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She bathes Siúr Sodelb’s forehead, the back of her neck and along her wrists, constantly. She feeds her thin gruel, herbal mixtures and honey, and anything else she can persuade Siúr Feidelm to mix or cook that might be tempting enough to remain in Siúr Sodelb’s stomach and not retched into a bowl moments after it passes her lips. The times that Siúr Sodelb doesn’t stir restlessly in her bed, hot and feverish, Áine goes to pray. She prays so hard, kneeling on the floor beside Siúr Sodelb’s bed, her voice insistent and pleading, that her hands hurt from clasping them so tight. When Siúr Sodelb’s eyes are open and slightly less clouded, she sings to her, all the psalms and canticles she knows, all of Siúr Sodelb’s pieces. She sings most often Um la Mholadh Beacha, their own piece praising the bees. The bees that provide the honey that heals the sick.
After three days at her bedside, it takes all of Máthair Gobnait’s skills of persuasion to convince Áine to come away, to attend the office of Matins and offer her prayers to God with the other sisters, and afterwards to seek her rest. The notion that such prayers might be more effective if offered from the oratory among the force of the voices of the sisters is what allows Áine to relinquish her place at Siúr Sodelb’s bedside to Siúr Feidelm.
Inside the oratory, she falls to her knees on the hard floor, in some part enjoying the pain of the impact, hopeful that such suffering might bring the reward she yearns for desperately. The thought of losing Siúr Sodelb is unbearable, and so she sets her mind to silent pleading and bargaining. If only she knew what He wanted. The prayers spoken aloud seem not enough, even Máthair Gobnait’s eloquent pleas do not appear insistent enough to Áine’s ears.
It is the psalms that give her mind some confidence; the beauty of the tones, the voices so unified and perfect, she can’t doubt their efficacy. Surely God will hear them now. The thought gives her strength, and when the final psalm is sung she begins, Um la Mholadh Beacha. Her voice soars high and she’s certain it joins the angels and sends her message, the plea, that she now knows will be answered. She is still kneeling in front of the altar when Matins is finished. Her head is bowed and she is sleeping, her mind filled with the notes of her praise song.
She wakes later, when the first notes of birdsong filter into the oratory and she finds herself prostrate on the floor. She rises slowly, her legs stiff from the awkward position, and makes her way through door. A damp mist hangs in the air, little droplets settling just above the grass, making slick the hardened surface of the path that leads to the sleeping huts. She slides only once in her passage, but it takes her breath for a moment. She rights herself and moves on, her eye firmly on the door of the hut.
She opens the door slowly, lest it squeak and awake those within. Peering inside, she sees Siúr Ethne’s bed is empty, as it has often been in the last few nights she has tended Siúr Sodelb. Now Máthair Gobnait leans over Siúr Sodelb, pressing a cloth to her head and the side of her flushed cheeks. An arm flails and nearly hits Máthair Gobnait on the head, but she takes hold of the arm and replaces it at Siúr Sodelb’s side. Siúr Sodelb mutters and then shouts a word.
Áine moans softly, puts her hand to her mouth, turns from the door and runs down the path to the entrance of the faithche. This time her feet slip all too easily and she is on her back, the force of the impact giving her body a severe jolt. A wail of despair escapes her and she lies there for a moment, the soft rain wetting her face and joining the tears that have begun to flow.
When she rises, she lets her feet take her south, through the faithche entrance, down the hill, away from the oratory and the sleeping hut. The journey doesn’t take long. The clouties are there, pieces of cloth dangling from the tree. She stops at the edge of the well and leans over the water. In the dim light of the misty morning, there are a few murky shapes of metal fragments and coins. She has only the cloth from her gown and léine that had once belonged to Siúr Sodelb that she can give.
She lifts her gown and tears a strip from the léine’s hem. She mutters some words, a little prayer from the back of her mind that comes forth unwittingly, dips the cloth in the water and ties the cloutie around a tree branch. Again she bargains, but this time it was with a different deity, one that is used to such bargaining, and she hopes that the reply will be different. A few moments of silence, her breathing coming in rapid bursts, and then she is up on her feet again, a tiny kernel of hope still present inside her.
This time she walks slowly, her feet taking her up the hill, her face bowed against the thickening rain that the heavily clustered trees do little to abate. It might have been the mist that dampened the sound, but the noise she first hears she ascribes to a moving branch, though there is no wind. She hears it again and stops to listen. This time when sound comes, she realizes it’s a moan. She heads toward the direction of the sound, the dampened ground and pelting rain muffling her steps. In a small clearing she sees a naked figure bent over and an arm swinging a corded rope upon its back. Moving closer she recognizes Siúr Ethne, her ribs so prominent now they can be counted from a distance. Her grey hair, usually covered with her veil, hangs in limp hanks along her bony shoulders.
Áine watches her for a few moments, transfixed, as she swings the rope along her back, scoring the flesh, creating great weals that ooze blood. Before each stroke she closes her eyes and mutters, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’ and when the rope hits her back, she emits a low moan. Áine is horrified at first; she can’t understand what purpose such action can achieve, until slowly it all becomes clear. The pain, the act of scourging the body to such physical suffering, was the most extreme offering to God imaginable. That she must suffer like Christ, suffer his wounds, his pain in order to know God’s grace. In that light Siúr Ethne’s actions have a certain beauty, a wonder that few can match. She slips away quietly, leaving Siúr Ethne to her purification.
She walks slowly the rest of the way up the hill, past the garden and through the faithche, deep in thought. Was that the path she must take? If so, she’s committed a greater sin at the well than any Siúr Ethne might have done the whole of her life. She will find rope and expiate these sins with the greatest force she can muster. But she will also ask Máthair Gobnait for penance as well.
She finds Máthair Gobnait where she’s left her, at Siúr Sodelb’s side. This time Epscop Ábán stands above them, his arm raised in benediction, a small pot of holy oil in his hand. Siúr Feidelm, Siúr Mugain and Siúr Sadhbh stand to one side, their heads bowed in prayer. Áine seeks out Siúr Sodelb’s face, sees the stillness and that the flush of fever has vanished. Her eyes, so round and beautiful, stare upward, their transparent blueness emphasized in death. Máthair Gobnait leans forward and closes them.
‘No,’ says Áine. The word chokes her, stops dead in her throat. She rushes to Siúr Sodelb’s side, takes up a limp hand and begins to chafe the wrist. ‘Sodelb, hear me, you cannot die, please. You mustn’t leave me.’
Epscop Ábán places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come away, child. She’s at peace now. You must thank God for that.’
She turned to Epscop Ábán and shrugs off his hand. ‘Thank him? Thank him for taking the dearest woman of all?’ A moment later she is through the door, back into the drenching rain.
~
SHE SAYS NOTHING AS they begin to wash Siúr Sodelb’s body. She merely takes the cloth from Siúr Feidelm and runs it along each limb and steps back to allow Máthair Gobnait to dry her. She washes her hair, massaging the scalp and rinsing it thoroughly before combing it carefully to prevent snags and breakage. Once she is finished, she spreads the hair along the pillow to dry to its polished brightness. Máthair Gobnait gives Áine the fresh linen léine and head covering, woven with Siúr Sodelb’s own hands, and the wool gown that her needle has plied so that Áine might find comfort in dressing her this one last time.
They lay her, sewn in her shroud, on a bench in the oratory, where the cailecha and Máthair Gobnait gather round her. Epscop Ábán stands at her head. Áine still hasn’t spoken. It’s only when they began the Beati that Áine opens her mouth and sings, filling the music with the pain and sorrow, belying the words. She lets the music take her over, offering it not to God, but to Sodelb, whose soul hovers and whispers in her ear, encouraging her on to fuller sounds, higher notes, ringing a descant that has not yet been tried.
She closes her ears to the rest, living only in the music that still carries on in her head. She blocks out the Pater Noster, the prayers of faith and the words of the Gospel. She remains when the others process out and kneels by the figure laid out with arms not extended like the one on the cross, but folded in prayer beneath the shroud. She pulls away when it’s time for Cadoc to carry the body to be buried, interred in the holiest of places, for the holiest cailech, beneath the packed earthen floor of the oratory.
When it is time for the offices, she attends in silence and stares at the newly turned earth that is Siúr Sodelb’s grave, only opening her mouth for the singing, because Sodelb comes and whispers in her ear. She longs for these moments and sits for hours in the oratory, after the offices and meals are finished. When her eyes aren’t closed, seeking Sodelb’s voice, they remain fixed on the fresh grave. She wonders if they will put a stone over it. Weigh her body down as her soul flies up to heaven. Heaven is where she’d be, if Epscop Ábán and Máthair Gobnait are right. But Áine knows her soul is here, right beside her and no amount of empty words can convince her otherwise.
She spends the night there, sitting on a bench. No one can persuade her to move. Her limbs stiffen and her back protests, but she ignores them. It’s only after the first office of the morning, when Siúr Feidelm sits beside her, places a mug in her hand and orders her to drink that she blinks and recalls herself. She sips the liquid, realizes her thirst and drinks some more. Her stomach clenches against the invading liquid, too long empty, and she retches slightly.
‘Come away, Áine,’ Siúr Feidelm says.
She resists for only a moment, but then her limbs turn soft, her mind fades and she allows Siúr Feidelm to lead her to her bed.
~
SHE RISES A FEW HOURS later, her tongue thick and her mind groggy. Outside, through the open door, she sees a watery sun breaking through the clouds. She goes to the door. It seems impossible that it would shine, the birds would chitter and sing, the cows provide milk, and the bees remain busy. Even from this distance she can hear the bees hum.
‘Come, Áine, I need your help.’ It was Máthair Gobnait, striding up to her, a cloth, gloves and heavy veils in her hand. ‘There is another king and he will be looking to establish a new hive, I think. I want to coax him into the one I’ve prepared.’
Áine sighs. After slipping on her shoes, she follows her down to the hive nearest the faithche wall, her steps slow and heavy. She dons the gloves and veil along with Máthair Gobnait and gazes off into the field, while Máthair Gobnait explains what she intends to do. The words float around her but never settle and she can only blink when Máthair Gobnait asks her if she understands.
‘Have you heard anything I said?’
‘Heard? Yes, I’ve heard.’
Máthair Gobnait frowns. ‘Have you understood it? It’s important that you do, otherwise you or I might be stung.’
‘But the bees rarely sting you.’
Máthair Gobnait tilts her head. ‘You think they haven’t stung me often? You can take nothing for granted, Áine. It’s only by their grace and God’s that I’m allowed to tend them, take their honey and wax. Part of that grace is respecting their will and His.’
Perhaps it is the drink the night before that permits such a release, for she knows some drug had been slipped in it, but the words collapse the defences she’s built up in these past few days and ignite her, like a spark to dry kindling, that becomes immediately hot and crackling.
‘His will? Is it his will to take such a pure soul as Siúr Sodelb?’ Her voice rises to a higher pitch, ringing loudly. ‘What kind of god is that who would strike Sodelb down? What did she do, what possible sin could she have committed that she would be taken like that?’
‘We cannot fathom all of His actions. His ways are beyond our understanding as mere mortals.’
This answer is no answer and it only enrages her. ‘How do you live with a god like that?’ she says. ‘That he would strike down such innocents as Domnall and Sodelb.’
‘You’re angry. And it’s natural that you should direct it at God, since there is no one else that is clearly to blame.’
She can hear the bees buzzing beside her. They accuse her even if Máthair Gobnait does not. ‘I’m to blame,’ she shouts. ‘Me! If I hadn’t been so cowardly, Siúr Sodelb would never have insisted on accompanying me to the fair, and she wouldn’t have contracted the fever. Siúr Feidelm agrees.’
‘You’re not to blame. We know nothing of how the fever came to her, only that it came.’
Áine shakes her head, the tears flowing. Máthair Gobnait tries to put her arm around her, but Áine flings it off with a wild thrust of her arm. The top of the hive slides off with the impact and she turns in horror as the bees buzz louder, clustering and hovering, until, by some secret agreement, they rise up into the sky in a deafening roar.
Máthair Gobnait makes a soft cry. ‘Bring the beachair,’ she says. ‘We must follow them.’ She clasps her skirt and the woven sack and goes in pursuit, Áine following, carrying the hive. They go down through the faithche and across the field, onto the next, to where the bees have settled in a tree. Máthair Gobnait stands below the branch that holds them, lays the large sack on the ground and the empty beachair on top, and speaks in a low, calm voice words of encouragement and praise.
‘Sing your song, Áine. See if we can get them to settle on the cloth.’
Áine stares up at the bees, the words frozen on her lips. She knows she must sing to make amends for what she’s done to the bees. She takes a deep breath and squeaks out a few notes, but they end in sobs.
‘Ssssh,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘Take your time and try again.’ She gives the branch a gentle shake.
Áine closes her eyes and stills her breathing and this time she manages the notes. It’s a feeble effort compared to her previous performances. This time she has no firmly held hand, no whispering presence to give her support. When she finishes she looks at Máthair Gobnait and shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t my best effort.’
‘No matter,’ says Máthair Gobnait. ‘The bees have heard you.’ She points to the sack where they hover and fly around the beachair.
Áine views them and looks up at Máthair Gobnait in disbelief. Beyond Máthair Gobnait, at the far end of the field, movement among the cows and heifers catch her eye. The bull is there somewhere, doing his late summer duty. Despite the fading light, she can see something moving carefully among the cattle. ‘What are those men doing in the field?’
Máthair Gobnait turns and looks in the direction Áine indicates. ‘My cows!’ she shouts in surprise that quickly turns to anger. ‘They’re taking them. How dare they! Quick, Áine, go and alert Siúr Mugain, Siúr Sadhbh and Cadoc.’
Áine nods and runs off back to the faithche. She pauses near the entrance to catch her breath and turns to see Máthair Gobnait in the distance waving her arms. The bees swarm up around her and become a large dark cloud, and even from the entrance Áine can hear their thunderous noise.
~
THE SISTERS TALK ABOUT it during the simple meal after the evening office, their words bursting forth like an overflowing dam. It is a scéal of the highest value, to be savoured and discussed in the most particular detail. Something most miraculous happened in that field. The bees responded like God’s instrument to punish the wicked, stinging them mightily, so that they abandoned their theft. The men are clearly sent from the Fidgenti, for who else but heathens would dare steal the cattle belonging to a nunnery under the care of Epscop Ábán? Wasn’t it their workmen who were clearing the field across the river? This is a strong challenge to the Érainn here and the Eóganacht who rule in Cashel. The sisters talk all evening and give thanks to God, to Máthair Gobnait and the bees, and ask that they may be safely returned from the tree in which they now lodge.
Áine shakes her head when anyone questions her. She is unworthy to tell the tale. God punishes the sinful; that is clear from the moment she sees the bees wreak havoc among the thieves, stinging mightily the arms and limbs that flailed at them. Is this God’s justice, his retribution? Would that she’d been stung, perhaps the pain of it might take some of the sin she carries. Such a fit punishment for her cowardice and her denial of God’s will that she go to the fair on her own.
She slips away quietly, while the rest are still at their meal, Máthair Gobnait’s calm voice ringing over them, reining in the more outrageous claims. She heads toward the sleeping hut. Once inside, she makes her way over to Siúr Ethne’s cot, where she slips her hand under the straw pallet and finds what she hoped would be stored there.
She walks quickly down the path, the feeble light from the moon just enough to guide her over to the wooded area. There, in the small clearing she visited once before, she removes her gown and léine and assumes the posture she remembers. It is time she stopped cowering behind others, she thinks. She must face her just punishment.
She swings the knotted rope along her back. The sting of it is fierce, just as she imagined it; bigger, larger than anything a bee could manage. She swings again, harder this time and she keeps swinging until she feels her flesh open. She pauses, puts a finger to her back to check the blood is running and resumes swinging.
The moon disappears and a soft rain begins to fall. The sting has long since been replaced by a burning and searing pain. It’s at that point the roaring comes, the shouting, the screaming that eventually descends into blackness.
