Saint Brigid's Bones (6 page)

“Grandmother, whoever stole the bones replaced the ribbon on the chest with this.”

She wiped the flour off her hands and took the ribbon from me, holding it up to the light streaming in through her window to examine it closely.

“Silk, the best quality too. Whoever the thief was has good taste.” she said.

“Can you sense anything from it?”

She held it in the flat of her palm as she looked at it closely.

“Strange,” she said. “All I sense from this is sadness.”

“But can you tell anything about the thief from it?”

“No, it does narrow down the suspects considerably though. Only a member of the nobility could afford this.”

“Sister Anna and I thought so too. What about this?”

I handed her the piece of tartan cloth. She studied it for a minute.

“A Leinster weave, though I'm not sure about the pattern. It looks like one of the clans on the southern edge of Dúnlaing's kingdom or maybe across the border in the Wicklow Mountains. Where did you get it?”

“From a hawthorn tree on Tamun's farm. He chased a warrior away with a hoe on Michaelmas evening.”

“That sounds like Tamun.”

She held it as she had the silk ribbon and closed her eyes.

“Hmm. A tall man, dark hair, confident, loyal.”

“Grandmother, that describes half the warriors in Ireland.”

“True, but you don't know the owner was connected to the theft of the bones in any case, though it is strange to have someone like that skulking around the monastery.”

I left my grandmother while the dough was rising and went outside to feed her chickens. Then I walked down to a small grove behind the hut and picked a basket of wild apples for her. These were small sour fruits unlike the sweet red apples we grew at the monastery, but they were quite tasty when dried and sprinkled with honey.

I put the apples in her pantry and sat down on the bench near her.

“Grandmother, do you have any idea who might have taken the bones?”

“No, but perhaps you do.”

“What do you mean? If I knew who took them I wouldn't be here having dinner.”

“I mean that you're a smart girl. Think about who has something to gain from taking them.”

“That's the same thing Sister Anna said.”

“A wise woman, for a Christian.”

Grandmother was actually on very good terms with Sister Anna and the rest of the members of the monastery in spite of her aversion to our religion. She and Father Ailbe were fond of each other as well, which pleased me greatly.

“At least I know that whoever took the bones couldn't have been a Christian,” I said. “A believer would see them as sacred objects. It would be like defiling the Eucharist or cursing God to his face.”

“My child, I think you have too much faith in the presumed goodness of Christians. I've known many of your faith in my time, some of whom I wouldn't trust to milk my cow. Don't you remember that Christian King Coroticus from Britain back in Patrick's day who kidnapped all the young Irish women in Ulster and sold them into slavery?”

“And Patrick roundly condemned him for it,” I countered. “He wrote him a scathing letter threatening the wrath of God on him and his men if they didn't return them.”

“So, did he bring the women back?”

“No.” I sighed. “Coroticus said he was within his rights as a king to do whatever he wanted in Ireland. He also got the British bishops to support him.”

“My point exactly. Anyone can justify their actions to themselves if they want something badly enough. So don't cross the Christians off your list of suspects.”

“But Grandmother, Coroticus was an exception. He wasn't a true Christian, even Patrick said so.”

“Don't lecture me about Patrick, young lady. I knew him long before you were born. He wasn't bad looking, even in his later years, with piercing blue eyes and a thick head of wavy hair. You know, if I hadn't been with your grandfather, I would have taken him back to my hut and showed him my—”

“Grandmother!”

“Oh peace, child,” she chuckled. “Patrick had his faults—a bit moody at times and a fierce temper when you crossed him—but he was sincere in his strange devotion to celibacy, in spite of my considerable charms in those days.”

She laughed again and sashayed across the floor to the hearth like a young maiden at a spring dance.

Now that the dough had risen, she shaped it into two loaves and placed them over the coals of the hearth with a heated brick above them to make sure the baking would be even.

“Grandmother, do you think druids could be involved?”

“I seriously doubt it, my dear. The druids always respected Brigid and her work. There are a few malcontents who feel threatened by your faith, but our way is always open to new ideas. Some of your Christian stories are actually similar to our own. I always thought your Jesus would have made a fine druid if he'd been fortunate enough to have been born Irish.”

She basted the chicken as I continued.

“But what Christian would do such a thing?”

“I'm not saying your thief was necessarily a Christian, Deirdre. It's just that you have to consider the possibility. There are other Christian groups in Ireland besides the followers of Brigid, like the monks at Armagh. They could be behind the missing bones. They're one of the largest landholders in Ulster and have plenty of gold. Their abbot—a vile little man—probably has a whole drawer full of silk ribbons. They've always resented Brigid's monastery as a rival to their own power and would love to destroy it. If they didn't steal the bones themselves, they could have hired someone to do it for them.”

She went out to the barn to feed her cow while I cleared off the table and brought out some plates. When she came back, I asked her who else she thought could have taken the bones.

“My money would be on King Dúnlaing's men, maybe even his sons,” she said. “They would profit greatly from seizing the monastery lands. I know the king himself would condemn the theft, but if one of his men, especially one with lands near the monastery, thought he could serve his own interests by stealing them, it wouldn't be hard for him to slip in and out of the church one night with nobody the wiser.”

“I saw Roech on the way here, Grandmother. He acted like he knew something I didn't.”

“Roech is an idiot. You need to talk to Dúnlaing himself.”

“And what am I supposed to do? March into the king's feasting hall and ask him if any of his men stole the bones of Brigid?”

“Why not? You're a bard. Threaten him with satire if he doesn't turn over the thief.”

“And if he decides to cut my head off instead?”

“Then he'll owe me twenty cows as your next of kin.”

We both laughed. No king would dare lay hands on a bard.

The bread was starting to smell wonderful. I could tell it was almost done.

“Grandmother, there's something else, though it's probably nothing.”

“And what would that be, my child?”

“Last night, just as I was falling asleep, I thought I heard a voice speaking to me.”

My grandmother suddenly looked very serious.

“What kind of voice? What did it say?”

“Well, it was an old woman, a voice I didn't recognize. She told me to return to the fire, whatever that means. But honestly, I probably just dreamed it. I feel silly even mentioning it to you.”

My grandmother put down the pot she was washing and sat next to me.

“Deirdre, my love, never dismiss the power of dreams or voices in the night. That's how the spirits most often speak to us. Give me your hand and say the words again.”

She took my right hand in hers and closed her eyes. I repeated the words of the old woman slowly several times while my grandmother mumbled something I didn't understand. Finally she opened her eyes and spoke.

“The fire she spoke of is the church at Sleaty. Something happened there that isn't right, isn't what it seems to be.”

“Why? What do you see?”

“The images are dim, like shadows. I see someone watching you as you sleep, looking down on you, full of hatred, coming near. He isn't alone, others are outside. I see fire, a candle against fresh wood, flames growing. Someone was there with you in the church. Someone who set the fire. Someone who wanted to kill you.”

“Grandmother, that's not possible. I was the one who burned down the church at Sleaty. There wasn't anyone else there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I think so. I mean, I didn't see anyone else, though I thought I heard something outside at one point. I suppose someone could have snuck in quietly while I slept. I was very tired.”

“Deirdre, you've got to listen to that voice. Someone else burned down the church, not you. Someone who wanted to kill you as well as destroy the church. You've got to go back to Sleaty and find out.”

“But how? What would I look for in a pile of charred ruins?”

“I don't know, but there must be something there or the voice wouldn't be urging you to return.”

I sat beside my grandmother for several minutes taking everything in. Could I really be innocent of starting the fire at Sleaty? Would anyone believe me if I claimed I didn't? I couldn't very well say I heard a voice in a dream that said I wasn't guilty. No one would believe me. I didn't really believe it myself. I needed proof before I could talk to Sister Anna. And who would want me dead?

“Grandmother, I can think of a few people on this island who don't like me, but I can't think of anyone who would actually want to kill me. Am I in danger?”

She shook her head.

“I don't think so, at least not at the moment. The feeling I got was that whoever burned down the church wasn't expecting to
find you there. It was more of a sudden rage, some deep anger that seeing you provoked. But you have to be careful. Whoever set the fire at Sleaty might try to kill you outright next time, especially if he knows you suspect him.”

“But who would want to burn down the church?”

“Who would want to steal the bones? If you can answer the first question it might help you with the second. Maybe the two are related.”

As she said this, she rose and took the bread from the hearth. Underneath the brick were two perfect loaves with a soft crust on top. In spite of my new worries, my mouth began to water. I took some of the butter and placed it in a dish for both of us. If there is something closer to heaven in this world than my grandmother's hot bread with fresh butter and honey relish on top, I don't know what it is.

“But enough talk about churches and bones.” My grandmother pointed me to the table. “Come sit down and have some chicken. You can't save the world on an empty stomach.”

A
t the monastery the next evening, I helped with the cooking and cleaning up after dinner. We fed all the sisters and our handful of brothers at each meal along with the twenty or so widows who lived with us. I collected the table scraps and went out to feed the pigs in the pen at the far end of the compound. We were fattening them for slaughter soon and so had brought them in from the woods a few weeks earlier. Tending pigs was the job of slaves in most places, but Brigid had taught us that even the most humble task was of value when done in the service of God.

Our pigs were small hairy animals with long legs, barely distinguishable from the wild boars that roamed the forest. Most were black or reddish-brown, but the largest sow was white with red ears. I sat down on the log bench next to their pen.

When I was a girl, I used to marvel at the way Brigid had with animals, including pigs. One autumn afternoon when she was
helping to bring the monastery swine into the feeding pen, a large wild boar suddenly burst into the middle of the herd. The poor animal had been running away from something and was as surprised as the sisters to find itself surrounded by strange pigs. It started to panic and charge around the herd, then Brigid began to walk slowly toward it, singing gently. She motioned to the other sisters to stand still as she approached the boar. They were terrified the beast would gore her with its sharp tusks, but as she came ever closer it seemed to calm down. At last Brigid knelt beside it and stroked its back as she whispered into its ear. Then she led it out of the herd and back into the forest.

The pigs in the pen that chilly night were all healthy and happy as they devoured the scraps I had brought them from the kitchen. Soon they would be ready to be made into sausage and hams to feed us, hopefully, through the winter. I always felt guilty about killing pigs even though I enjoyed their sweet meat. They are intelligent creatures, more so than some people I've known. It never bothered me to wring a chicken's neck, but pigs were different.

I heard heavy footsteps coming toward me in the darkness and stood up. I grabbed a large stick resting against the pig pen, ready to defend myself against anyone trying to kill me as they had at the Sleaty fire, at least according to my grandmother. The full moon had risen, but thick clouds covered the sky. I strained to see who was coming, then a familiar deep voice spoke to me.