In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Siúr Sodelb,’ Siúr Feidelm calls from the doorway of the Tech Mor. She repeats the summons.

  Áine turns. The morning sun shines in her eyes and makes it difficult to see, but she can’t mistake Siúr Feidelm’s tall frame.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Áine. I’m sorry, I thought you were Siúr Sodelb. With the veil covering your head and your limp...,’ she pauses. ‘You’re still limping. The break should have healed well enough by now for the limp to have gone. Come to me later and I’ll examine it to see if there’s a problem.’

  ‘Did you want me to fetch Siúr Sodelb?’

  ‘No, no. You will do just as well, if not better.’ She closes the short distance between them and holds out a small basket. ‘Would you give this to Colmán? I have an infusion brewing and can’t leave it.’ She points to the contents. ‘Tell Colmán the small pot is to be rubbed on his chest at night, before sleep, to ease his breathing. The small packet is an herb to place in a bowl of hot water. He’s to lean over it, a cloth on his head, and inhale the steam.’ She continues with the instructions, her words crisp and clear, each symptom covered and addressed with precision. How is Áine to convey the underlying message; that death is imminent and really there is little to be done?

  But Siúr Feidelm has read her thoughts and charges her with its delivery. ‘I leave that to you,’ Áine. ‘You’re much better with words of that type.’

  Áine gazes down at the basket and reads the messages it contains. She sees the care, the understanding that a mother and a family want to do as much for the son as they possibly can. She also sees that they aren’t yet ready to accept his passing.

  She walks slowly away, staring at the basket, and gathers her thoughts, reluctant to encounter Colmán for many reasons. Until this moment she’s been adept at avoiding him since their encounter the day before. She’s always ensured she sat some distance from him during the meals, and has remained in the sleeping hut between the offices.

  ‘Ah, I have found you at last.’

  Startled, Áine raises her head and stares up at Colmán. He stands close to her, in the shadow of the nearly finished hut in which he slept the night before. He carries a large leather satchel, clearly ready for departure.

  ‘I was hoping to see you before I left,’ he says.

  She holds out the basket. ‘Siúr Feidelm asked me to give this to you.’ She points out the various contents and recounts Siúr Feidelm’s instructions, conscious of his intent regard. When she finishes, she looks up at him and catches the brief flicker of distress on his face. ‘I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy for you.’

  He shakes his head, as if he would shake away the grief and all the other issues that hang between them. ‘It’s more difficult for him. He knows he’s dying, yet will let my mother do all she might to prolong his life, however painful it might be.’ He takes the basket and gestures to the bench outside the oratory. ‘Will you sit with me a little?’

  For a moment she considers refusing, but knows it is useless. He would press her until she consents or he might seek out Máthair Gobnait to ensure her cooperation. They walk the short distance to the seat while Áine tries to calm herself.

  He allows her a moment’s respite, a moment where they both sit and consider the view that takes in Máthair Gobnait’s hives, her figure weaving among them. The bees are a close kin group of their own and Máthair Gobnait their banríon. Beyond her is the vegetable garden, where Siúr Sodelb oversees the women armed with their baskets, kneeling in the beds, picking the cabbages and onions that swell with the earth’s goodness. Further down the hillside, cows dot the field on one side and on the other, a field of oats sway under the heavy weight of their ripened seeds. Áine takes this in, extracting its benevolent energy and calm.

  ‘You know it was legal matters that brought me travelling in this direction when I received the request to come here,’ Colmán says finally.

  She nearly sighs when he breaks the silence, but then she realizes he’s been gathering his own thoughts and seeking his own source of calm. This realization alarms her. ‘Yes, I had heard that,’ she manages.

  ‘I was in fact on my way west to the Eóganacht of Irluochair, near Lough Leane.’

  She makes a noise of polite interest, but she becomes uneasy, though the remark seems benign enough.

  ‘I go primarily to ask about you. To discover, if possible, who you are. I know inquiries were made in this tuath and eastwards, but I thought I would try westwards.’

  She clasps her hands tightly, fighting to control her voice. ‘You choose to go in person, rather than send a message?’ The words come out strangled.

  ‘I would rather go myself. I can put questions to people as they arise, read expressions, tease out information that might not be immediately apparent in words carefully phrased on a page. So hopefully it can be resolved much sooner.’

  ‘Why do you do this, what is the rush?’

  ‘Don’t you want to discover who you are?’ There is a mixture of puzzlement, hurt and anger in his voice.

  ‘No, I mean yes, of course.’ She tries to keep the petulance from her voice, but there is nothing but petulance attached to her thoughts, where it has free rein. The thoughts, given such freedom, scream around her head in all their petulant foot-stamping glory. She doesn’t want his help, doesn’t need to know who she was in the past. What matters is now, and how dare he presume otherwise. ‘But why are you so interested?’ she says finally.

  ‘You were beaten, assaulted. It’s a matter for the law.’ His voice falters a little. ‘I- I would do this for you because it’s important for you to know yourself fully, before things....’ He raises his hand and touches her veil. She looks away. ‘I care about you. Since you left Raithlinn, I’ve thought of you constantly. I can’t help it.’ He cups his hand on her chin and pulls it toward him. ‘Do you know how beautiful you are? I admit, I’m no file who can compose great poems in praise of you, I can speak only facts.’ He leans across and kisses her lips.

  The world tilts and roars. She jerks away and wipes her mouth. ‘No. What are you doing?’

  ‘I mean you no disrespect, Áine. It’s part of the reason I want to discover who you are, so I can come to an honourable agreement with your family.’

  ‘An honourable agreement? You would divorce your wife and make me cétmuinter?’

  He reddens. ‘Well, no. I wouldn’t be permitted to do that by her family or mine.’

  ‘Then what? A second wife? Or your mistress? Is that what you hope for?’

  ‘A second wife, of course, with the formal contract, everything legally agreed, so there would be no question of your status.’

  She stares at him, the sensation of his mouth on hers still lingering, tingling so alarmingly her hands start to shake. With a great wail she rises and stumbles away, her leg aching, the limp so pronounced it’s nearly impossible to make any speed at all.

  She arrives at the sleeping hut and shuts the door against Colmán and the rest of the world on its other side.

  ~

  Sometime later, when she deems it safe, she makes her way down to the vegetable garden, to Siúr Sodelb. On her approach Siúr Sodelb turns to her.

  ‘You’re ashen, is there something wrong? Are you ill?’

  Áine moves closer, puts her arms around Siúr Sodelb. ‘Hold me, Sodelb, please.’

  She feels Siúr Sodelb’s arms go round her waist, pull her in close. She nestles her head in Siúr Sodelb’s neck.

  ‘All will be well,’ Siúr Sodelb whispers. ‘You have God’s love to keep you safe. And mine.’

  She allows Áine to remain there until Áine’s breathing slows and her heart finds a calmer pace. It is only then Siúir Sodelb pulls away and asks her gently if she’s recalled a memory that upsets her.

  The memory is only the reeling of her mind, the fear of a touch, the nausea in her stomach and the sense of tides she cannot hold back. She shakes her head. ‘I-I don’t know.’

  The
arms come around her again and hold her close for a time that seems too short when her only instinct is to stay there forever.

  ~

  The weather has played its part this harvest year, swelling the grains with enough rain and sun, so they hang in abundant ripeness, dry unbent rather than mouldy from too much wet. The heifers, calves and sheep, with all the plentiful grass, have fattened and grown to a great size and the milk has flowed from the udders of all the cows that have borne calves. The cabbage blossoms out, its broad leaves curling round a thick centre and the engorged onions expand to sizes some call miraculous. Blackberries and all their attending cousins make startling promises with great clusters of flowers.

  Such bounty means hectic days, with every available person turning their hand to some task or chore that will ensure its collection. Scything, stuking, gathering, threshing, digging, slaughtering all take time and people, in addition to the cooking, baking, churning, butter-making, spinning, weaving and washing tasks that fall all year round.

  In such good weather the builders work on too, their numbers fewer by one. Cenél has been sent back to Findbar and Brendán’s father’s farm, shunned by day and made to work as hard as the lowest man there, with only a diet of bread and water. Each morning, early, he is made to say his penance on his knees, in the oratory, under Siúr Ethne’s watchful eye. Findbar and Brendán show no satisfaction that their felonious assistant is reduced to a state that still preserves his ability to labour for the family’s farm. Without a word they seek their own measure of compensation and show surprisingly adept skills at fashioning Cenél’s face in stone, and placing it among the others in the wall of the hut they build. By such design they make their own statement that can also be seen as a warning. That it gives them gratification is evident in the prominent place they site it, above the door. When Máthair Gobnait sees it, walking in the company of Siúr Ethne and Áine, she merely shakes her head and says it will remind people that everyone is subject to temptation.

  The frantic days often stretch well into the evening and sometimes the night, taking every bit of light available, for this grace, this miracle of good weather, is not to be wasted. The next year’s harvest is unknown. So much energy, so much effort brings higher numbers to Máthair Gobnait’s community, all of them seeking cures for ailments and injuries sustained during and after the harvest. Some visit the holy well before and on the return from their journey to Máthair Gobnait, toss in a bit of metal, tie a cloutie on the overlooking tree for those left behind with summer fever, or a deeper ailment, in the hope of taking in every possibility. All sorts of problems appear, including broken, sliced and cut limbs, fingers and toes, sore heads from bangs and too much celebration, and any number of other strange or confidential rashes, itches, burns and bites acquired when the hay proved too inviting, and the sweet girl or boy too tempting.

  Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Feidelm are kept busy enough, listening, examining and providing the treatments, so that when Áine offers to help it’s accepted gladly. She watches them work, hands things to them when asked, and fetches, until she knows when and how to clean simple wounds and apply firm bandages. The rhythm established, she becomes part of a threesome, all of them understanding the silent language of healers. By extension she becomes a worker of bees, following Máthair Gobnait, an extra veil covering her face, gloves on her hands, and she holds the basket and the bundle of rush for smoking the bees, while Máthair Gobnait collects the honey and wax from the beachair.

  As Máthair Gobnait’s handmaid, Áine watches her work in silence, hears the bees humming and Máthair Gobnait’s response, her own words spoken so low and in a voice so calm that it’s as though she speaks in their buzzing language. And after a while, Áine hears the bees’ varying tones herself, notes the subtle changes in sound that registers their mood and temperament, and how the weather, light, moisture all invoke reactions. Máthair Gobnait knows the bees like she knows herself and can read their moods as well as they read hers.

  The language is private, but over the days Áine catches words and phrases, so that on occasion she just smiles when Máthair Gobnait lifts the top off one of the beachair and nods in understanding. One of these mornings, watching Máthair Gobnait open the top of the hive, lifting out the comb filled with honey and wax, Áine realizes Máthair Gobnait’s bond allows her access with little penalty. She is rarely stung and when she is, she no longer feels it.

  ‘These bees are restless,’ Máthair Gobnait says on this day. She peers inside and studies the hive, listening to their hum. ‘A new king? Such a fruitful year, so much honey.’ In a quiet voice she begins to sing Um la Mholadh Beacha, Áine’s praise piece.

  Áine flushes with pleasure and after a moment she joins her, measuring her tone, until the wonder of it takes over and she closes her eyes and hears the answering hum that gives support to the song. The piece finishes and Áine opens her eyes and watches as Máthair Gobnait replaces the top of the hive, and smiles warmly.

  ‘Thank you, Áine. That was a wonderful gift to them, and to me.’

  ~

  Even in these times the offices structure each day. They provide a touchstone, moments when the mind can move upwards, focus on the spirit, rather than the physical exertions that tax their bodies. Áine observes these offices with a fervour that only a person intent on drawing as much as possible from each day in the community could manage. She commits to memory all the psalms she hears, finds the tune to accompany them and sings them in addition to the canticles and the Beati. She offers the prayers and the Pater Noster with growing confidence. She listens to the verses from the Gospel Máthair Gobnait and Siúr Ethne recite, and asks that she might learn them too. When she realizes the sisters regularly make confession of transgressions to Máthair Gobnait, their anam cara, she confesses too, while Máthair Gobnait nods impassively on the bench in the oratory. She confesses again only a short time after the previous confession, and this time Máthair Gobnait chides her gently.

  ‘What is my penance?’ she asks when she has finished.

  Máthair Gobnait gives a small smile. ‘It has hardly been three days since you came to me last, so there is not the time to accumulate much in the way of sinful transgressions, even for the most wayward of people.’ She looks at Áine intently. ‘Is there something you haven’t said? Something deeper that worries your soul?’

  Áine gives a small shake of her head and then lowers it to hide the flush that rises on her face. Has she judged it wrong? She thought she understood the nature and timing of these confessions. It felt so comforting to sit before Máthair Gobnait and itemize those actions and thoughts she felt were improper, to feel that by such action they are wiped away, so she can start fresh once again. To make Máthair Gobnait her anam cara.

  Siúr Ethne enters, her eyes blinking against the darkened room. She halts when it becomes apparent she isn’t alone. ‘Máthair Gobnait, I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t realize there was anyone in here. I sought some time alone to pray.’

  Máthair Gobnait rises. ‘No you’re not disturbing us.’ She looks down at Áine. ‘Think about what I said, child. In the meantime a few Pater Nosters will suffice for what you’ve just told me.’ She nods to Siúr Ethne and departs.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if Máthair Gobnait understands how much purifying the body can in turn cleanse the soul,’ Siúr Ethne says. She looks down at Áine. ‘You’re welcome to join me in prayer. Though I shall be doing more than saying a few Pater Nosters.’

  Áine stares at Siúr Ethne a moment, wondering if she’s imagined the words. Siúr Ethne looks at her expectantly and with a small measure of disbelief Áine murmurs her thanks and joins Siúr Ethne on the floor in front of the altar bearing the copper crucifix. She says the prayers, her eyes fixed on the cross, and finds herself praying more. She prays for Domnall as she always does and for Siúr Sodelb; that her foot might someday cause her less pain in both the heart and body. This time though, she prays for Colmán. She thinks first of his searching e
yes, the strong jaw and sensuous lips. May he be kept safe on his journey, she asks, a journey that, please God, will be fruitless.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Longer than anyone’s memory, the fair has marked the change of seasons, figured as it was on the sun, the moon and all the fluctuations of the Earth. Its origins stretch back to tales of special fairs, on sites sacred and political, so no one can tell when the first fair was, or where it took place, or if it was at Lughnasadh. It’s only important that it occurred. That its purpose isn’t limited to any one thing also makes it difficult to place, yet no one can doubt that in times plentiful and sparse it is important to bring people together to share and trade wares, to settle matters in legal ways (and on occasion not so legal), to socialize, meet kith and kin in places too distant to see regularly, and to exchange tales and gossip for storage against the dark winter days.

  Though the Church might frown, those pious groups of influential bishops in their monasteries in Ard Maigh, Clonmacnoise and even Cashel, it is at the local level that its practicalities can’t be ignored, even in Boirneach, for all that Epscop Ábán might have answered it with an another fair at the time of Whitsun.

  This year in Boirneach, it seems more necessary to go the fair, that everyone might trade such an abundant harvest with those that might have sustained a failure in some way: those that had calves that were stillborn, sheep with liver fluke, or perhaps faulty seed. Those whose sheep had flourished, producing wool so thick and of such quality it would nearly spin itself into yarn, will perhaps look to trade its excess for some cheese, or even the special honey that marks the Boirneach fair. It is a wife’s dream, after all, an outing where she can meet with other women, compare the sweetness of her butter, the smoothness of her yarn and exchange stories of children with sore gums or chronic rashes. And if she is unmarried, eye a man who might one day become her husband.

  Máthair Gobnait knows this and uses the fair to make her own observations and trades. This year with extra honey, cheese and butter that even Epscop Ábán’s monastery can’t consume in the next year, but lacking enough wool and flax to meet their needs now there were new members to think of, she makes arrangements for the goods to be made ready and the farm cart loaded. She announces it during their weekly meetings after the midday meal.