Saint Brigid's Bones (25 page)

B
y the time we reached the Liffey a few days later, I had stopped kicking stones in the path pretending they were the abbot's head.

I had learned a lot at Armagh. I knew now that it was the abbot who burned down the church at Sleaty and not me. I had confirmed that the letter from Cormac was genuine and that the abbot and the king's sons had conspired together to steal the bones of Brigid, just like Lorcan had said. I had also learned, if I hadn't known it before, that Fergus was a greedy, selfish pig.

The one thing I didn't know was where the bones were.

I believed the abbot when he said he didn't have them. People tend to tell you the truth when they're about to kill you—they can't resist the urge to gloat. Besides, I realized he was right when he said he would have put them on display if
he had them. It would have made sense for him to use them to attract pilgrims and gain more power.

The feast of holy Brigid was only three weeks away. I had searched everywhere I could think of, talked with everyone I knew, and was now out of ideas and time. As much as I hated the abbot, I had to admit he was right about one thing—the monastery at Kildare would not long survive.

“Dari, who could have stolen the bones? I was so certain it was the abbot.”

I had moved beyond worry into despair. Even Dari looked distressed. I knew the future was weighing heavily on her as it was on all the brothers and sisters of Kildare.

“I don't know, Deirdre. But please don't be too hard on yourself, no matter what Sister Anna says to you when we arrive. I don't know what more anyone could have done.”

“Dari's right, Deirdre,” Macha said. She had been as happy as a spring lamb since we left Ulster. I don't think she had ever tasted real freedom before. “I wish I could have seen the abbot's face when you had him on the floor. I bet you're already a hero to the sisters at Armagh. You've probably made more of a difference there than you realize. They'll never look at him the same way again.”

“Oh, I'm a real hero alright, Macha. The only thing I've failed to accomplish is the one thing that matters.”

“Deirdre,” Dari said, “as bad as things seem, we still have Cormac's offer to move the monastery to Glendalough. It would break my heart to leave Kildare, but at least we could carry on our ministry.”

“Yes, it's a generous offer, Dari, but it would change who we are. We're the sisters and brothers of Kildare. We could move the monastery to Persia if we wanted to, but if we go somewhere else, it won't be the same. Besides, I don't know if Father Ailbe would come with us to Glendalough.”

We walked in silence for a long time after that. On the path just east of Kildare, we passed by the hut of young Caitlin and I decided to check in on her. I was in no hurry to get back to the monastery. I asked Dari to take Macha and go on ahead and give Sister Anna a report. I would be there shortly to face the wrath of the abbess.

Caitlin had been fading so fast before I left that I wasn't even sure she would still be alive when I arrived, but her mother greeted me at the door and welcomed me to come in and sit with her daughter. The girl was sleeping and looked like a shadow of the lively child I had known only months before. I didn't want to wake her, so I sat by the hearth with her mother to talk.

“Is there anything I can bring you from the monastery for Caitlin? I know Father Ailbe has some stronger medicines to help her rest if the pain returns.”

“Thank you, Sister Deirdre, but Father Ailbe was here just yesterday and left some sleeping medicine. He's been so good to us. He comes every few days. On Christmas afternoon he even brought Caitlin a little wooden doll. Isn't it sweet?”

She handed me the doll from the basket near Caitlin's bed. It was the same one that had sat on the shelf in his hut for many years. I couldn't believe he had given this heirloom to Caitlin, no matter how much he cared for her.

“Father Ailbe even came out of his way to visit my little girl back in September on Michaelmas evening, though I knew he was on his way to Munster.”

“Michaelmas?” I said. “That's not possible. Your farm is east of Kildare. I walked with him for at least an hour to the west of the monastery to see him off on his journey.”

“Well, I'm sure it was Michaelmas. I was at the service that morning in the church. He sat and watched her for an hour or so alone while we rounded up the sheep. I invited him to stay
the night but he said he had to be on his way even though it was already dark.”

Suddenly I had a very strange feeling.

“I've got to get back to the monastery. I hope Caitlin rests well. I'll try to come back and see her again soon.”

I hurried out the door with my heart pounding, not knowing what to think as I walked to Kildare. Why would Father Ailbe go all the way back to Caitlin's hut? Why didn't he tell me?

The monastery yard was quiet but there was smoke coming from Father Ailbe's hut. I knocked on his door.

“Come in, please,” he called.

Father Ailbe was sitting by the fire reading. He got to his feet as I came in.

“Deirdre, I'm so glad you made it back safely from Armagh. Would you like some porridge?”

“No, Abba, thank you. I'm still full from breakfast.”

“I haven't heard anyone say they were full in months, but tell me how things went with the abbot, as if I can't guess.”

“Oh Abba, it's a long story and not a very cheerful one. I'll be glad to tell you everything later. It's such a beautiful day and the snow is all melted. Would you like to go for a walk?”

We went out the gates and down the path to the stream where we sat down on a log.

“Deirdre, my child, what's wrong?”

“Abba, I—I don't know how to ask you something.”

“I've found the best way to get an answer,” he said, “is to ask a question directly.”

“Alright, Abba. Why did you return all the way to Caitlin's hut on Michaelmas after I walked with you so far down the road to the west?”

In spite of the warm sun, the day grew suddenly chilly.

“I had something I wanted to give her,” he said at last.

“May I ask what it was?”

He took a deep breath.

“Deirdre, I think you already know.”

“Abba—no.”

“Yes, my child. I am the one who stole the bones of Brigid.”

For a few moments I didn't understand him, as if he had spoken in some foreign tongue. The world seemed to be spinning around me. But his words finally sank in.

“Abba, that's not possible. You of all people can't have taken the bones. You can't be serious.”

“I'm quite serious, my child.”

“But you're the bishop of Kildare, the guardian of Brigid's holy shrine, the one who taught me everything I know about right and wrong.” I was almost shouting at the poor man. “Don't you realize the trouble you've caused? The monastery is on the brink of ruin. People are starving. And do you know what you've put me through? You had me running all over this island looking for those bones. How could you do such a thing? Why would you steal the bones?”

His head was hung in shame. I felt terrible speaking to him like this, but I had to know why he had done it.

“Deirdre,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I do understand the anguish I've brought to you and to so many people. You don't know the pain it has caused me. I deeply regret it, but it was necessary—or at least I believed it was. I never meant for any of this to happen. I had hoped that I could put the bones back in the chest when I returned from Munster, before anyone discovered they were missing. I never meant to involve you, I didn't mean to cause you hardship, and I certainly never intended to place you in danger. But, Deirdre, I needed time—time for the bones to work.”

“Abba, I cannot possibly imagine what reason you would consider sufficient for stealing the bones of Brigid.”

He couldn't even look me in the eye as we sat there together, this man I had known all my life and who meant the world
to me. His hands were trembling and his voice shaky as he finally spoke.

“My child, to explain why I did it, I have to tell you about a part of my life I've never shared with anyone. You may still condemn me when you hear the story, but at least you'll know why.”

I wrapped my cloak around myself more tightly against the wind and listened.

I
've told you many stories of my childhood in Egypt,” Father Ailbe began, “and how I sought out the monastery of holy Anthony in the eastern desert to give myself to God. I was happy there with a life of prayer and study after my wanton youth in Alexandria. We monks needed little from the outside world, but we sold the fruit we cultivated to buy salt and books. The abbot chose me to travel alone to Heliopolis near the Nile every few months with our baskets of dates and olives on the back of an old mule that was even more stubborn than your grandmother. I had friends among the Bedouin tribes along the way and as a child had learned to speak their language from a household slave. Whenever I stopped with them for the night I used my training as a physician to treat their wounds and ailments as best I could.

“In Heliopolis I always sought out the market stall of Amir, a Christian who didn't cheat me as badly as the other merchants.
After the customary bargaining during which he swore his family would starve if he paid the price I asked, we always enjoyed a cup of wine together beneath the palm trees of his home. He had three grown sons and more daughters than I could count, but his eldest girl, Maryam, was the one who served us on each visit. She was as beautiful as Aphrodite, with dark hair and eyes a man would willingly lose himself in forever. As a pious monk, I tried not to look into those eyes, but I found myself drawn to her more and more on each visit. I had been with many women as a young man in Alexandria, but none were like Maryam.

“One evening Amir invited me to spend the night at his home before beginning my journey back to the monastery. I normally stayed with some monks who lived on the edge of the city, but that evening I accepted his offer, hoping I might speak to Maryam alone. Of course, it was a proper home and I never had the chance to see her except in the presence of her family—until late that night when she came to my room. I was so scared I almost fainted, though she was just as frightened. If her father had caught us together, it would have gone very badly for both of us.

“We whispered together of the feelings we had shared in silence for so long. I will spare you the details of what happened next, for you can well imagine. But when I loaded the mule to return to my monastery the next morning, I knew I had committed a terrible sin—all the more for what I had done to Maryam. No longer a virgin, her chances of finding a good husband were ruined. Her honor had been violated, worst of all by a guest, a friend, a supposed man of God.

“I spent the next few months in constant prayer and fasting, pleading with God to forgive me and spare Maryam the shame I had brought upon her. I convinced the abbot to find someone else to go to the outside world in my place. In the sacred rite
of confession, I at last told him of my sin. He listened with sympathy, but he knew well the consequences of my actions. I could be forgiven through acts of penance and prayer, but for Maryam there was no refuge.

“One morning I was called from my cell by the abbot to the front gate of the monastery. I assumed one of the Bedouin had come to sell us a goat and the abbot needed a translator, but I was shocked to see Maryam standing there, disheveled and very pregnant. She told of how her father had banished her from her home with curses on both our heads. She had wandered alone across the desert and mountains to find me at the monastery, for she had nowhere else to go. The abbot took Maryam by the hand and ordered food and drink brought to her at the gate, for women were never allowed inside our walls, not even female animals. The three of us sat beneath a olive tree as Maryam ate and drank. There was nothing to discuss. When she had finished, the abbot led out the old mule loaded with what few supplies the monastery could spare. He placed his hands on us both and commended us to God as man and wife. I removed my monk's cloak and handed it to him, then he embraced me like a son and sent us on our way.

“In an isolated valley about two days' journey from the monastery, we came to a spring with grass and cool, clear water. The Bedouin used it on occasion for their herds, but it was too far into the mountains to be a frequent stop on their wanderings. I built a shelter there for Maryam and myself, just a simple hut of stone and branches.

“I was up before dawn every day hunting rabbits and tending to the barley I had planted. Maryam spent her days gathering desert plants for us to eat and turning our little hut into a home. As her time approached, I grew terrified at the prospect of becoming a father, but Maryam talked of nothing but how she looked forward to us being parents. I had destroyed her
happy and prosperous life. She could have married a wealthy merchant from Memphis or Thebes and lived in luxury, but there she was with me in the wilderness. When she kissed me at night, I felt so ashamed, but so happy.