In Praise of the Bees

by Kristin Gleeson

  Cuimne watches him leave. There is relief, but also some sadness at the sight of his retreating figure, because so much of her old life is departing with him.

  ‘Whatever you said to him, Cuimne, I give you a thousand thanks. We’re finally rid of him,’ Lassar says. She pulls her brat tighter and makes her way inside, Sárnat following in her wake.

  Cuimne starts to follow, but Ailill places a hand on her arm and speaks in a low voice. ‘A quick word with you, Cuimne, before you go in.’

  She glances at the darkening sky. The drizzle is quickly turning to heavier rain. He pulls her to the sparse shelter under the eaves of the thatched roof.

  He makes straight for the point. ‘You’ve decided against Óengus.’

  ‘Well, I tried to explain that to him, but he finds it difficult to accept.’

  ‘Oh. I’m glad to hear you at least have decided it’s not a good match. There’s someone else I’d have you consider.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Colmán.’

  ‘Colmán? I told you that he has a wife. That’s no great match, an adaltracht, second always to his cétmuinter. I told him that.’

  ‘You told him? You mean he asked you to marry him?’

  ‘He did, but I refused.’

  ‘You could change your mind.’ She starts to speak, but he holds up his hand. ‘Hear me out, Cuimne. He is a good man, but he’s also an influential man, someone whose ear could be of great value in troubled times. It would be no dishonour to be his second wife.’

  ‘Perhaps not when he asked me, but now, I cannot.’ She forces her voice to sound firm, to convey a certainty that her mind wouldn’t be changed. She clutches her arms to keep her hands from shaking.

  ‘What’s different now?’

  ‘I am a Christian, a woman pledged to God.’

  He stares at her for a moment, all words fled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Before I came here I wasn’t living with Colmán’s family, I was in a Christian woman’s community, Máthair Gobnait’s.’ She explains the rest patiently, as she did with Óengus. This time there is no hurt or confused reaction, there is only cynicism.

  ‘This Christian conscience seems to have arisen suddenly,’ he says. There is no tone of compassion or even a hint of the friendliness she detected earlier. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help but think this is a ruse of some sort. My only problem is that I can’t figure out why.’

  ‘I’m speaking the truth. The men who found me beaten took me to this Christian community where Máthair Gobnait tended me. She is known for her healing. Epscop Ábán will confirm that, and everything else I’ve told you.’

  Realization spreads across his face. The curious pieces, so awkward before and made more so with her clumsy explanations, fall into a seamless narrative. ‘I see. And now, after all this time, you find that you want to become a Christian cailech.’

  ‘I am a Christian cailech.’

  ‘Then why did you leave?’

  She flushes. Her explanation to Óengus won’t serve her well now. ‘I needed time to think. Time to be sure that the path I’d chosen was the right one. I came here, to my home, to the place I grew up and formed my ideas and my relationships. I thought I would know if I belonged here instead, but now I am certain I belong with Máthair Gobnait and her women.’

  He considers her words, the cynicism easing from his face. His attempts to understand her point of view are noticeable and she is grateful. It also allows her anxiety to ease and give space to the surprise she feels at the words she’d spoken. She knows part of her desire to go to Máthair Gobnait was born of her cowardice in the face of Óengus’s plans. How better to press her point and avoid him than in the protection of Máthair Gobnait’s community? But she now knows that the words she spoke to Ailill are true. She does belong with Máthair Gobnait. She is part of their group, their hive. She can accept their support, stand with them and share their strength, instead of cowering behind them. The bees have reminded her of this. She accepts this now, and the relief is almost overwhelming.

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘I would like to return to them, take up my obligations as a cailech.’

  ‘This is a huge step. I’ll have to think about it, consult others. You’re not the only person who would be affected by this decision. The family, the other lords, all of them would lose out from any alliance your marriage would bring.’

  ‘Joining the community would bring you the good will of Epscop Ábán and others connected to the church. Surely that would count for something, though you’re not a Christian.’

  ‘Are you certain they would look on us favourably despite the fact we don’t share their faith? I’m not.’

  She cannot answer that. She has no clear idea how the Christian Church or even Epscop Ábán would regard such an idea. She bows her head and shakes it.

  Ailill sighs. ‘I’ll look into the possibility over the winter. I’ll write to your bishop and Fiacra and ask about it. In the meantime I’ll talk it over with the others here. That’s the best I can promise you.’

  ‘I’m grateful, Ailill, truly I am. You’ve been more than kind to me and I know I don’t deserve half of it.’

  He leaves her with a nod. She stands under the eaves for a moment, then lifts her head toward the sky and prays in earnest that all would come to pass as she hopes, preferably before spring. As an afterthought she also asks for the patience she knows will be required before her hopes can be fulfilled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A desire for patience becomes a regular feature of Cuimne’s prayers as they enter winter and the weather confines most of their daily activities indoors. Sárnat’s belly grows ever larger, the one element that seems to mark the passing days that are filled with chores and tasks that never vary for Cuimne. Occasionally, the fabric on the loom changes and a woollen length with vibrant colours replaces the solid colour of linen, or from a plain hem or neckline of a gown in her lap there emerges a beautifully embroidered pattern.

  They mark mid-winter and the solstice and Lassar seems more languorous, spending much of the time huddled in front of the fire, warming her joints and drinking hot brews and whatever else Cuimne can think to give her to relieve her aches. Such is the pain and the measure of the relief that Lassar is even on occasion disposed to thank Cuimne for her efforts. Cuimne also uses her skills when needed to ease Sárnat’s indigestion and leg cramps. Sárnat accepts her ministrations with warm gratitude and makes a point to share the happier side of her pregnancy with Cuimne. When the baby first kicks, it is Cuimne she tells, placing her hands on her belly so she can feel the movement there. It is a surprising sensation for Cuimne of a force created by a life within Sárnat and independent of her. A wonder. It makes her think of music. But the music becomes the laughter of children, rather than some abstract lullaby.

  The music stays with her, and though there is no harp to inspire her further, she composes a small piece, a little ditty with lilting words for Sárnat to sing to her child who kicks with such might. She sings it to her that night.

  ‘Again!’ cries Sárnat when she’s finished the piece. And so she sings it again. Even Lassar smiles when she sings it this time. The confidence she feels then fills the tune with a lovely lilt. They laugh and clap when it’s finished.

  Ailill enters the house, asks about the commotion and Sárnat tells him about the song. ‘One more time?’ he asks her with a smile. And one more time she sings. Sárnat joins in at the end when Cuimne gestures. There is more laughter then and it lingers around the room.

  ‘We should be sorry to lose such an adept musician and file,’ Ailill says when the laughter has eased.

  ‘Lose her?’ Sárnat asks. ‘Has a marriage been arranged?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ve had a summons from Fiacra. He wants to discuss Epscop Ábán’s recent visit to him. It seems he made a favourable impression.’

  ‘What has that to do with Cuimne?’ Lassar asks.

  Ailill glances at Cuimne. ‘She wants to go an
d live in that Christian woman’s community.’

  Lassar gives her a speculative look, but Sárnat frowns, her face filled with sadness and regret.

  ‘You mean the woman named Gobnait that she and Ábán mentioned?’ asks Lassar. ‘And what’s brought on this desire to live there?’ Her tone is clipped. There is no trace of anger, but something else. When Sárnat speaks, Cuimne realizes what it is.

  ‘Oh, but I thought you were growing accustomed to us. And now you’ve found a place in my heart, you cannot want to go.’

  ‘It’s not a decision Cuimne made lightly,’ Ailill says, his tone soothing. ‘And I don’t think it comes from her dislike of us, or the time she’s spent with us. But we must see what Fiacra says. He is the one to make this kind of decision.’

  Cuimne shakes her head. ‘Truly, Sárnat, if not for my growing commitment to the community and the faith, I would happily stay here with you and the baby.’

  ‘Oh but you must at least stay for the birth,’ Sárnat says, her voice all nerves. ‘Your knowledge and kind comfort would make all the difference.’

  Cuimne gives a weak smile, conflicted by the wish to be gone well before Óengus or a letter might make an appearance and the desire to help Sárnat. ‘We don’t know if I’m to leave, or when. God willing, I shall be here to help.’ She braces herself for their reaction towards her overt indication of her intent and faith. It is the first of many she hopes to make, so that they might grow used to the idea. And she also admits that it will help her prepare for what lies ahead. Glances are exchanged, Lassar purses her lips, but nothing is said. For that she is grateful. For somewhere along the way she has lost her sense that her safety is threatened and has grown to care for the people she once thought of as enemies.

  ~

  It seems God is willing for her to remain through the rest of the winter and past the feast of Imbolc that heralds the spring. Ailill is away during that time and Sárnat frets while Lassar withdraws into dark moods. The task of overseeing the farm and dealing with the various husbandry issues of the aire déso, bóaire, the ócaire, the fuidir, and bothach is left to Cuimne.

  Though she is kept busy, Cuimne finds time daily to offer her prayers, sing the psalms and perform what she remembers of each office. Portions of the Gospel that she can recall she speaks aloud, reminding herself of them, and like any good seanachaí, she becomes word perfect. These moments of quiet shape her days and wrap her in a cloak of wellbeing that allows her to tend Lassar’s moody spirits with patience and Sárnat’s anxieties with warm assurances. It also helps to keep her from searching the hills and tracks for any sign of Óengus or his men.

  The days that God wills she should stay there mount up and still there is no sign of Ailill. Even she is worried now, especially with Sárnat’s belly swollen to an alarming size and her ankles and face puffed. Sárnat cannot perform any tasks, whether they are done sitting, standing or walking. The movements create a pain or ache in some part of her. Even lying down seems to cut the breath from her at times and she can manage only a little sleep.

  The situation is serious enough that Lassar pulls Cuimne aside to voice her concerns one morning when Sárnat lies abed, propped up enough to ease her breathing.

  ‘This pregnancy doesn’t progress well. Something is not right.’

  Cuimne nods. ‘I only have a little experience with childbirth from my time with Máthair Gobnait but I’ve seen nothing like this. The swelling in her ankles and legs don’t bode well.’

  ‘Her belly is too large for a spring birth. It will be sooner than she thought and I don’t think it will be easy.’

  ‘Do the servants know anything? Would Barrdub?’ She realizes it’s a feeble hope but she’s desperate enough to clutch at anything. ‘Maybe one of the women in the other households might help.’

  Lassar gives a doubtful shrug. ‘Ask them and send Barrdub to the nearest farm. It can’t hurt. And while you’re about it, you may as well pray to your god. We’ll need all the help we can get.’

  She doesn’t wait long to seek out all the women. She makes inquiries among the servants and wives of bothach who are giving their time to their lord’s farm in the spring rush of lambing, as well as other tasks in preparation for the planting season. They all have opinions and none of them hopeful, including the woman, Ornait, who acts as midwife. Several recommend herbal draughts or rituals. Only one ancient crookback whom Cuimne approaches one morning as she sits on a bench, wrapped in her brat, while her daughters milk the cows, gives Cuimne anything that could be construed as sound experience.

  ‘I remember one like this before, when I was young,’ she says. ‘They all died, in the end.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘They were twins. Two girls, neither strong. Nor was the mother. The birth took too long, you see, and the cord was wrapped round tight on the neck of the first.’ She shakes her head and when Cuimne presses her for more, she says there is no more to say. They all died.

  ‘Is there something we could do to ensure a good outcome this time? Could you help, perhaps?’

  ‘Me? Ah, no. I wasn’t there the last time, so I’ve no idea what to do. I suggest you pray to the gods, child.’

  It is that information that leads her to ask Sárnat if she can feel her stomach. She does it casually, a request couched in an expression of curiosity over the shape of the child in the womb. She has no desire to alarm Sárnat any further. Sárnat agrees, lying listlessly in her bed, and pulls back the sheepskin coverlet. Cuimne places her hands carefully, sliding them around the belly, pressing lightly and counts limbs. With no real experience she can’t be certain, but it seems that she feels three feet. On the count of the third she halts, feels again just to be sure she hasn’t mistaken it. There is no mistake.

  Later, she shares her discovery with Lassar, who frowns at the news. ‘We should get a physician or apothecary to tend her, though that may alarm her more,’ Lassar says. ‘I wish Ailill was here.’ The comments communicate Lassar’s state more than anything Cuimne has heard up to now.

  ‘Shall I go? Take Aed with me? Or perhaps send one of the other men?’

  Lassar considers a moment and nods. ‘Ask one of the men. We need you here.’

  Cuimne feels easier after she sends the man off. As she watches him make his way down the track, she sees Ailill ride in through the les, followed by his servant and some of the lords. She cries his name and he urges his horse toward her, his face full of concern. Once he dismounts she gives him a hasty embrace and explains the situation. He takes her hands and kisses them.

  ‘Thank you for tending my wife so well,’ he says. ‘I only hope my news will repay in some degree.’

  ‘We’ll talk about your news later. For now I think it’s important you see your wife.’

  She draws him into the house and to Sárnat’s bedside. The joyous hugs and kisses do much for Sárnat’s spirits and her own. It is only later, by the fireside, when Ailill starts to pace, that her nerves are set on edge once more.

  ‘What is your news?’ she asks. Anything to distract him, set his mind far away from his wife’s situation.

  He pauses a moment, stares at her and his face clears briefly. ‘It’s good news for you. Fiacra has granted land to Epscop Ábán so that he might start a monastery nearby. After I spoke with him, he agreed to make your acceptance into Gobnait’s community a part of the bargain. It will be, in effect, your premortem inheritance that would normally go with you to your husband.’

  For a moment she is stunned, all of her fears and concerns about Sárnat flee under the weight of this news. ‘Thank you Ailill, for all you’ve done on my behalf.’

  He waves his hand, shoving aside her thanks. ‘You will stay until after the birth?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll remain as long as Sárnat needs me.’ She can do nothing else in the face of Ailill’s efforts, but she knows she would stay in any case. Sárnat needs her.

  He gives a wry smile. ‘I’m afraid that might be a long time. I know she feels she coul
d never be without you.’

  ~

  It’s as though Sárnat was only waiting for Ailill’s return to begin labour. Her waters break soon after dark and the wails and pain follow a short while later. The physician is still on his way and all his experience and knowledge with it. The midwife, Ornait, is duly summoned and Lassar, Cuimne and Ornait concentrate all their efforts on the unfolding events. Ailill is banished elsewhere to fill his time and calm his nerves.

  Sárnat has a small frame, and now, as they help her out of the bed to walk around in preparation for the birth, she seems nothing more than a huge belly. The walking proves difficult, though she tries her best to comply with the instructions, but her face, grey and beaded with sweat, betrays the effort it costs her. Cuimne encourages and soothes at the same time, periodically offering her sips of an herbal brew to relax her and ease some of the pain of the contractions. At times, when Sárnat can go no further, Cuimne rubs her back or her legs. Eventually, the women allow Sárnat to rest on a stool near the bed. She leans across to the bed then, propping her arms on the pallet.

  The walking, the rubbing and the sitting become a ritual that goes on through the night while Sárnat’s body slowly makes itself ready. The lengthy preparation fights against Sárnat’s energy, which slowly drains and leaves her weak and increasingly distant from the women and all that is going on inside her. By the time the baby’s head crowns, pushing its way to the opening, there is little left in Sárnat to follow the women’s orders to push.

  ‘Come, now, Daughter, press hard,’ Lassar says in a firm voice. ‘You are a strong woman, my son’s dearest wife. If you cannot do it for you or the babe, do it for Ailill, for I know you love him.’

  Cuimne wipes Sárnat’s brow and whispers in her ear. ‘You’re too good to give up now. This household needs you and all that you give it. Your wonderful capacity for love, your quiet willingness. And most important, these babies will need you, too.’

  ‘Babies?’ Sárnat asks in a weak voice.

  Cuimne curses herself for the slip. ‘There might be more than one baby here.’ Her tone is rueful, almost apologetic. The last thing she wants to do is frighten Sárnat.