Celtic Mist Ch. 03

Aoife's fingers reached up to the spot where his lips had pressed, and a smile stole over her face. She turned back to the road as she examined his gift. The smooth grey stone fit neatly into her palm and was remarkable in the array of white lines that traced through it. Flipping it over she realized that there was something else --- scratched into the surface were the words: "I love you".

Her smile became a grin. She skipped the rest of the way to the cottage, clutching the stone in her pinafore pocket. Inside, she hid it between the wall and the leg of the bed that she shared with Granny and Clodagh.

That Sunday after they returned from mass, Da summoned her into the cottage. The tone of his voice did not bode well. Aoife dragged her feet as she obeyed, scared and puzzled as to what infraction she had committed. Inside, Da was standing before the fireplace and Granny off to the side, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

"Come here," Da said sternly.

She halted a few feet in front of him.

"Who gave ye this?" he demanded. The stone was in his hand!

She felt her face grow hot, and she hesitated for a moment before she whispered, "Hugh McDonnell."

"Hugh McDonnell? When?"

She swallowed. "F-Friday."

With a cuff to the side of her head, Da knocked her to the floor. The pain expanded in her skull, erupting into stinging tears.

"Flirting and sneaking about, is it?! If I ever catch ye at it again, I tan yer hide fierce!" he barked.

Aoife choked on a sob.

"Now, get away from me sight!"

She scrambled to her feet and tore from the cottage, veering away from the garden side so that Clodagh and her brothers would not witness her shame. Into the pasture she ran, not stopping till she reached her favorite boulder. Hauling herself up onto its flattish top, she sat hugging her bent knees and sobbing into her skirt.

Gradually her tears abated.

From the vantage point atop the stone, through a partial screen of shrubs, she could see the cottage without readily being seen. She oft came out here for a moment's solitude, knitting whilst she listened to the sounds of the birds and the sheep. Currently the large cool stone offered some solace for her humiliation and bewilderment. Aoife understood not what she had done wrong. Hugh had given her the stone --- she had not done anything.

What was "flirting"? At school and at the market, she had observed older girls being more forward with the lads, talking and playing with them...swishing their skirts about. Was that flirting? She had never behaved in such a fashion with Hugh, or any other lad. Why, she had not behaved any differently with Hugh than she had the whole of her life during her family's interactions with the McDonnell family! Her feelings for Hugh were scarce different than her feelings for her brothers.

True, the gift --- the first ever gesture of tenderness bestowed upon her --- had given her an unfamiliar sensation of pleasure. Guilty pleasure...aye...for she had hidden the stone, hadn't she? Was that her crime?

A meow interrupted her reverie. The black and white cat Mab jumped up onto the rock and rubbed her head against Aoife's forearm. Mab's purring as she stroked her further salved Aoife's wounded pride, and she sat for some time petting her. But, by and by, she knew 'twas time to return to the cottage to help Granny and Clodagh with dinner, lest she incur Da's wrath anew.

Aoife had reached no conclusive answers to the puzzle and returned, as oft before, uncertain as to how she must modify her behavior to avoid being struck again.

That Friday's walk home with Hugh proved to be Aoife's last day attending school. Da and Granny decided then that her formal education was complete, and she would henceforth work full time on the farm like her brothers and sister. Aoife had no regrets --- no longer having to contend with her tormentors. When she was older, she wryly considered the irony that 'twas an innocent, childish romance, rather than months of bullying that had concerned Da and Granny sufficiently to withdraw her from school.

In the scope of the continuing friendship between the O'Farrell and McDonnell families, Aoife regularly saw Hugh in the ensuing years. He was as affable as ever, but she was newly shy round him, nervous of angering her father.

*****

Three times a year --- in the spring, summer, and fall --- the O'Farrells and neighboring families would gather at one of their farms for an evening of feasting and merrymaking.

Aoife loved these parties: once Da and Granny had imbibed and were engrossed in conversation with other adults, she had the opportunity for diversion relatively free of their scolding. Along with food and drink, the festivities included singing, dancing, and a bonfire. Other children were also present --- thankfully not her chief tormentors from school. But Aoife was still shy outside of her own family and cousins --- Dermot, Eamonn, and Eilish --- who lived on a nearby farm.

Especially did she love the dancing and the bonfire. Her uncle, Da's brother, played the pennywhistle, Hugh McDonnell's older brother played the fiddle, and the O'Mellan father and son played the bodhran drum and pipes, sending the older lads and lasses and adults whirling round the yard to the rousing tunes. Naturally, Aoife was forbidden from dancing with a lad alone, but she happily cavorted with the other younger weans near her age.

Later, by the bonfire, the children gathered round Mrs. McDonnell, Hugh's grandmother, as she sat upon a stump and narrated stories of their brave Celtic ancestors and magical deities. Aoife's favorites were the tales of Medb (*pronounced Mave*), daughter of the High King of Ireland...centuries ago before the English came to the isle.

Medb was the queen of Connacht, the province bordering their own province of Ulster. Her continuing hostilities with her former husband, King Conchobar of Ulster were bountiful fodder for thrilling stories that Aoife never tired of hearing.

"Medb...her name means 'She who intoxicates'," Mrs. McDonnell would begin in a low, sing-song voice, leaning towards the rapt children sitting on the grass at her feet, as if imparting a secret to them. Her eyes and soft, wrinkled face shone in the firelight. "She was the most beautiful woman that ever lived --- no man that beheld her could help falling under her spell."

At the children's clamoring, Mrs. McDonnell laughed and proceeded with the tale of the Cattle Raid of Cooley. Queen Medb, jealous of her third husband's splendid, white-horned bull, was determined to acquire the only bull of equal worth, a magnificent brown bull who belonged to one Dáire mac Fiachna, a man from the enemy province of Ulster.

Medb pressed the brown bull's owner, offering generous terms for the loan of the bull: fifty yearling heifers, land, a gold chariot, and her own friendly thighs. The brown bull's owner was initially agreeable, but the negotiations went asunder, and Medb prepared to take the bull by force. Thus ensued a great battle between the army of Connacht led by Queen Medb, and that of Ulster led by the fierce young warrior Cú Chulainn, son of the god Lug.

Cú Chulainn singlehandedly killed one hundred of Medb's soldiers, then fought a series of Medb's warriors in single combat, defeating them all.

Mrs. McDonnell brandished an imaginary sword. "Whilst the brave hero was so engaged, Medb's retreating men most slyly abducted the brown bull and led it towards Connacht with a golden rope round its neck. Upon discovering the trick, Cú Chulainn in a rage pursued Medb's army, finally confronting the evil Queen face to face. With his spear to her throat ---" Mrs. McDonnell mimed a blade against her neck "--- the noble warrior chose to spare her life because she was a woman, and instead honored her retreat."

Mrs. McDonnell shook her head. "Most bitterly, all this fighting was for naught, for upon the arrival of the abducted brown bull in Connacht, the white-horned bull let loose a fearsome bellow and charged at the intruder, his mouth a-foaming."

On cue, the children all roared like a raging bull. Patrick and Hugh would put their fingers like horns alongside their heads and butt them together. The strange tale then would end with the mighty duel that resulted in both the animals' deaths.

Aoife ken that her sympathies should lie with her Ulster ancestors --- and she was indeed stirred by the bold young Ulster hero's exploits --- but she could not help admiring the determination of the beautiful, fearless Medb, despite her less than estimable motives.

One day, naïve Aoife asked Granny what 'friendly thighs' meant.

Granny whirled round from the hearth. "Where did ye hear those words?" she demanded.

"Hugh's granny was telling us the story of Queen Medb and the bull---"

SMACK!! Granny slapped her face. "Dinna ye ever be saying such words! 'Tis nothing for ye to know, ye wicked girl! Queen Medb, to be sure! I'll give that Catherine McDonnell a piece of me mind, so I will!"

*****

Granny died when Aoife was ten.

Clodagh and she by mutual agreement divided the household chores according to their preferences and talents. At age thirteen, Clodagh became the mistress of the house and attended to the cooking and the garden, whilst Aoife took on the responsibility of the wool preparation. Indeed, in the absence of Granny's pervasive disapproval, Aoife made free to expand the operation. Instead of merely selling skeins of spun wool at the weekly Benburb market, she began offering for sale the items she had knitted as well. Finding them to fetch a fine price, she devoted her spare time to the production of hats, shawls, and mitts.

Saturdays, Clodagh and she would load up the hand cart with skeins of wool, knit items, surplus vegetables, and eggs. They walked the four miles into Benburb, usually with Colm and Patrick who carried their hurling sticks and hit the ball back and forth between them. Whilst the girls set up their wares on wood planks laid crossways upon the cart, the lads headed for the field behind the church. Aoife occasionally wandered over to wistfully watch the hurling match and add her cheers to those of the bystanders.

One day she had the courage to propose a gambit. Patrick was bemoaning the fact that the following Saturday the team would be a lad short since Colm was going into Armagh town with Da to look over a recently opened flax mill. Aoife suggested that she play in his stead.

Patrick shook his head. "Are ye daft? A lass playing?"

"Oh please...you know I can do it!"

"The others won't like it."

"You can explain it so they agree, so ye can. You've got a way with words."

Patrick was wavering.

"How about we make a wager?" Aoife knew right well what would perk her brother's interest. Indeed, he regarded her --- all ears. "If I don't score a goal, I'll give ye all the money I make at the market that day."

"And what do ye get if you do score a goal?"

"I get to play," she said grinning.

Thus it was. In the days before the match, Aoife covertly sewed a pair of drawers for herself from the cloth of a dress she had outgrown --- the novel garment tickled strangely under her skirt as they walked into Benburb. Upon arriving --- already having extracted Clodagh's promise not to tell Da --- Aoife pulled her hurling stick from the hand cart and headed for the field.

The lads of Patrick's team stared at her with expressions ranging from curiosity to resistance. But even the most mutinous among them conceded that 'twas better than playing a lad down. Her promise to leave if she jeopardized the team in any manner at last secured their acquiescence.

She acquitted herself well and did no discredit to the team. True, she had not Colm's strength, but to her advantage, she was small and fast, and darted among the lads without fear, even when the play proved rough and she was knocked to the ground. Twice did she did intercept a pass between their opponents...one time blocked a shot at their goal...and did at last succeed in scoring a goal. Upon the team's victory, the lads allowed that she might play again if they were ever a player short...an opportunity that did present itself twice more in the next couple of years.

Market days were the O'Farrell children's primary opportunity to escape Da's dour attentions. Rarely did Da come into Benburb on Saturdays, and then solely to go to the tavern. His Saturdays appeared to be occupied by working on the farm, fishing in the river, visiting his brother's farm, or going to the larger Armagh town further east. Aoife wondered whether Da relished his time away from them as much as they did --- based on an overheard conversation between Colm and Patrick, Da apparently regularly visited something called a "bawdy house" in Armagh.

The other new development that arose at the Benburb market was precipitated one day when an old woman in simple garb stopped before their display and examined one of the shawls Aoife had knit. "Did you make this?" she asked Clodagh.

Clodagh smiled and nodded towards Aoife. "My sister did."

"You did?" She looked at Aoife with surprise. "You're but a wee lass." The woman's gnarled fingers brushed the raised texture of the stitches. "'Tis lovely, so it is. How did ye make this pattern?"

Aoife explained what she had done, and the woman nodded and praised her inventiveness. Aoife's cheeks turned pink at the compliment. Mrs. O'Neill, so the woman's name was, had herself been an avid practitioner of the spinning wheel and knitting pins, but nowadays her painful fingers precluded such craft. She now came to the market to sell her baked goods.

From that day on, Aoife sought out Mrs. O'Neill when Clodagh and she arrived at the market square, setting up their cart next to the older woman's table. Mrs. O'Neill was pleased to share her wisdom with the attentive young lass.

One such day Mrs. O'Neill asked her if she had considered dyeing her wool. Aoife had not...but the question planted a seed in her mind. She had already devised a paint of whale oil, bog mire, and blackthorn that she used to mark the sheep with the O'Farrell symbol. Entranced by the notion of creating yarns of varied colors, Aoife listened in rapt attention, writing notes on scraps of paper as Mrs. O'Neill imparted her knowledge of the subject to her.

Aoife soon took to roving about the countryside with her linen satchel, seeking suitable plants for her vision...her wanderings extending progressively further as she grew older. Bilberry and woad would produce blue colors; walnut hulls, oak bark, birch and briar roots brown; sorrel and meadowsweet roots red, deadly nightshade and murex snails purple, weld and gorse yellow, and foxglove, nettles, and privet green. She learnt what temperatures to use for each dye and which mordants would fix the colors fast.

In the yard next to the cottage, or down by the stream, she soon was regularly soaking and stirring yarn skeins in wooden pails of colored liquid and draping them on shrubs to dry.

The first Saturday morn when Aoife loaded up the brightly colored yarn in the cart, Da grabbed her by the arm and shouted at her to leave behind all the green items, calling her an idiot.

Colm had to explain it to her: "Ye canna display anything green. 'Tis considered an act of treason."

She was too young to fully understand, but ken it had something to do with political troubles in Ireland. A law against green seemed absurd to her.

Colm agreed but warned her to obey the edict lest the family find itself afoul of the law. "Dinna be selling anything green and dinna be making it."

This confounded proscription was not the first ominous sign clouding this time of inspiration and productivity for young Aoife. She had long known about the animosity between Catholics and Protestants...had long known from Da, Granny, and other adults at the mass house, that they as Catholics were subject to a series of laws and limitations that did not apply to Protestants.

Aoife regularly encountered people whom she knew to be Prods, but although she studied them curiously --- even bitterly --- she did not understand why they were granted privileges over others. Neither in appearance, dress, nor language did they seem different.

In the village square where the market was held, the Protestant sellers lined up along the east side, whilst the Catholics occupied the west side. From where Aoife stood, she could see the Protestants' goods on display...and they were essentially the same as those offered by the Catholic sellers. She did, with a competitive eye, note that no one else was producing yarn or garments as fine as hers. Notwithstanding her pride on that point, she did not detect any difference that would account for the disparity in standing.

But whatever the grounds be, disparity and acrimony were rife indeed. Even on uneventful Saturdays, Catholics were obliged to pay a one pence vendor tax to participate in the market. But quite often, the market became a site of disturbance. 'Twas not uncommon for rowdy Protestant lads to knock over a Catholic vendor's table, shout insults at them, or throw rubbish at them. The Catholic lads did not hesitate to respond in kind.

'Twas one market day in spring that Aoife laid out yarn hanks of a new intense purple color that she had achieved with bilberry and deadly nightshade. The lovely color drew attention among the marketgoers and soon a cluster of women and lasses gathered at their cart examining the yarn --- many laying out coin and others asking if Aoife would be selling anything knit from it.

When Mrs. O'Neill shortly arrived, Aoife eagerly showed her the wool. As they were discussing the recipe for the color, Aoife noticed two women standing at the edge of gathered customers, peering intently at the yarn display through the people but making no effort to step closer. Aoife was about to inquire if they would like her to hand them an item to see, when she recognized them as two Protestant vendors from across the square, both of whom also sold yarn, albeit undyed. Opting for friendliness, Aoife gave them a guarded smile. But the women merely regarded her coldly and turned away.

"Dinna trouble yourself over them," Mrs. O'Neill whispered. "They're just jealous."

The incident was presently forgotten, but at next Saturday's market, Aoife discovered just how much sway 'jealous' Protestants had in the town. Clodagh and she were setting up their display on the cart when, as usual, the magistrate's officer in his blue uniform approached to collect their Catholic vendor's tax.

Today, however, he looked over their wares and announced, "Two pence."

"Two?" Clodagh's fingers paused in her coin pouch. "'It has always been one."

The man's face was impassive. "There's a new tax for Catholics selling spun or woven items, or anything made from flax."

Clodagh's brows were tight as she dug out the coins. 'Twas then that Aoife noticed across the square the two Protestant women from last week, standing with their hands upon their hips, smirking at her.

It was about this same time that Colm and Patrick began regularly returning from Benburb town with more bruises and lacerations on their faces than were occasioned by their hurling matches. The vitriol between the Catholics and Protestants was erupting between the lads in nigh weekly brawls --- many of which were precipitated by some devilry by one side or the other in the market square.