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A body lies bleeding and beaten beyond all recognition, in the shadow of An Dhá Chích Danann, mountains that rise out of the earth full and engorged as any woman’s paps, to provide comfort, succour and even hope.
A farmer and his son discover the body as they lumber along in their cart, the old capall that pulls it, snorting at the scent of blood. These two men are on the track that many follow to lay their prayers in the lap of the mountains, the heart of the mother goddess Anu. The two stop and the son climbs down from the cart. The father is no longer nimble enough for such a scramble among the stumpy trees, rocks and bog that mark this area. The son follows the blood that stains the rush and the golden furze flowers, and finally discovers the body partially submerged in a bog. He can tell only that it is a person and, on closer inspection, that the person lives, because a heart still beats and small breaths are expelled into the cool morning air.
The son braces himself on the firmer part of the ground. He reaches carefully and drags the body from the ditch and hoists it onto his back. Each movement elicits a deep groan of pain from the body and it echoes along the valley. The father calls out to him from the cart and the son answers with brief words of assurance. He moves forward slowly, the water from the soaked body streaming down his back. Eventually, he makes it to the cart, and with his father’s assistance, lays the body inside the cart, taking care for the lolling head and the limbs that are so obviously broken. They can see now it is a woman, but beyond that they have no clear impression about her identity or status. The cloth of her dress, what is left untorn and clear of blood, is fine enough. Her hair, too tangled and matted with clots to detect any remarkable colour, has lost its covering, if there was one. There are no signs of shoes and her feet are filthy with peat mud, as if she’d walked the length of the province of Mumu.
They miss the forefinger with its carefully shaped nail in its perfect oval bed. If they hadn’t missed it, would they have understood its meaning?
The farmer and son decide to take her to Máthair Gobnait, though they follow nothing of the new ways. They know that not only she is a healer; she can shape metal with fire. She is the holy woman of the bees and it is from her bees she gets the honey that provides her healing tool. Her bees are her mouthpiece to her God, humming His praises.
~
SHE FIRST HEARS MÁTHAIR Gobnait’s voice, low and melodious, instructing the farmer and his son. ‘Lift her carefully, now. Siúr Feidelm, fetch hot water and cloths.’
She recalls little of being lifted from the cart and placed on the hastily created pallet, because the pain causes a blackness to engulf her from the moment they touch her limbs. It is a blackness she welcomes, a release from all that she doesn’t want to understand or experience. When she wakes again, night has fallen, and the light of a tallow candle hovers over her and a cool, dry hand is on her head. There is comfort there and it quietens the fear that rises in her and makes her flail her arms to beat away her terror.
‘Máthair,’ she says, for who but her mother would lay a hand on her with such care?
‘Hush, child, don’t try to speak,’ comes the reply.
The woman’s tones are soothing, but she knows now this woman isn’t her mother and she wants to cry. She needs to release this fear that builds inside her. She tries instead to think of a melody that would fit a voice that is like sunshine. The melody she hears dips low and then rises slowly to a soaring peak, like the mountains so dear to her, the warm mounds of her mother. Oh Mother, come to me now. Hear my pleas. The words echo over and over until it becomes many voices in her head.
When the music comes again it is a single voice, a voice unfamiliar, yet so pure. Tears come to her eyes and she convinces herself it is the voice’s beauty that brings them. She has drifted into a different world. A world in which she is safe. But still her fears awake. A light, bright and luminous, shines above her, radiating outwards. She tries to raise her arm to reach out to it, but pain, white and searing, keeps it immobile.
‘Rest,’ the voice says. ‘Don’t stir yourself.’
She tries to envelop herself in the warmth and security of the voice and bathes in the light, but all too soon the darkness takes her again.
~
SHE CAN HEAR MURMURS, like the hum of bees, their tones low, vibrant and repetitive. The fear is still there, but becomes quieter under the soothing sounds, so she opens her eyes. Sunlight greets her, canted rays that come through the doorway. Against its radiance she can pick out numerous shapes sitting at a table. There are eight of them, murmuring with their heads bowed, lips moving and hands clasped. Fragrant odours of seasoned food wend their way to her, and for a moment, she thinks she too can eat, until her eyes close under the weight of her lids.
A bell wakes her the next time; a steady ringing that falls silent when its count is finished. From a distance, she can hear the voice again. The notes soar high, and the voice opens up rich and full like a great eagle stretching its wings. She opens her eyes and sees only the timber beams above, each end marked with a cross. She turns her head and notes the benches and stools near the large centre hearth where a fire burns. A stout woman sits on one of the stools, stirring a pot hanging over the fire. The room is warm and comforting, but still the fear creeps up again.
When she opens her eyes again, a tall woman is standing over her. Alarm and fear take her all at once. A small moan escapes her.
‘Máthair Ab, she stirs,’ the woman says. The woman lays the back of her hand on her head for a moment. ‘The fever, has abated, buíochas le Dia.’ A woman draws up beside her, touches her fingers to her head, chest and to both shoulders.
‘That’s good news, Siúr Feidelm.’ It is the woman with the low melodious voice. The woman turns and addresses her. ‘I am Máthair Gobnait, abbess here. I bid you welcome to our house. We’ve feared for your recovery many days now.’
She bites her lip to stop its trembling and stares into Máthair Gobnait’s kind face. The face is neither young nor old and the head is covered with a dark grey linen cloth which matches the colour of the belted wool gown.
‘Many days?’ she says, her voice barely a whisper. She keeps her eyes fixed on Máthair Gobnait’s face, drawing assurance from the gentleness she sees there. ‘I’ve been here that long?’
‘You have. You were badly injured when you first came; your body broken in several places and weak from losing so much blood from stab wounds.’
She inhales sharply and fights the fear that is swallowing her voice and taking her breath. She moistens her lips countless times before she manages to get out the small phrase. ‘Who did it?’
‘We don’t know. We were hoping you might shed light on that.’
She shuts her eyes but can only feel her heart beating faster than before. She cannot bear to think what she would find in the recesses of her mind and opens her eyes again quickly. Looking back into Máthair Gobnait’s face she can quieten enough of her fear to breathe. She shakes her head. ‘Nothing,’ she utters hoarsely.
‘May we know your name, then child?’
‘My name?’ She allows herself to think a moment. A name could be harmless and perhaps make her more secure, but her racing heart tells her differently. Her family, their allegiance and rank, could all be revealed in her name. She shakes her head again.
‘Don’t worry over that,’ the tall woman says. Her face is exceedingly plain, but the eyes are full of compassion. She too wears a grey veil, leather belt and dark gown. ‘You have had a severe blow to the head, and more than likely it causes your lack of memory.’ She gives her arm a gentle pat. ‘It will return in time, along with your health, I’m certain.’
‘Until then, we must call you something,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘Áine, I think. May your radiance shine forth.’
‘A name from the Bible?’ A small gaunt woman comes up beside Máthair Gobnait. Her fingers, skeletal and long, are clasped at her breast, as if in prayer. The tone of her words carries a hint of criticism.
‘This lost sheep has been brought into our fold, now. We must act as her shepherd and bring her back to her health and then to her flock.’ Máthair Gobnait’s tone carries no reprimand, but it is firm. ‘Siúr Feidelm, maybe something nourishing would go down well?’
‘Of course. And later I’ll apply a poutice of Lus na gCnámh mBriste and a brew honey to knit her bones,’ says the tall plain woman, who she now knows is Siúr Feidelm.
Máthair Gobnait smiles. ‘Honey is always welcome. As for the rest of us, we can return to our tasks. The day is well under way.’
They depart and she closes her eyes, hearing only a swish of a hem brushing against a post and a sigh of a breath. She savours the solitude and, just for a moment, her tension and fear seep out of her.
What seems only moments later, Siúr Feidelm returns with a steaming bowl and wooden mug that she sets down on the ground. She draws up a small stool beside the pallet. Áine (for she must think of herself with some name) makes an effort to raise her head. The tension has returned and some of the fear, but still she makes herself speak.
‘What is this place?’
‘Careful with your head.’ Siúr Feidelm pushes a small bolster filled with straw carefully behind her head and gently lays her back on it. ‘You are in the Tech Mor of Máthair Gobnait’s community of cailech. You must have heard tell of her.’
‘No. I know nothing.’ Her voice is a little stronger and she takes courage from its strength.
Siúr Feidelm holds the small wooden mug to her mouth and helps her take some sips. The pungent smell of garlic and celery coming from the bowl overpowers the odours in the mug. The taste is pleasant but she finds it difficult to take much.
‘No, of course,’ says Siúr Feidelm. ‘You wouldn’t have heard of Máthair Ab if you don’t know your own self.’ She sits back a little. ‘She came from the north to Uisneach, the place of the deer, by Gort na Tiobratán, here in Boirneach, about five summers ago, looking for the right signs. And they were here, the nine white deer, and she knew then she’d found what she sought.’
‘She saw nine white deer?’
‘Yes.’
Áine looks around her again, seeking that unique quality that would draw nine white deer. Nine, it would have to be that number. It is a number she knows is sacred, though how she knows is a mystery. This woman, Máthair Gobnait, is another mystery and Áine isn’t certain whether to be fearful or assured. ‘Nine deer and all of them white?’ she asks softly.
Siúr Feidelm nods. ‘Precisely nine.’
‘And what was she to do when she saw these nine white deer?’
‘What she has done. Begin a community and go among the people offering her help and kindness, in the name of God.’
Áine nods though she cannot imagine what links nine deer and the urge to begin a community of women to help people of a tuath. ‘Don’t the nobles or even the local king look after the needs well enough?’ She breathes heavily after speaking so long, as much from the tension that still grips her as the effort it takes to speak.
‘The king and the lords do their share, but it’s not always enough. The weather and the soil are unforgiving. Máthair Ab gives them food when they need it and offers counsel if asked when there is some dispute, but mostly she tends to the sick and dying. Many come to her with all manner of ailments. I help her with the healing.’
‘And you’ve been with her since she came?’
‘I came to her the summer following her arrival. I asked my father to let me, so that I might learn her healing arts and her holy ways.’
‘Her holy ways?’ Something compels Áine to follow this line of discussion, though she is almost afraid to hear the answers. She is just as likely to be in danger from a holy person as anyone else, she tells herself. That she can identify no specific danger does little to reassure the feelings that constantly grip her.
Siúr Feidelm looks at her in surprise. ‘She’s a cailech, a woman of God who’s taken the veil. She is the abbess here, as she mentioned.’
‘Taken a veil for a god? What god?’
‘The Lord God. Are you not familiar with those who follow Christ?’
She tests the thought for a moment, feels nothing except the fear that simmers, ready to rise at the least cause. ‘I have no idea,’ she whispers.
Siúr Feidelm considers the statement while she continues to spoon the mixture into Áine’s mouth. Áine can see now how young she is. Her skill with herbs is manifest in the strength and potency of the brew she sips, but her smooth trim cheeks show no sign of weather or age.
‘Perhaps you are a Christian, perhaps not, but you’ll find Máthair Ab is a good, compassionate woman.’
Áine’s mind acknowledges this statement. ‘She’s shown me nothing but kindness and me a stranger with no memory of my origins. I could be her enemy.’
‘She has no enemies.’ The young woman’s words are guileless and spoken with alarming sincerity.
Áine wonders at this statement but says nothing, so as not to offend her. She shifts the subject. ‘Do you sing in your worship?’
‘You heard us?’ Siúr Feidelm’s face brightens.
Áine smiles weakly and manages a calm answer. ‘I did. There was one particular piece, sung so beautifully by a lone woman. Who composed it?’
‘Siúr Sodelb, the one who sang it. She is wonderfully talented.’
‘Siúr Sodelb?’ She rolls the name around in her mind and likes the ring it has. ‘She is talented.’
‘You are a musician?’
Áine looks at her. ‘You think I might be?’ Her voice catches at the thought that a fragment of her identity might have so easily been uncovered. Was she ready to know this much even?
‘Perhaps. The pleasure you just expressed might suggest it. Máthair Ab felt you had some love for music when she saw the only remaining nail on your fingers was curved. The mark of a harper.’
Áine glances down at her hand. It is swathed in bandages, no nail or finger in sight. She thinks again about how she came to be this way and the tension returns.
Siúr Feidelm places a hand over the bandages. ‘No, she had to trim the nail in the end, for fear you might harm yourself. You were delirious.’
‘Did I say anything in my delirium?’ She tenses even more, wondering if Máthair Gobnait knows more about her than she indicated.
‘You must ask Máthair Ab. She tended you. Set your bones, bathed and packed your wounds with honey and herbs. And she prayed.’
She suddenly becomes aware of the splints and bandages that envelop her legs, arms and torso. Is there any place uncovered? Any part of her that is whole, undamaged? A roaring erupts in her head.
~
THE LIGHT STILL SHINES through the doorway though the angle has shifted. This time she examines the rafters above her, picks out the sturdy wooden beams that radiate from the centre pole. Their pungent odour speaks of their newness, as does the sweet freshness of the tightly bound thatch laid on them. The walls are stone, carefully laid and chinked against the biting winds that must come to a place named for its rocky hills, rather than the wattle that might be expected of a community of no wealth. But, she reminds herself, this is a holy community, one whose leader is undoubtedly of some consequence if she can command such a place. Her speech and manner reinforce this impression. It is another piece of knowledge for which she has no source or explanation. She sighs.
‘You are with us again.’ Máthair Gobnait appears at her side and gazes down at her. Áine can see her clearly this time. The soft grey eyes, the straight nose, almost too long, and the firm lips now pulled back in a smile. A small brown curl escaping the dark veil teases her forehead. But there is something more that draws her to this woman, something in her countenance that shines out. A knowing. That is all she can identify, when she considers it carefully, later. How or what it was she knows, Áine cannot say. She can only feel it reaching out to her, making her in turns comforted and uneasy.
Áine tries to smile. ‘I am awake.’
‘We mustn’t rush the healing.’
Áine isn’t certain that the words are directed at her or Máthair Gobnait herself.
She decides to venture a question. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘The moon has waxed and waned since the farmer brought you to us.’
‘How can that be?’ It terrifies her how ill she’s been for such a length of time to have passed unnoticed.
‘Yes, it’s over halfway to midsummer and you were brought to us just after Bealtaine.’
Bealtaine. The celebrations for summer beginning and now summer is half over. She forces herself to ask more about her arrival. ‘I was told a farmer and his son brought me here. They had no idea who I am?’
‘I’m afraid not. Word has spread in Boirneach about your attack, but none have claimed any knowledge of you or who you might be. I am reluctant to make inquiries further afield among other tuath of the Érann and the Eóganacht just yet, until I can be more certain you are in no danger of further harm.’
The words both reassure and frighten her. That this woman had a care to her wellbeing is a comfort but the confirmation of the danger fights that assurance. ‘You feel I am still in danger?’ She is unable to keep the shake from her voice.
‘There is no cause for worry.’ Máthair Gobnait lays a hand on her cheek. It feels cool and dry against her and she closes her eyes a moment against its calming touch.
‘I would only take a more cautious approach,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘There is no clear understanding of why you were so sorely injured. It might be nothing more than a random assault for your belongings.’
Something inside her denies that benign explanation, though she tries to accept it as the most probable. ‘Whatever the cause might be it appears I am not from this tuath.’
‘No.’
‘And nowhere else reports a missing daughter or wife?’
‘I am afraid not.’ Her replies are very matter of fact, her voice firm. Is it the deep, rich quality of it that makes the dreadful answers much more bearable? ‘You must not despair. It is early days yet and for now, you have a place here with us while you recover.’
Áine tests these words and is able to feel some calm. That this woman has taken her in and shown her nothing but kindness is some evidence that she is in a safe place. Her words are as sincere as she can make them. ‘And I am so grateful for all you’ve done for me. I can only hope that someday I might repay all this kindness.’
‘I do only what the Lord himself would do.’ Máthair Gobnait gives a mischievous twinkle. ‘Or any other person who has a stranger cross his threshold.’
‘Despite what you say, you are a woman of true good nature and your lord is fortunate to have such person in his tuath.’
‘My lord is Lord of all. The Christian Lord.’
‘How many women are there here in this community?’
Máthair Gobnait tilts her head slightly. ‘There are eight here living at the moment. Nine including you. Not all are cailecha.’
‘Nine women here, the same number as the deer?’
She smiles at Áine, accepting it as a joke, though Áine isn’t certain she means it as such. ‘Yes, and just as beautiful in their own way. There are the servants too, and the bishop’s client workers, like the wives of the ócaire and bothach, who help out from time to time and share with us their rents. We also have people who come for mass and for healing. Some of them help with tasks on occasion. At the moment we also have workmen constructing sheds and sleeping huts staying with us. They built this Tech Mor last summer and have returned to complete more sleeping quarters and another shed.’
Áine is taken aback at the number of people that are attached to this community in one way or another. Thinking about such numbers makes her shrink physically, as withdrawing into her sheepskin coverlet will allow her to disappear. That some of these people are men and they’re working in close proximity creates further alarm. Her eyes sweep the room, looking for anything that might contradict this fear and this time she notes the newly fashioned wooden benches around the central hearth. Along the wall to the side, near the door are large water vats, and next to them leans the board that serves as a dining table. Her pallet is near enough to the fire to get some benefit from it, but not too much to feel uncomfortable. On the other side of the fire she can see Siúr Feidelm working quietly on a stool with a young girl, sorting and cutting vegetables that are then deposited in an iron pot, ready for the fire.
‘You don’t sleep in here?’ The question pops out and for a moment she is glad to be distracted by a simple matter.
‘We house guests here, if the need arises, but it serves all our other purposes, bar sleeping and worship. We have the oratory for the offices and weekly mass.’
She nods and thinks of the bells, the singing and the humming buzz that must have been praying. ‘The bells?’ She asks about them not because she doesn’t realize they are used in their worship in some ways, but because she wants to hear more about them. There is something about their regularity and the orderly manner of their ringing that draws her, though she could not say why.
‘We attend the oratory several times a day to offer our prayers and praise to God,’ Máthair Gobnait says. ‘The bell calls us there for each office.’
She thinks of the women’s ritual, pictures them rising from their tasks or their beds at the sound of the bell, processing to the oratory to sing and pray in unison. She feels a connection to that idea and reaches out for it, tries to make it grow into a real memory, but does not succeed. Frustrated, she closes her eyes a moment. She thinks of a different tactic.
‘How do you worship? What do you pray?’
‘You have heard enough from me for now. There is no need to learn everything again all at once.’ Máthair Gobnait pats her arm lightly. ‘Rest now. I’ll ask Siúr Feidelm to give you more broth. That will do you more good at this moment than any words.’
Áine watches Máthair Gobnait rise and make her way out the door, her strides efficient but unhurried. She speaks softly to Siúr Feidelm before she leaves and disappears into the light that pours through the opening. Áine lays back a moment and then lifts up her bandaged arms. She examines the cloth that is wrapped around her forearms, hands and fingers and holds varying splints in position. All of her right leg and the lower half of her right are also strapped to supports. She tries to ease herself on the pallet and the pain shoots from all directions, including her side and chest. At this moment the wretchedness of her condition becomes truly apparent. She is helpless. She can rely on neither her body nor her mind. There is nothing she can do to defend herself from anyone that might still want to cause her harm, here, wherever they might be. For the present she can only hope and trust that Máthair Gobnait and her community can keep her safe while she heals.
