

  Siúr Mugain opens her copious arms. ‘Here, let me try. My own little brothers were fussy when eating first thing in the morning.’ The child smiles at Siúr Mugain and moves over to her waiting lap.

  ‘How are the wheat and oat fields, Siúr Mugain?’ asks Máthair Gobnait. ‘I haven’t had the time to walk them lately. The bees have kept me so busy.’

  ‘The grain is swelling nicely and is nearly as tall as my waist already,’ Siúr Mugain answers. ‘Please God we’ll get only a little rain this month coming.’

  ‘Please God we’ll only get a little the next month after. The cattle have nearly grazed the top field, and in a few days I’ll need to move them to the field by the river. It’s only now, after drying up, enough to bear the cattle.’ It is Siúr Sadhbh who has spoken, the sister who tends the livestock. Throughout this exchange Siúr Ethne casts disdainful looks at the two women while she stirs her spoon around her porridge, never once bringing it to her mouth.

  ‘Would you like some honey for that?’ Máthair Gobnait asks Siúr Ethne. Her back is to Áine but the soft note of pleading is distinct.

  Siúr Ethne looks over at her, startled. ‘No, thank you, Máthair Ab. I prefer not to adorn my food in any way.’

  ‘Honey is from the bees, that the Lord has seen fit to bless us with. It has many gifts and it would do the Lord a disservice if we didn’t honour these gifts by making use of them.’

  Siúr Ethne gives a weak smile. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not that I wouldn’t honour the gift, but that I’m unworthy of it.’

  The sigh Máthair Gobnait emits is barely detectable. Siúr Mugain shakes her head and Siúr Sadhbh frowns. It is then Áine sees Siúr Sodelb’s golden head, the covering slipped back. Siúr Sodelb reaches out and places her slim white hand over Siúr Ethne’s, but Siúr Ethne withdraws her own hand and places it in her lap.

  Unobserved, and from the safety of her pallet, Áine contemplates these women, each distinct in their approach to the community, but each believing something good, something holy is at work here. She cannot dispute Máthair Gobnait’s otherworldly qualities, or the sacred air that permeates this place. Some would ascribe this quality to the nearby ancient holy well that has drawn countless through the ages.

  It’s a question that begins to occupy her while she sits alone on her pallet and the women are busy serving the community, Máthair Gobnait and God. It becomes increasingly clear to her that each one has a place, an idea of themselves in this sheltered community that provides welcome to likeminded souls. How does she, injured, with no name, no memory of who she is, figure in such a place? Though her body is knitting slowly, her mind is still a blank. Her memory, if restored, might give her a place, but is it one that is no longer safe? It’s a question she can only answer with her instinct and the answer is not comforting.

  ‘You look troubled.’

  She looks up and sees Máthair Gobnait standing before her holding a spindle whorl and a sack.

  ‘I think it’s time you had a taste of fresh air and sunshine.’

  She feels a sense of alarm. ‘I-I’m not sure I’m ready for that.’

  ‘Nonsense. You are, of course.’

  Áine bites her lip. ‘I don’t know. Moving me too far or too soon may ruin all your efforts.’

  Máthair Gobnait kneels down beside her. The copper cross that she has fashioned hangs from a leather thong down her chest and glints in the firelight. ‘You will be fine, I assure you. We will take every care moving you.’ She takes Áine’s right hand. ‘All will be well. I will be there to look out for you.’

  Áine looks into Máthair Gobnait’s face and can see nothing but kindness there. It’s a face to trust, though Áine knows she hasn’t the luxury of choosing otherwise. ‘You’ve been so very kind to me. I’m grateful you took me in.’

  ‘We are glad to have you here and you’re welcome to stay with us until your health is recovered and you feel able to leave.’

  Where she would go is not mentioned, nor is the thought that it might not be safe to leave with no notion of who she is, or where she is from. That she might never have anywhere to go. The idea makes her uneasy, but there is no fear attached to it, nothing so pungent and real that makes her heart race, as the notion of leaving here does.

  ‘There is still no word of your identity, but you mustn’t feel discouraged. These things take time. Soon enough we’ll know who you are.’ She gives Áine a piercing look. No words are needed. Áine shakes her head. She’s recalled nothing more about her identity.

  ‘What will I do?’ she whispers to Máthair Gobnait. She is overcome with a sense of helplessness.

  ‘For now you need to rest and recover.’ Máthair Gobnait hands her the spindle whorl and the sack. ‘But there’s no harm in helping out in small ways. And it will keep your fingers occupied and perhaps a bit of your mind too.’

  Áine takes the sack and spindle. Inside the sack she finds a large hank of wool.

  ‘You know how to spin the wool?’

  She looks at the wooden spindle for a moment, wondering. Was something as simple as this part of her memory? Had she spun wool? ‘I don’t know. I’ll try.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. It’s not difficult.’ Máthair Gobnait reaches over, takes the spindle and a clump of wool and gives a brief demonstration. It looks easy in her deft strong fingers. She hands it back to Áine and rises. ‘When Siúr Mugain and Siúr Sadhbh are done with the morning chores, I’ll get them to carry you outside. You’ll see better out there.’

  Áine watches Máthair Gobnait leave, the spindle and hank of wool in her lap. She looks down. Somehow, without Máthair Gobnait by her side, spinning wool seems an impossible task, one that would test too much of what she feels unprepared to examine. She closes her eyes. Her fingers, still stiff and awkward, enfold the spindle. Touching its surface, polished smooth from years of use, somehow offers comfort. Her other hand reaches for the soft dark wool. Even now, she can smell faint traces of lanolin.

  Her eyes still closed, she takes up the thread of wool in the hank, twisting and twirling it in her hand, shaping the clump into a soft long thread. She sighs, opens her eyes and take
s up the spindle and lets it dangle as she’d seen Máthair Gobnait do. After a few moments it’s all a tangle, the spindle whirling too quickly, the spokes catching on the wool that soon becomes lumpy. She drops it back onto her lap and resists the urge to hurl it all across the room. Was it her fingers, still too stiff to handle spinning, or was it something deeper, that even the most basic of women’s tasks was lost to her with everything else? She looks at the spindle, the hank of wool, searching for something familiar. There is nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The hives are everywhere. Each beachair, lovingly formed from sedge grass and bound by long ropes of split briar to form a cone shape, sits on a wooden platform that faces south. They line the western part of the wall that encloses the faithche, the buildings and yard that comprise the religious community. There must have been twenty beachair in all. Sitting in the propped farm cart, the sun shining strongly on her, Áine finds a small bit of contentment watching the bees fly off and return, drunken on fruits like some wayward alemaker. Around her, she can see the women at their tasks and men at their construction, busy like the bees at their own husbandry. She feels safe. The safety is hard won. She has expelled much effort to remain calm enough to accept their ministrations as they moved her to this cart, out in the open, exposed. It is only now, with the sun nearly above her, that she is able to breathe evenly and let herself take in the benign activity around her.

  Áine sees Máthair Gobnait among the beachair, talking to the bees and checking that they are feeding. Through these actions Máthair Gobnait manifests her love of these creatures. Méone sits near her, bathing in the warm sun, studiously cleaning his paws. Máthair Gobnait wears an extra linen veil around her head and draped loosely over her back. Her hands are clad in leather gloves. At this moment her work absorbs her entirely and Áine can feel some envy for her, and even perhaps for the bees that they receive such attention. She reminds herself how much she’s benefitted from their work and to be grateful for it. She isn’t the only one that receives their bounty. The bees also provide the wax for the candles at mass and special feast days. The wax is shaped into tablets on which Máthair Gobnait records the communities’ produce. Their honey is used too for healing brews and balms on wounds, as well as food that is vital not only to the sisters but to the community at large. With all of that weighing in their favour Áine really cannot begrudge them their share of Máthair Gobnait’s attention.

  She closes her eyes and listens to the hum that fills the air, finding a certain joy in the sound that seems so energetic and happy. She allows the hum to resonate inside her and shape itself into something more. She finds that she’s humming too, a bee filling herself with the nectar of music. It’s only a small phrase, an idea, but it won’t let her go and she can only hum it louder, with a little more definition, so it will bloom.

  ‘That’s lovely.’

  The voice tells her it’s Siúr Sodelb before she turns in the cart and sees her standing there. Áine had observed her in the garden earlier, helping Siúr Feidelm, her bright hair nearly white in the strong sun. She looks no more earthly outside, in the full light, than she does inside the Tech Mor.

  Áine reddens, nervous that Siúr Sodelb has noticed her. ‘Ah, no, no. It’s only something that came in my head as I watched the bees.’

  Perhaps it’s because her eyes are so transparently blue they nearly reflect the sky that Áine is flustered. She finds she has to take a deep breath, shift her gaze to the field beyond to reclaim some calm. Siúr Sodelb comes around the cart to her side. Her movements are slow, hampered by the awkward gait made necessary by the left foot that is shorter and turned in slightly. Áine is overwhelmed by her disappointment. It doesn’t seem possible or fair that such perfection could be marred in this manner.

  ‘Your foot,’ she says. ‘It’s damaged.’ The words leap out of her like some frogs springing for freedom.

  Tears glisten in Siúr Sodelb eyes and she glances downward. ‘Yes. I was born this way.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I imagine you have enough comments from others without my own unthinking words.’

  Her eyes are clear now, but distant. ‘It used to be so. Here, the women are familiar with the way I look. And there is little need for me to walk far.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The apology doesn’t seem enough, especially since she cannot banish the thought that, if not for the deformity, someone so beautiful, of obviously good family, would have won many a heart, married well and attained great status. She says nothing but the words are there, hanging between them.

  Siúr Sodelb chooses to address the thought nonetheless. ‘I am content here, I assure you,’ she says. ‘These women are my family now, my home is here. I need nothing more.’

  Áine is anxious to reassure her. ‘I am certain of it. The beauty of your music shows the truth of your words.’

  Siúr Sodelb smiles and it lights her face and eyes with a radiance that spills out from her. ‘Music is my joy, my service to God. That’s what Máthair Gobnait says.’

  ‘Your singing, your compositions are truly a wonder. I’ve never heard anything like it before.’

  ‘It’s not mine in particular, it’s what I’ve taken from others.’

  ‘But surely such phrasing is unique.’

  ‘Unique, no, but different from the old ways.’

  ‘You know of the old ways of composition?’

  ‘My father allowed me to study with a file. And then a manach at Epscop Ábán’s monastery gave me some instruction when he came to say mass on occasion.’

  Her words speak volumes about her background, her family and status. ‘Your gift shines through nonetheless.’

  ‘You seem to have some familiarity with the finer points too. You must have studied with someone, that piece you just hummed was lovely.’

  Áine realizes the truth of her words. For some reason it hasn’t occurred to her until now. It lay hidden inside her, rising to the surface only when Siúr Sodelb sang and now, with the bees inspiring her. She stops a moment, waiting for the panic to come, but it doesn’t. She looks over at Máthair Gobnait bending down to one of the beachair, her lips moving.

  ‘An beacha.’

  ‘An beacha?’

  ‘Yes, the bees, they gave me the piece. Just now.’

  Siúr Sodelb nods. ‘Ah, you’re like Máthair Ab.’

  ‘She composes music too?’

  ‘No, she hears the bees speak to her. She sees God’s love in them and all they give to us.’

  Áine shakes her head. ‘I’m nothing like Máthair Gobnait. I could never be like her.’ She can’t bring herself to call her ‘Máthair Ab’ yet. It seems too forward, too much like she belongs here.

  Siúr Sodelb smiles. ‘You’ve yet to know the extent of your goodness and kindness. The joy you find in music and our blessed bees is a firm beginning.’

  Áine frowns a little at the reminder of her lack of memory. No, she has no idea what kind of person she is. She knows only that something in the music has captured her interest.

  ‘I meant that this was a new opportunity for you, a blessing.’ Though her manner is shy, her words are wise. ‘You can choose the person you are, without anyone to think or remember differently. And music is a good starting point for that person you will be.’

  ‘But I think it’s always been a part of me.’

  ‘I’m certain it has. And now you can shape it into something truly marvellous before God.’

  The sentiment is reassuring but the last few words make her uneasy. What would that mean? ‘I don’t think I could do that.’

  ‘There is nothing that can compare to it, I assure you.’ Siúr Sodelb’s voice takes on an energy and brilliance Áine remembers from her singing. ‘The sounds, they fill you, take over your whole body and lift you up to the heavens. It’s as though you are floating with the angels.’

  Áine nods, though she can only remember the soothing sense of calm it gave her when she was so ill. And later, when
ever she recalled it, she thought of the beauty. Still, these words stir something inside her. ‘I think I would like to learn such a thing,’ she says shyly.

  Siúr Sodelb shines all her radiance on Áine. ‘Would you hum that piece the bees inspired again, now?’

  Áine repeats it and the next moment Siúr Sodelb gives voice to it, creating long full sounds to Áine’s hummed phrase, her high voice containing a clarity any bell would envy. She sings it again and this time Áine joins her, her own voice’s dark richness surprising her. They are well matched, her deeper tones adding an extra depth to Siúr Sodelb’s. Siúr Sodelb laughs her pleasure and repeats the phrase, though this time she adds a variation. Áine follows it with ease, its direction so natural it’s as if the song hangs in the air waiting for them to voice it. The ease nearly frightens her for it’s as though something else might be at work.

  ‘The bees appreciate your music as much as I do.’ Máthair Gobnait stands there beside them, the cat ambling up behind her. She takes off the gloves, works loose the woven linen veil and pulls it up from her face to halo her head. Rimmed in light, she looks ethereal. At the sound of Máthair Gobnait’s voice Áine halts her singing, immediately self-conscious.

  Siúr Sodelb eventually falls silent too and greets Máthair Gobnait. ‘It’s only right they should appreciate it since Áine took her inspiration from them.’

  ‘Ah, I see. The bees give in so many ways and this is only one more. How marvellous.’ She gives Áine a direct look. ‘And how marvellous that you should manifest such inspiration in this way. You’ve made a work of beauty.’

  Áine feels the warm praise suffuse her body and fill her spirit. It is like bathing in a pure light, a blessing shone upon her. She wants more.

  ‘I wasn’t alone in this creation. Siúr Sodelb has some part in shaping the piece. And it has yet to be finished. I would willingly do that if Siúr Sodelb would help.’

  ‘Ah, no. I only added one bit of shine to it, but I would gladly help in any way you wish.’