Celtic Mist Ch. 09

Now in the convent, Aoife's daily rigorous schedule of prayer and service were feeling the incursions of her impious yearnings and her alternating response of guilt and righteousness. On several occasions, the longing at last exceeded the guilt, and when in a flare of defiance, she felt equal to committing the sin, she sought in vain for a moment of privacy in which to do so. With their cots so close together, she could not risk such an activity in bed. Her only time alone was when she bathed, but bath time was strictly regulated to accommodate the needs of the eighteen women on the third floor.

As these troubling symptoms continued to occupy the fourth month of her postulancy, Aoife thought to remedy her omissions of the past: in confession she at last admitted to her lustful thoughts.

After a moment's silence, the priest began to ask her a series of questions: was she married, was she a virgin, how old was she, how often were these thoughts occurring, were they voluntary or involuntary? From the voice, Aoife deduced 'twas not Father Troy, but one of the younger priests on the other side of the grille. She answered as shortly as she could as the embarrassing queries continued.

"Are these thoughts concerning anything unnatural?"

Aoife hesitated, unsure what was encompassed within that word.

"Thoughts about animals, other females, or children?"

"No."

"Or unnatural acts? Admitting the male organ anywhere but where God intended for the purpose of procreation?"

In the dim confessional, Aoife's bowed face grew warm. "No."

"Have you committed any such lustful acts that fell short of compromising your virginity?"

"I was once kissed by a lad, if that be what you're asking," she blurted, her tone more biting than she intended. She was regretting her decision to make this confession and refrained from mentioning the incident with Declan in the cromleach...that was naught but an accident of circumstance, so it was, and strictly speaking, no lustful acts had happened...had they?

"Now, daughter," he admonished gently, "the extent of your sin must be determined to assign the proper penance."

She sighed. "Aye, Father."

"Do you masturbate? Touch yourself improperly?"

Aoife was struck dumb momentarily and her face flamed. At last, she whispered, "A bit."

Now there was a moment of silence on the part of priest. Aoife peered through the grille --- in the low, flickering candle flame, all she could make out was the jaw and a portion of cheek of a man.

"How do you touch yourself?" His voice sounded oddly hoarse.

Never before having confessed to this particular sin, she knew not what the usual response of the priest ought to be, but there was an eager tension in this one's questions that was rapidly increasing her discomfiture. "I-I'm not sure --- I dinna ken how to describe it."

"Do you penetrate your body in any manner, with your fingers or objects?"

"No."

"Do you rub your privates?"

"Not as such." But thank you for the suggestions, she thought drolly.

He was silent. Christ! What would he do next --- command her to stand, draw up her gown and demonstrate it?! Was it a sin to leave confession in the middle?

"What then are your lustful thoughts?"

What was the briefest, honest answer she might make? "I saw a naked man once, and I think about...his body."

"What do you think about?"

Och! What was this --- the Spanish Inquisition?! "I-I don't know! Just...oh, I don't remember!" She raised her face and said wryly, "May I consult my solicitor?"

Through the grille, Aoife glimpsed a flash of a grin next to a flushed cheek. A moment later, he recovered his serious demeanor. "I cannot grant you absolution if you do not fully confess and repent of your sins."

She took a deep breath. "I try to imagine what it might be like...you know...the acts that happen on a wedding night. But I don't know exact-like...what a man and a woman do...to know what to imagine!" In her shame at the intrusive questions, she glossed over the unseemly details of the truth. "Canna ye just assign me the most severe penance --- just in case --- and be done with it?"

Silence filled the confessional booth.

Mercifully, the interrogation seemed to be complete. The priest cleared his throat, and the strained, young male voice assumed a stern tone as he chastised her about the perils of lust for lasses and the sinfulness for an unmarried maiden to deliberately contemplate sexual matters. He assigned her four days of fasting and ten Hail Mary's. Moreover, he commanded her to use a cloth and not her hand when she washed her privates and to sleep with her hands outside of the covers.

Aoife left the church with no sense of peace at all. Indeed, she now was pervaded by a sense of unease...more so about the practice of confession than about her supposed sins. 'Twas at least evident that confession was not the answer to her dilemma, and she was mystified by the priest's detailed questions and strict rebuke --- which seemed particularly hard on her for being a lass. But, she reasoned, what could one expect from a religion where the leaders were men and the revered women were virgins?

Aye, she would no doubt receive more sensible counsel from Medb, the lusty and vengeful warrior goddess. After that unsettling experience, Aoife was convinced that her secretive instinct concerning her amorous thoughts had been wise all along. Heretofore, she would govern her own conscience.

And by no means would she confess to the other sinful thought that was again roiling in her mind: her murderous plans for Blaylock.

Aye, 'twas true --- four months into her postulancy, her mind was again occupied by thoughts of sex and revenge. But her demeanor was substantially different than when she had rung the bell and pleaded for admission in September. Her grief now under good regulation, she could contend with the other subjects in a more measured manner.

Revenge --- the dream that had been smoldering in the back of her mind these past months, had now returned to the forefront, and was being contemplated with much deliberation.

In a recent dream she had been stalking through the streets of Dublin armed with a loaded pistol and a dagger --- on the trail of Blaylock. She spied a tall man in a blue uniform walking ahead of her, the queue of his black hair visible at his nape. But when she ran up to him, pistol drawn, he turned round and it was not he! But lo! There was another similar looking man on the other side of the street, and she charged at him. Again on the brink of pulling the trigger she saw 'twas not Blaylock. So it continued...they were everywhere, these tall men in blue uniforms --- each resembling her quarry, but not he on closer inspection. Or --- had one of them indeed been the bastard, and he had escaped when she failed to recognize him?

After Aoife had woken, that dreadful possibility remained to haunt her: would she even recognize Blaylock if she again encountered him? Her heart swore that she would never forget that face, but her mind admitted a whisper of fear.

* * * * *

In addition to these markers in Aoife's internal progress, the dawning of the year 1798 was accompanied by notable outward developments.

The first was the increased numbers of uniformed men upon Dublin's streets --- observed by Aoife when the convent dwellers walked to and from mass each week. She had long since learnt that the blue uniformed men from whom she had fled her first day in Dublin were not Kilmaedan guardsmen but Yeomen. The difference between the brass buttons upon the coats of the former and the silver buttons and braid upon those of the latter was now apparent. The growing presence of Yeomen, red-coated Militiamen, and grey-uniformed city watchmen and constables hinted at the brewing unrest in the metropolis.

When Aoife began to mark the tidings shouted by lads hawking newspapers in the streets, she soon realized that the unrest was not confined to Dublin. Prominent among the headlines were dire reports of rebels violently attacking God-fearing households throughout Ireland, as well as of glorious counter-insurgency victories for the Crown in Ulster.

'Twas in January too that mass began to be followed by a nigh weekly sermon admonishing the congregation to heed not the appeals of the United Irishmen or any other such rebel societies...such rabble were atheists and heretics seeking only to lure good Catholics into fighting their battles against the Crown. To join or aid such a society was a sin that would put their eternal souls in jeopardy.

Aoife sat silently in the pew as she listened to these repeated warnings, but inwardly the vigorous reprimands only stimulated her curiosity and questions.

Although the first four months of her postulancy had been preoccupied with sorting her own troubles as she endeavored to serve God, these recent events evoked old memories and drew her attention back to the secular world.

The Poor Sisters of St. Clare were not fully cloistered nuns, but their limited contact with the outside world was strictly regulated, intended only for the furtherance of their mission --- not for engagement in political intrigues. Yet, as her fifth month stretched on, these happenings only fortified Aoife's budding restlessness in her sheltered life. She could not help listening to the newsboys, or the chatter in the street or of the parishioners after mass.

Again and again, she heard the name 'United Irishmen.'

She remembered right well the first time she had heard that name: 'twas the first time she had met Sean McGarry. Silly, besotted lass she might have been, but she was not so distracted by the sparkle in his eyes and the bulge in his breeches that she had failed to mark his words. He had spoken stirringly of the society whose mission it was to free Ireland from her oppressors and restore sovereignty to the Irish people --- of all religious persuasions.

That had sounded estimable to her even as a naïve country lass, but now --- after nearly having been raped by the two British Redcoats who had discovered her green-dye operation on the riverbank, after two years serving the English-endorsed gentry at Drumlevy Manor, and after the vile acts committed on her family and herself by the Englishmen Blaylock and Bruckton --- the United Irishmen's mission seemed to Aoife all the more noble and urgent.

And these were simply personal instances of a pervasive wrong that was in evidence all over Ireland.

Aoife knew that the vast majority of the population was Catholic --- and for their beliefs were punished with poverty and powerlessness by a system established and maintained by the Crown and the Protestant families it had empowered. She thought about her own family and the families she had known growing up --- they all had struggled and lived meagerly.

Then she recalled the extravagance of their landlord's enormous Drumlevy Manor, where the Marquess's family of five had their every whim tended to by dozens of servants. She thought of more recent scenes: impoverished neighborhoods throughout Dublin...interspersed with the few squares of elegant homes with luxurious trappings.

Yet, Aoife was also aware that there were plenty of Protestant families, in the town and country, that had known destitution --- as there were Catholic families that had found prosperity, evidenced by the very students she helped teach. As she had sensed from Sean McGarry's words, the Catholic versus Protestant enmity was a distraction from the true issue: the English oppressors.

To the English and their appointed gentry, Ireland was merely a playground and a supply-room. They plundered the bounty of the land, taking its lads for their military forces, its lasses for their beds, and everyone else to serve in their mansions and work the land...only to ship the fruits of their labors across the sea for profit. All this they did whilst fomenting hostilities between Catholics and Protestants to distract the exploited populace from the true villain.

Aoife knew that no matter how poor and desperate her circumstances, she loved this land --- as true and fierce as she ever loved anything --- and that she could never be robbed of this love by the English oppressors. Her heart swelled with indignation at Ireland's plight --- to her eyes, the United Irishmen appeared to be the brightest light fighting for justice.

When the dragooning of Ulster had begun last spring, Aoife had been at Drumlevy Manor --- in that very part of the country where the terror had been unleashed. The loyalist Marquess's estate had naturally been a place of safety, but Aoife had fretted over tidings of the ruthless campaign to root out the United Irishmen in Ulster. Several of the other servants' family members had been tortured and their homes burned.

If Aoife's skepticism about confession was the first inkling that she was not suited to the religious vocation, the Church's present condemnation of the United Irishmen threw her even further into doubt. How could the Church condemn this society that was fighting to end the oppression of the Irish people...who were largely Catholic? How could it forbid its parishioners from joining the cause...threatening them with eternal damnation?

Why had not the Church done something to help the Catholic populace? Indeed, it seemed that the Church was complicit with the Crown, using its position of authority --- and such teachings as 'Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth' and 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord' --- to keep the people docile in their suffering.

Aoife even considered the blasphemous question of whether there was a God at all. If God did indeed exist, how could He let the people continue in such degradation?

And God or no God, the extent of her distrust was such that no reassurance could she now feel that Blaylock would ever be brought to justice.

Aoife's crisis of faith reflected no discredit upon the work of the convent --- lessened not her gratitude towards the sisters for helping her when she had been in despair, nor the contentment she had felt in her duties. But as she entered the final six weeks of her postulancy, she began to feel a new agitation at her constrained life within the convent and walled garden.

In one part, her restlessness arose from the fact that her previous life on the farm had not accustomed to her to such unvarying activities, such confinement indoors. Even at Drumlevy Manor, she had been able walk or run about the estate's grounds as she pleased after her daily duties were complete.

How she longed to race through pastures again, leap from stone to stone over streams, search the woodlands for plants...all whilst the natural sensations swelled in her body without shame! It seemed an impossible dream that she had walked through the countryside for three days alone with a young man, sleeping together in makeshift shelters! Squatting to piddle behind shrubs!

Now her out-of-doors was limited to the convent's square garden and path upon which she nightly walked or skipped in brisk circles punctuated with a jig here and there, accompanied by the cat Boru. Indoors, she paced up and down as she sped through the rows on her knitting, and at bedtime sprinted up the stairs to the dormitory --- as silently as she could, after the unrestrained clatter the first time caused the Abbess to step into the hall and shake her head. And then there was the weekly excursion to church, from which Aoife extracted every measure of enjoyment the exercise afforded.

Whilst such actions partially tempered the restlessness in her body, that within her mind continued unabated.

The three other postulants who had been in the convent when she joined had each in succession become novices at the end of their six months. Aoife's postulancy was due to end next month: she would need to decide.

As the time drew near, she debated with herself the arguments on each side --- the worthiness of the work and her satisfaction in it, the moral correctness of the choice (according to the Church), the companionship of the sisters. Aye, there was a peace here that could fully be hers if she accepted it. On the opposing side stood her desire for revenge.

She prayed for guidance --- both from God and the goddess Medb.

At last, Aoife accepted the truth her heart was telling her: she must tend to her unfinished business in the outside world.

Plying her knitting pins and needle with redoubled intent, she began to make ready for her departure.

In the final week of her postulancy, Aoife was summoned to Mother Margaret's chamber wherein they had had their first conversation last September. Kneeling and bowing her head, she informed the Abbess of her decision...couched in the halting expression of her profound gratitude for the kindness and guidance she had received in the convent.

Mother Margaret rose and came round to the front of her desk to urge Aoife from her knees and into a chair, taking the chair beside her. "My daughter, this is a decision that, although weighty, need not cause you any misgivings. I have not been ignorant of your struggles and doubts, both with the strictures of this life as well as with your faith. I have been praying for you --- praying for God to reveal to you the proper course of action."

She gazed at Aoife earnestly. "With your spirit and doggedness...the industry and artistry of your hands...your manner with the children --- I feel certain that God has another purpose for you. Indeed, I am relieved to hear your answer; I had feared that a sense of guilt or obligation might have influenced you to stay."

She touched Aoife's shoulder and smiled. "Although perhaps not the most sedate postulant in our history, you have been a credit to the order and will be very much missed."

As Aoife felt the tears pricking her eyes, the Abbess shook her gently. "Now, let us tend to practical matters ere we begin to weep. We'll fetch your belongings down from the attic."

"Do I return my garments to Sister Brigid?"

"Oh no, we shall not send you back to the outside world in naught but a nightgown. Keep your clothes --- you've more than earned their price."

In the remaining days, Aoife continued her preparations to leave the house that had been her home the last six months. When Sister Eleanor learnt that Aoife was venturing into the outside world without friends or family to assist her, she insisted that she keep the coins from the last two prayer shawls she had sold. She urged Aoife to take needles, thread, knitting pins, yarn, and whatever scraps of fabric she wished --- to provide possible industry and comfort...and let her not endure her monthlies bereft of protection.

In the kitchen, Aoife found an empty, heavy linen flour sack which she converted into a knapsack by the addition of sturdy cloth straps. After washing her old nightgown, she fashioned a shirt from the upper half, repairing the torn placket and cuffs and adding a collar; the lower half became a long linen band. From scraps of fabric, she constructed a pair of drawers, like those she had made for herself years ago to play in a hurling match. Lastly, using remnants of yarn insufficient in quantity for a shawl, she knit a hat and mittens.