Authors: Heather Terrell
“Yes, and I wouldn’t be surprised. Even though she’d probably get a small fortune for it at auction, she might want to build a shrine to it herself, right in Kildare. Just like she wants to do with Saint Brigid.”
“No, I mean have you considered that she might not want to go public with it?”
“No.” For Alex, whose personal religion revolved around uncovering and freeing past secrets, the very notion of keeping such knowledge hidden was inconceivable.
“Alex, Sister Mary might not like the description of the strong-willed, nearly defiant Brigid; Brigid comes across as only paying lip service to Rome but really following her own agenda. Not to mention, Sister Mary might object to her beloved Brigid’s reference to the Gospel of Mary the Mother.”
“I cannot fathom Sister Mary making that decision. You don’t know her.”
“But what if she does?”
“What are you suggesting, Declan?”
“I’m suggesting that you consider alternatives.”
With a sudden, resounding clarity, Alex comprehended Declan’s endgame. The betrayal she’d feared—suspected—from the beginning
stood before her. She guessed that he’d planned it from the start, solidifying it with their trip to Rome and his attempts at intimacy. Her internal radar had been right all along. But she wanted him to say it out loud. “Like what?”
“Like not returning the book.”
“And doing what with it instead?”
“We could unveil it as our own discovery sometime down the road. Sister Mary doesn’t even know it exists, after all.”
She baited him a bit more, to make absolutely certain of his proposal. “I see. And you’d know how to go about doing that?”
“I know some people.”
She couldn’t pretend a moment longer. “I told you from the beginning that I planned on returning the book to Sister Mary once I’d studied it. I would never consider keeping it.”
“Never? Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it?”
Alex shook her head. In truth, she hadn’t. She’d been more worried about preserving her relationship with Sister Mary upon the book’s return, so the nun would give Alex the chance to reveal the Book of Kildare to the world as her discovery.
She slipped her old stoicism over her wound. “Thank you very much for your services, Declan. I’ll make sure you get credit for your translation and your research assistance. And, of course, you’ll be paid. Just send me a bill for your time.” She slammed the door behind her.
Alex watched as the undertaker shoveled dirt into the open grave. The other nuns wept quietly for Sister Augustine, but she wondered if they had really known her. Maybe they cried for the woman Sister Augustine wanted them to think she was, a quiet religious, bookish, and an obedient passive vessel, like the Virgin or the Brigid they imagined.
Alex’s hair stuck to her cheeks as she peered out from under her umbrella and looked deep into the grave site. The undertaker’s shovel had left a deep scar in the wet earth. Inexplicably, tears joined the rain on her face. Alex wondered for whom she was crying. Sister Augustine? Herself? Brigid? All the other women who had to refashion themselves to fit society’s mold? Or the women whom society refashioned, like the Virgin Mary?
She jumped when a finger tapped her shoulder. It was Sister Mary, her face bereft of tears. “The loss of Sister Augustine seems to have upset you, Miss Patterson.”
“Death is a sad business, isn’t it?”
“Not for believers, Miss Patterson. I rejoice that Sister Augustine has entered the presence of the Lord.”
“I suppose the thought must console.”
“You don’t believe, Miss Patterson?”
“I’m not sure what I believe anymore, Sister Mary.”
Sister Mary looked Alex up and down, but did not offer any gesture of comfort. “Why don’t we go to my office, Miss Patterson. I can get you a cup of tea, and you can tell me what you’ve discovered about my relics.”
They walked in silence from the graveyard to the community center. The rain continued its merciless lashing, but Sister Mary seemed impervious. Alex supposed that years of Irish rain, as well as decades of painful convent realities, had made her resistant to many hardships. Neither spoke until Alex had a steaming teacup in her hand and they faced each other across Sister Mary’s desk.
“I have a confession to make, Sister Mary.”
“I’m not a priest, Miss Patterson.”
“It’s you to whom I must confess, not a priest.”
For once, Sister Mary didn’t know what to say. She started and then halted, finally saying, “Well then, I won’t stop you.”
“I did a thorough examination of your chalice, paten, and reliquary and some intensive research in Dublin, and I was able to confirm that all three hail from the late fifth century.”
Sister Mary’s eyes gleamed. “That is welcome news, indeed. Even better than my sixth-century attribution, I’m guessing. Though I’m confused about why you’re calling it a confession, Miss Patterson.”
“Because of the way I was able to make my conclusive determination.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your reliquary contains a false bottom. Within that space, I found an ancient illuminated manuscript. I took it to Dublin for analysis without telling you.”
Rather than explain further, Alex handed Sister Mary everything: the Book of Kildare, the life and the letters, Declan’s partial translation of the life, and her appraisal. Then she waited.
She averted her eyes as Sister Mary slowly turned the vellum folio pages of the Book of Kildare, the life, and the letters. When the nun put them aside and took up the appraisal and the translation, Alex stood up and stared out the window. Anything not to witness the religious woman beholding the evidence of her duplicity.
“Miss Patterson?”
Alex spun around to see Sister Mary’s smiling face. Confused and astonished at the nun’s contented reaction, she said nothing.
“Thank you for finding our Book of Kildare, our Brigid, and our Virgin Mary.”
Not trusting herself to remain standing, Alex sat back down in her chair. “You’re not furious?”
“Well, you might’ve asked permission before you took our fifth-century manuscript off the grounds. But you brought it back, didn’t you? And I bet you always planned to—am I right?” Sister Mary gave Alex a knowing look, with one eyebrow cocked.
“You’re right.”
“All’s well that ends well, Miss Patterson. And we’ve ended very well indeed.”
“How would you like to proceed? Would you like me to get a colleague to finish the appraisal? I can find an expert to complete the translation, if you like.”
“Why on earth would I want anyone but you? Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to finalize your appraisal, oversee the translation, and I want you to find a proper buyer.”
“So you still want to sell?”
“Can you imagine the good our order can do with the proceeds of this sale?”
The nun was exultant. Alex didn’t want to deflate her hopes, but she needed to make certain that Sister Mary really understood the ramifications of the Book of Kildare.
“You want to sell even though the life depicts a very different Brigid from the one you know? A Brigid who didn’t always follow the Roman Church’s rule?”
“The life’s Brigid may not be my Brigid, but maybe she’s the real Brigid. Perhaps she’s a better Brigid.” Sister Mary smirked. “And you know I don’t always agree with Rome.”
Alex was so relieved she started sobbing uncontrollably.
Sister Mary walked over to Alex’s chair and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It seems you needed to make a confession after all, Miss Patterson. Even though it’s unnecessary, if you feel that you
are in need of absolution, I’ll grant it to you. Particularly since I have a confession of my own.”
Alex peered out at the kneeling nun through her interlaced fingers. “You do?”
“I knew about the reliquary’s false bottom. I knew that the Book of Kildare lay inside.”
Alex stared at the nun. Instead of remorse, she began to feel the rumblings of anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am the keeper of the Book of Kildare. I took a vow of silence about its existence.”
“You must have known that my research would uncover it. Why did you let me discover it?”
“It is time for the Book of Kildare to be revealed to the world. It is time for the world to see what our Brigid was capable of—what the early Irish Christians were capable of. But my vow prohibited me from telling you about it directly. So I prayed and prayed that you would find it on your own.” She crossed herself. “And He answered my prayers.”
“So you obeyed the letter—if not the spirit—of your vow?” Alex was now furious at having been used by the nun.
Sister Mary flashed Alex a hostile look. “That breach is between me and God.” Her look softened. “We each have practiced our own deceptions, Miss Patterson. Maybe we can agree to forgive each other as we work together on the Book of Kildare.”
Alex gave Sister Mary a hard once-over. How could she stay angry at the nun for her lies of omission when she herself had practiced dishonesty? And didn’t she want desperately to finish what she’d started with the Book of Kildare? “Maybe we can.”
“Good. I hope you will be well pleased with your decision, especially when you finish the translation of the life and the letters.”
“What do you mean?” Alex wasn’t thrilled with the specter of another surprise.
“I have never read the life or the letters myself, though I’d heard about them from Sister Augustine. They have been hidden away by an earlier keeper, as you saw. Maybe she wanted to conceal the heretical texts but couldn’t bear to destroy something so very close to our Brigid. I don’t know. In any event, they were lost in plain sight, in a manner of
speaking. But I am so thankful that you discovered them, as they seem to confirm what the keepers’ oral tradition has long told us. And I know the world would never believe mere words passed down from one nun to another for over a thousand years. As we saw when we tried to pass down some of the history to Giraldus Cambrensis more than nine hundred years ago.”
Alex was astonished by Sister Mary’s mention of Giraldus, the very same twelfth-century historian whose description of what must have been the Book of Kildare Declan had read to her only days ago. The pieces began to fit together. But she hoped that Sister Mary wasn’t going to wait until the completion of the translation to tell her the story. “What does the keepers’ tradition say?”
“Our history tells us that the Book of Kildare reflects the making of a saint and an icon—the Virgin Mary. It demonstrates the dedication of two early Christian figures—Brigid and a Roman scribe—to fashion a female image worthy of worship, against the opposition of the Roman Church.”
Alex whispered, “The life and letters indeed support your oral tradition.”
Sister Mary smiled a smile Alex would’ve described as mischievous if she didn’t know better. “But our tradition never told us that Brigid’s image of the Virgin Mary was based on the text that converted her to Christianity—the Gospel of Mary the Mother.”
Brother
,
So it began, my dear brother. So began the moment that changed all subsequent moments. So began the months that altered me for all eternity, as God alone knows. So began my genuine time with Brigid.
On that first evening, we did not begin our real work, our true calling, as we have both come to think of it. No, on that first evening, Brigid finished the abbey history, a vital prelude to our work.
What is this “real work”? I can hear you ask impatiently. To what labor could He possibly call you that would compel you to abandon your fidelity to the Roman Church, even if the church would trade Gael to the hated barbarians? Knowing your proclivities, I imagine that you could almost condone my disloyalty if it had involved revelation and consummation of my feelings for Brigid. I am sorry to disappoint you on both fronts.
Brother, I am loath to describe our work with my words rather than His, for I fear I cannot do it justice. Or for fear that committing our mission to parchment will somehow endanger it. Yet, for you, I shall try.
How the final chapters of her history moved me. I will tell you of a young Gaelic woman, noble and warrior-born, educated by tutors and
exposed to Druidism and Christianity. I will tell you of a young woman entranced by this Jesus but mystified by the absence of women in His world, when women were so prevalent and powerful in hers. I will tell you of a young woman given a rare, perhaps singular manuscript by her mother, the Gospel of Mary the Mother. I will tell you how the Mary of this Gospel—bold, brave, learned, and convinced of her special role—led this young woman to Him and secured her place alongside Him. I will tell you of a young woman asked to become a savior of her people—to preserve the Gaels if she could, or protect womankind if she could not. And I will tell you of a young woman who said yes.
That young woman became my Brigid, and her charge became my own.
Brigid came to understand, brother, that she could not shield her people and their ways from Rome and the barbarians. I fought her conviction at first, but in my heart, I knew she was right. It pained me, as it pained her, that she could not deliver the gift of shelter to the Gaels. Yet her people had entrusted her with another care: womankind. I became determined to assist her—in preserving some glimmer of her fading Gaelic culture, rough, proud, and imperfect as it is, and in thwarting Gallienus’s total victory over this land, whether he seeks it through Roman rule or barbarian domination. And if I could help her achieve this by helping her preserve and exalt women, so be it.
Yet we danced round and round the means to meet this exigent charge. Until our Lord showed us the way.
“I know I will not be remembered as I am, Decius. Strong, generous, bold, some would even say capable of rule and compassion in equal measures,” Brigid told me with a falsely modest smile and a wink. Then a dark shadow crossed her face, as if the hut’s light had changed. “This does not sadden me. What saddens me is that, as with all women, I will not be remembered at all in the rising tide of the Roman Church—much as Irenaeus’s Gospels pass over my Mary in silence, relegating her to a scant few phrases and ignoring her intellect and power as witnessed by the full Gospels.”