Celtic Mist Ch. 09

"I came to live with me sister in County Wicklow," she summed up. "Soon after my arrival, the Duke's guardsmen came to...to take me for their master. In so doing they murdered my sister, her husband, and their wee bairn."

Aoife forced the words out through the tightening stricture in her throat. "I wish to God they would have only stated their terms...I...I would have submitted to the sin if it would have saved me family."

The Abbess was regarding her with a troubled expression, her fingertips forming a steeple. Aoife could not tell if she was commiserating with her or doubting her. Indeed, sitting in this simple, sunlit room in a suburb of Dublin, the tale appeared fantastical, even to herself who had experienced it.

At last, the woman spoke, her tone grim. "From what you relate, it appears that these men were bent on villainy from the outset, and that there was nothing you could have done to preserve your family. I see no cause for self-reproach."

Tears welled in Aoife's eyes.

"How then did you escape these fiends?"

Aoife felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "One of the guardsmen...I suppose he took pity on me...helped me escape."

The Abbess studied her face and the oversized coat, an expression of understanding seeming to grow upon her countenance. "These events transpired only days ago, then?"

Aoife nodded.

"Did they hurt you? We can summon a physician."

"No, mum."

"Might you need the services of a midwife in the coming months?"

Aoife's blush deepened. She shook her head vigorously, both in response to the question and to block the rush of images in her mind of Declan's rampant organ and the stranger's shiny cock she had beheld yesterday. "Oh no! No...the only injuries I have to complain of are those to me sister's family," she said, her voice choking. "I can scarce think...save on how I brought this upon them...and how I would kill those men if I had the chance! I would! I would! I would kill those bastards!" Aoife clapped her hand over her mouth as the uncouth word flew from her lips.

All at once, the tears so long suppressed burst forth --- she cried and cried, her body shaking, her hands covering her face in shame. She hadn't realized that the Abbess had risen and taken a seat beside her till she felt a warm arm embrace her shoulders. She held Aoife as the flood of tears gradually subsided.

"Bear up, daughter," the Abbess soothed. She pressed a handkerchief into Aoife's hand.

Aoife hastened to collect herself. She wiped the tears and raised her face. "I'm sorry."

"No, no." The Abbess gently shook her shoulder. Her voice was calm and soothing. "There is no cause for shame here. You have just lost your family by way of a most egregious crime, and you are feeling the full expression of the natural sensations that God has bestowed upon you."

She turned in the chair to face Aoife. "What I see before me is a young woman in torment. Indeed, never has there been a time your soul needed the guidance of God so acutely as now. We will admit you as a postulant. For six months you will pray and work, and God willing, your soul will find ease. Whether or not this vocation is for you remains to be seen."

The Abbess stood, prompting Aoife to rise to her feet as well. She placed her fingers lightly upon Aoife's shoulders and looked down at her tear-streaked face. "I've heard many tales of hardship from the women who have joined our order, but none quite so grievous and violent as yours. 'Tis hard indeed to be a Catholic in Ireland, and sometimes even harder to be a female. But remember that hardship is God's means of testing our faith --- and that part of His test is contending with the inevitable evil about us. No matter how devoted our prayers and endeavors, there will always be evildoers insensible to rehabilitation. We are best served by dwelling not upon the wrongs we have suffered but devoting ourselves instead to a greater goodness."

Aoife sniffled and wiped her nose on the handkerchief. "Aye, mum."

"You may call me Mother Margaret --- but only in the house." She smiled. "Outside the grounds, you will refer to me as Mrs. Mullins."

Aoife nodded.

"Aoife, 'tis weak consolation, but we must learn to accept our limitations. The men who wronged your family will eventually be brought to justice...although perhaps not in this life. Remember, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"

"Aye," Aoife whispered.

She was admitted as a postulant to the convent of the Poor Sisters of St. Clare. In keeping with one of the foremost tenets of the order --- poverty --- she immediately gave over her material possessions to be held till her decision in six months' time, yea or nay, on pursuing the calling. There was not much to give: Declan's great coat, her nightgown, the dagger, and the rough shoes he had bought for her. The yielding up of the dagger gave her the most pause, but she tempered the brief twinge of anxiety by reminding herself she would be safe in the convent.

She was provided with the standard garb of a plain, black wool gown, apron, white linen mop cap, and simple black buckled shoes. Her interview with the Abbess had prepared her to take on the semblance of a serving maid rather than a nun. So as not to draw undue notice, the gown followed the present fashion in general lines, but was without adornment and the front of the bodice went all the way to the neck, not even needing a neckerchief to provide modesty.

Over the next few weeks, Aoife acclimated to her new life. The convent consisted of the Abbess, twelve sisters, two novices, and four postulants (including Aoife). Whilst the Abbess had her own cell, the rest of the women shared a dormitory on the third floor where two rows of beds lined a single large room.

The bona fide boarding school included twenty-three girls ranging in age from five to fifteen, who slept in shared rooms on the second floor. The students were the daughters of the rare Catholic families elevated by trade or profession to the middle class. According to age, the girls were divided into three groups --- each group attending a classroom in one of the large ground floor rooms. The sisters, assisted by the novices and postulants, instructed the students in reading, writing, mathematics, catechism, and plain needlework.

Interwoven with teaching, all the sisters adhered to a rigorous daily schedule that commenced every morning at five for prayer, and continued with meditation, mass, dinner, prayer, free time, prayer, supper, and prayer. Aoife had never prayed so much in her life!

A large ground floor room was arranged to resemble another classroom, but in truth served as their chapel. Meals were had in the dining room at long tables, two for the students and one for the sisters. In addition, the sisters shared in the mundane chores of the house: cleaning, cooking, tending the garden, and laundry. On Sundays, they left the confines of the convent, sisters and students walking as a group to attend mass at St. Andrew's Church.

Living with other females revived Aoife's old childhood fear of being bullied, but she soon discovered that the sisters were staid, earnest women whose characters suggested they were far more likely to have been bullied themselves, rather than having been the dispensers of cruelty. For Aoife --- quiet by nature and rendered yet more so by grief --- 'twas a relief to find that minimal conversation accompanied their daily activities. Whatever hardships had brought the others to the convent were rarely spoken of --- perhaps heeding Mother Margaret's advice to look beyond past wrongs.

Aoife found solace in her regimented new life --- given her duties, the limited time remaining to her for self-reflection discouraged descent into despair, whilst the usefulness of her work offered a glimpse of hope beyond her present troubles. True, when she slept, her dreams were filled with terrifying images of Clodagh or Eoin in peril and not being able to help them...or of faceless men chasing her. When she awoke with clenched fists and hammering heart, the view of the tidy rows of cots in the dormitory helped temper her terror.

True too, for the first few weeks of her postulancy, her meditation time was oft spent weeping in the chapel or garden as thoughts of her family filled her mind --- but what was initially a chaotic discharge of emotion became over the passing days a catharsis, with the most despondent humors eventually being distilled from her heart through silent tears.

Never was Aoife taken to task for any display of grief --- except by herself. Growing up under the harsh purview of Granny and Da and with the grim realities of the farm, she was accustomed to confronting adversity with self-possession. This outward expression of mourning seemed to her an embarrassing indulgence.

In confirmation of Mother Margaret's judgement, prayer and work did indeed offer a balm for her wounded soul. They did not abolish her worries, but with the passing weeks, Aoife gradually regained her self-possession.

The re-establishment of her equipoise was particularly furthered by another activity. It commenced after she first assisted Sister Eleanor Andrew O'Grady in her needlework class --- during a lesson on buttonholes. Sister Eleanor seemed surprised when Aoife, unbidden, joined her in going from student to student to demonstrate the exercise. When the girls were dismissed for dinner, Aoife helped gather the supplies and returned them to a large basket.

"You have a clever hand at the needle," Sister Eleanor observed. She was a woman in her mid-twenties with a pale face, dark curved eyebrows, and rosy cheeks.

"Thank you." Aoife smiled drolly. "Granny oft told me that idle hands are the Devil's workshop." As she tucked pieces of linen away, she found in the bottom of the basket --- under scraps of cloth, ribbons, and thread spools --- balls of wool and knitting pins. A wave of longing came over her. "May I use these?" she asked.

Sister Eleanor chuckled. "By all means. I used to teach the girls knitting, but 'twas judged to be less useful to their lives than plain needlework." She smiled as Aoife hugged the yarn. "You enjoy knitting, I'd venture."

Aoife nodded.

"Can you embroider as well?"

"Aye."

Sister Eleanor's eyes sparkled. "I am in need of assistance in making a Christmastide chasuble for Father Troy. Would you be interested in sharing the work?"

Aoife's smile was the first of true pleasure in weeks. "Aye, I would."

Thus it was that within two weeks of her arrival at the convent, Aoife was knitting and sewing again. At first, she simply cast on yarn and began knitting a rectangle, but she quickly had a different idea. Using her allotted free time, she restarted and within a few days created a small shawl, which she showed to Sister Eleanor.

Since joining the convent, Aoife had in short order become aware of its ever-pressing need of funds for its maintenance. Although she did not expect that the shawl would fetch a king's ransom, the few coins it might raise were not to be scoffed at. To Sister Eleanor she proposed that she could make and sell them for prayer shawls at the little, weekly market the parishioners held outside St. Andrew's Church after mass.

Sister Eleanor was delighted with the idea, and after securing Mother Margaret's approval, Aoife set to work. Eleanor gave her all the wool she could find, and once she had worked through that, more was procured for her by Sisters Brigid and Martha on their weekly trip to the market for provisions. Aoife was even granted permission to knit during her meditation time --- the Abbess agreeing that it detracted not from solemn contemplation. Soon Aoife was bringing completed shawls to the church where they quickly became a coveted item by the women of the parish.

Aoife's other activity when not praying or teaching was working with Sister Eleanor on the Christmastide chasuble. Its completion being required in three months, they were allowed additional free time for their labors.

So as not to mar the white silk fabric, they washed their hands carefully, donned fresh aprons, and spread a clean cloth over the dining table upon which they laid the priest's garment. Sister Eleanor had already fashioned the poncho shaped vestment, basted on a linen backing, and completed a portion of the embroidery. From a colored drawing reference, she had thread traced lines onto the silk to guide the design --- a Celtic cross surrounded by vines with scattered shamrocks and stars.

Many an hour was spent in quietude over the next three months, plying their needles at their embroidery frames --- Sister Eleanor working on one side, Aoife on the other --- bringing the design to life with gold, red, blue, and green silk floss.

As it had after the deaths of her brothers, the industry of her hands in this manner proved to be the balm that most soothed Aoife's distressed soul, even more so than prayer and motionless meditation. Three months into her postulancy, with Christmas fast approaching, Aoife found that she had disentangled the gordian knot of her emotions and was able to contend with each problem separately...if not always serenely.

So long as she lived, she would never NOT feel the pain of Clodagh's absence, but in order to press on in life, Aoife had tamed the wrenching flashes of grief and had swaddled her sorrow into a disciplined parcel that she hid away in her heart. Not wholly successfully, for every now and again something would remind her of her sister, and she felt again the rush of anguish in her throat.

But she had come to recognize the wisdom in the words Mother Margaret had spoken to her that first day --- Aoife could now identify the truth of the circumstances of her family members' deaths and distinguish between rational thoughts on the matter and emotional ones.

Namely, she could see now that although her coming to live with her sister was one event in a sequence of events leading up to the horrific night, she did not cause their deaths. 'Twould be like saying that had she not been born, Clodagh's family would still be alive today. In assigning culpability, 'twas clear to her now where happenstance ended, and where man's free will began.

She had not forced Blaylock and his henchmen to act as they did...they had chosen their course. Just because she had a cunny between her legs did not make her responsible for the violent, rutting advances of any male who took a fancy to her.

Reason compelled Aoife to absolve herself of guilt on that score...but in her heart, she might ever be susceptible to the self-reproach of "If only..." or "What if..."

There was no doubt in her mind as to the proper attribution of guilt: Blaylock. He had killed Paddy, Eoin, and the dog Orla...he had raped Clodagh and had ordered Fitzgibbons and Burrows to do the same and kill her. The latter two were as guilty as Blaylock for following the depraved orders. Declan's and Lynch's lesser crimes were primarily against herself. And the chamberlain Bruckton --- the more she pondered the matter --- as reprehensible as he was, the less certain was she of his role in the atrocities at the cottage itself.

Aoife struggled to heed Mother Margaret's advice and the teachings of the Church --- forgiveness, turn the other cheek, leave them to God's judgement --- but she found such words to be a bitter tincture against the undiminished wrath in her gut.

She had three months left before her decision, yea or nay, on fully joining the order. To join would mean forever giving up her dream of revenge...'twould be the more Christian path, and no doubt the better one for her eternal soul...but could she accept that lot? She did not know the answer. Her present dreams of savagely attacking Blaylock...from which she woke screaming and flailing...gave her cause for doubt.

Over the past three months, she had also pondered the other source of her distress and guilt: her unchaste thoughts.

To her surprise and relief, that disquiet in her body soon abated after joining the convent. 'Twas indeed a puzzling matter...had simply being surrounded by such goodness quelled her wanton nature? Had freedom from Declan's, and indeed all male company caused it to fall dormant? Aye, she could not deny that she still felt a tickly pleasure when she washed her breasts and between her legs...so perhaps not entirely.

The summer when she had been enamored of Sean McGarry, so possessed with curiosity had she been about amorous relations that she had oft, with butterflies in her belly, wondered what transpired on a wedding night...and had consented to a precipitous engagement to a lad whom she loved not in that manner, simply in anticipation of experiencing that mysterious act. Joining the convent would also mean taking a vow of chastity...could she rest assured that such feelings would not blossom again and torment her anew?

From time to time, thoughts of Declan "Quickfist" Muldowney would intrude into her quiet meditation as she knit, embroidered, or lay abed, but she was able to divert herself ere she fully indulged in provocative memories of his face, touch, and body. Indeed, she congratulated herself on now being able to comfortably contemplate him with a sensation that lay somewhere between equanimity and hostility...aye, she had succeeded in suppressing those disturbing feelings of attraction. Simple curiosity as to what had become of him did not imply any preference on her part --- so she assured herself.

Aoife found one other particular companion in the convent in addition to Sister Eleanor: a grey striped cat that frequented the walled garden behind the house. She first encountered it whilst assisting in instructing the youngest class in penmanship. As she squatted next to young Annie to demonstrate the letter 'H', the wee lass all at once pointed out the window. "Miss Aoife, look! A kitty in the tree!"

There was indeed a cat in the ash tree...crouching on a high branch and meowing plaintively, evidently having gotten itself into a bit of a pickle. Soon the entire class was leaning out the windows, distressed by the cat's plight and attempting to coax it down. Sister Martha, unable to recapture the girls' attention, at last said, "We'll fetch one of the lads from the house at the corner to help get it down."

"Dinna trouble them, I'll get it down," Aoife said, swinging her legs over the windowsill. To Sister Martha's shock, she knotted her skirts above the knee and scaled the tree, climbing up the shutter to reach the first branch, then pulling herself up and ascending one bough after another --- all whilst observed by the rapt audience of the students and sisters standing in the garden.

The cat, scarce more than a kitten, mewled and clung to to Aoife's bodice as she transported him down to the ground, where he immediately scampered and disappeared into the shrubs by the far wall. As the students were herded back into the house, Aoife observed some of the sisters shaking their heads at her unladylike actions, but she glimpsed a grin on Mother Margaret's face before she turned away.

After that, Aoife oft saw the cat during her nightly turn about the garden, and she soon was able to rejoice in gaining his trust. She dubbed him Boru.