Celtic Mist Ch. 09

The morning of her departure, she packed her knapsack and braided her hair into a single, long, thick plait. Standing at the small mirror in the bathing chamber, she amputated the braid a few inches below her nape with a large shears.

When she tried to give the braid to the Abbess to sell for money for the convent --- as was the custom upon the admittance of a newly shorn sister to the order --- Mother Margaret staggered back a step and clutched her throat. "Oh, dear child! What have you done?! You said you were not joining! Have you changed your mind?"

Aoife shook her head.

"Then, why? Why?"

Aoife shrugged. "'Twill only be a hazard to my purpose."

Mother Margaret studied Aoife's face, an initial glint in the woman's eyes quickly replaced by a sober expression. "No one has the right to damn herself --- only God can do that."

Aoife held her gaze. "I'll take me chances."

Into the cold air of an early March day did Aoife step, wearing Declan's wool great coat over her black gown and the hat and mittens she had made. As she walked towards the River Liffey, a maelstrom of sensations possessed her: a no longer necessary furtiveness at being outside the convent's grounds, the oddness of solitude after six months of traveling the sidewalks in a parade of sisters and students, a strange lightness to her head without the long hair, and the fluttery turning of her belly in anticipation of her mission.

Declan's large coat felt heavy upon her shoulders...a sensation she had forgotten over the autumn and winter. When she tilted her head, was there yet the ghost of his scent in the collar? Above the general smell of Dublin, she could not be certain.

Aoife's first destination was the shop to which Mother Margaret had directed her to sell her hair. The proprietress examined the two and a half foot long, heavy, red braid.

"'Tis not the most desirable shade of red."

Of course not, Aoife thought, recalling a lifetime of gibes inspired by her fiery tresses.

The woman twirled the ends round her fingers. "But the thickness and lustrousness are of the finest quality. I'll give you...say...a pound and a half for it."

Aoife blinked --- 'twas more than she had expected --- if she were frugal, such funds would sustain her for many weeks!

Next, she headed to a street market she had noted whilst walking to church. Here she bartered with a peddler of used clothes --- on the strength of the fine quality of Declan's great coat, she received in trade a pair of lad's breeches, a long-sleeved waistcoat, a coat, and a wool flat cap with a brim --- all simple and sturdy in construction. Among the various stalls she also found a water gourd canteen and a tinderbox. Thus supplied, she followed directions to find the road south, leaving the morass of 'black pool' Dublin behind her.