Brigid of Kildare (16 page)

“You have my gratitude, Aidan.”

For the first time since she’d stood at my side, Brigid looked at me. “Finish the Chi-Rho cross, Decius. When you have completed it to Aidan’s satisfaction, come to me.”

Brother, you are a sophisticated creature, savvy in the machinations and intrigues of men in ways I am not. What make you of this assignment? Has Brigid accepted my explanation of restlessness and deemed my nocturnal work habits a sign of diligence, well suited for her abbey task? Or does she doubt me, and therefore want to secure better control over my activities? I cannot decipher her meaning, and need your insight.

Whatever the motive, I rejoice at the access to Brigid. Her alleged heresy is the reason Gallienus sent me to Gael. I can see no better way of assessing her adherence to the church and fulfilling Gallienus’s objective—and surely God’s as well—than to work on this “abbey matter.”

I thank God for answering my prayers for another opportunity to serve Him in Gael.

Brother
,

For nine days, I fashioned and refashioned the Gospel of Matthew’s Chi-Rho cross. This magnificent Gaelic concoction, an ornately decorated composite of the Greek letters
chi
and
rho
, which abbreviate the word “Christ,” swooped across the manuscript page in a swirling mass
of knots, patterns, animals, and angels. I thought it beautiful, though Aidan sought more from my handiwork.

Nine days of gilding and regilding, nine days of reworking my brushstrokes, nine days in which Aidan grew increasingly more particular and more dissatisfied with my artistry. I surmised that he exacted upon me the irritation he felt with Brigid over her request.

No matter. I spent the nine days in the prayer Aidan insisted upon, though I entreated God not just for His assistance with the Word but also for His guidance with Brigid. Thus, when Aidan gave me leave to go and I stood at the door to the scriptorium, ready to walk the short distance to Brigid’s own hut, I felt prepared to do His bidding and strong enough to resist any sibilant whispers of Satan to the contrary.

From the relative brightness of Gael’s gray midday, I entered the cavelike darkness of Brigid’s seemingly empty building. As my eyes adjusted to a space lit primarily by candles and a few small apertures, I noted that Brigid’s structure could accommodate nearly four of my huts, as well it should, given its dual purpose of work and private space. Despite the larger size, her room bore the same minimal decoration as my own, but for a few critical differences.

A scribe’s table and chair stood in the center. Brother, you can imagine my surprise. In the Roman world and even here in Cill Dara’s scriptorium, women do not scribe; the sacred role of copying the Word is reserved for men. But then, in the Roman world, women do not preside over the Mass, either.

I tried to contain my reaction while I took full measure of the room, reassembling my composure for Brigid’s arrival. Only then did I realize that she was present; she knelt before a small altar in a dim corner of the room. She faced away from me at an angle, and since I witnessed no alteration in her bearing, I assumed she was deep in prayer and unaware of my entrance.

My confidence, so bullish on the walk over, ebbed as I stared at her. Though I could see little, only her bright hair and profile, I watched as she mouthed the words of a silent prayer. Brigid seemed so serene in her worship, so tranquil in her supplications, I nearly regretted my motives. Nearly.

Her stillness gave me the opportunity to study the room further.
Aside from the altar and the scribe’s table, the decoration was sparse. Only books and crosses sat on the few available surfaces, but for one oddity. A tiny sculpture, small enough to fit into the palm of a hand and familiar in subject, sat on a shelf. It depicted the Egyptian goddess Isis, positioned upon a large throne from which bison horns extended. Upon her lap rested her infant son, the god Horus. Brother, such statues are known to us Romans; they can be found on the ubiquitous pagan street altars of Rome, though banned by the church. To see such an object here, however, astonished me

“Decius, you have been a long time in coming,” Brigid called out from her altar, startling me to attention.

The chiding took me aback, and I stammered out an answer: “Aidan had much need of me.”

“I need to remind myself that the Lord’s timing is not ours, and to stop demanding that people undertake His work on my time. In Acts, Jesus said, ‘It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority,’ did he not?” She said this in Latin, without moving. Not for the first time, I marveled at her impeccable command of our tongue.

“He did indeed, Abbess.” In my nervousness, brother, I slipped back into my hierarchical Roman habits.

She stood and stared at me. “Abbess? I thought we had settled on Brigid,
Brother
Decius. Just as we settled on Cill Dara, no?”

Brother, I knew not whether to take her words as quip or admonition. How these Gaels confuse. “My apologies, Brigid.”

“You are forever apologizing to me, Decius. Without sin, there is no need for repentance. And I hardly think calling me ‘Abbess’ constitutes a sin,” she said, with a melodious laugh that startled me with its girlishness. “Sit, sit.” She gestured to the chairs on either side of her scribe’s table, and I obliged.

“I see my Horus and Isis sculpture has caught your gaze,” she noted, settling into the other chair.

“No, Brigid. I was merely admiring the tranquillity of your hut.”

“Come, Decius. I am certain it must surprise you to see a pagan idol in an abbess’s chambers. No?”

“It does a bit, Brigid.”

“I know the statue is exotic, even unsuitable for a Christian nun. But it serves as a private remembrance of a beloved Egyptian friend of my youth, who settled here after long travels and much persecution. Not as an object of worship. In fact, that friend is now as Christian as myself.”

“I see.”

“Does the sculpture shock you as much as the scribe’s instruments?” She gestured to the table between us.

“I am certain that you have many reasons—and uses—for such implements, Brigid.”

“God called me to the life of an abbess, not a scribe. But if my life were mine to choose, I would choose illumination.”

Brother, I sensed an opportunity for Gallienus and God to determine her purpose. I grew bold and asked, “Is that why the scriptorium figures so prominently in the abbey?”

She smiled. “One reason among many. Still, I wonder that you do not ask why I have all the necessary tools, since the scribe’s work is obviously not my calling. Are you not curious, Decius?”

Her tone was light, so I answered as she wished. Plainly, she desired to tell me the reason. “Yes.”

“I scribe the Word for myself, as a means of prayer. I do not flatter myself to think my skill would inspire conversion—and I am shamed to confess that my vanity demands I keep the results private—but the exercise puts me in a prayerful mind-set.”

“I understand.”

“I presumed that you would.” At this pronouncement, Brigid rose and walked toward a cupboard near the altar. Though smaller than the cabinets in the scriptorium, it mirrored them in appearance. She pulled a text from a shelf and returned to her desk.

“I have been reading a most excellent manuscript, a small Gospel book much like the one I have been creating for my own use.”

“The scriptorium has a most magnificent collection.”

“Indeed. Though this particular work, so beautifully wrought, cannot be found in the scriptorium.”

“Oh?”

She slid the manuscript across the table.

I recognized the item at once—the heavily tooled leather, the grooves on the bindings, the undulation of the pages from splashes of seawater. It was the manuscript I inadvertently handed to Ciaran upon my arrival at Cill Dara, the one formed by
my
hand.

“This Gospel book is your creation, no?”

I paused, though I know not why. No offense could be found in the production of a personal Gospel book.

She reached for the text, and opened it to the first page. “
De manu Decius
. By the hand of Decius. Am I wrong?”

“No, Brigid.”

“I am relieved. Otherwise, I would have summoned you unnecessarily. And, I suspect, subjected you to Aidan’s wrath needlessly,” she said with a wide grin. She understood her monks well.

I smiled back.

“At last, we come to the ‘abbey matter,’ Decius. I have need of a scribe. A scribe who writes script understandable to a Roman reader, yet illuminates in our Gaelic manner. A scribe blessed with uncommon skill.”

“It seems a tall order, Brigid.”

“Not too tall, I hope. I believe
you
are that scribe.”

“Me?” I blurted out.
Tact, brother, tact
, I can almost hear you sigh as you shake your head. You know I have an excess of reserve, but my natural caution disappears—rendering even my tenuous diplomacy and artifice impossible—when I am startled. Still, I try when I must, and this mission gives me ample opportunity to exercise the skills.

Brigid chuckled. “Yes, you. Aidan assured me of your skills in both, and your Gospel book confirmed it. You are gifted, Decius.” She handed me my manuscript, and I was glad to have the comfort of my old friend in my hands again.

“Thank you, Brigid.”

“I confess, though, this ‘abbey matter’ is not ‘minor,’ as I represented it to Aidan. I have prayed for forgiveness for this well-intentioned lie.” She closed her eyes as if entreating God once again, and inhaled deeply. “Decius, I ask a monumental task of you.”

“I will endeavor to meet your high expectations, Brigid.” Brother, I
can nearly hear you chuckle at my response and say,
Always the good soldier, Decius
.

“I wish to demonstrate to the Roman Holy See that this remote, backward island is capable of producing manuscripts of breathtaking artistry and undeniable piety. I want you to create the most magnificent Gospel book that Pope Simplicius has ever seen. We will inscribe this opus to him as a token of faith from the farthest ends of the earth
—extremis de finibus
.”

“Brigid, I am honored.” Indeed I was, brother. And I was simultaneously sickened at the duplicity that lay in my heart, though I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that the deception was necessary for His ends.

“There is more, Decius.”

“Whatever you ask, Brigid.”

“I wish this manuscript also to contain a history, much like the one we create for our martyrs. Although the subject is not a saint, and the subject is certainly not dead.”

“Who is this subject?”

She swallowed hard. For the first time, I saw that this was difficult for her, that she bore a soft humanity behind her daily show of hard strength. “The subject is not a who, but a what: the Abbey of Cill Dara. We will write the history of the abbey. I wish Pope Simplicius to know us Gaels for true Christians and accord us a place in His house.”

I must break off, brother, for I hear footsteps outside my hut. I will write again when I can. Pray for me, brother, as I need the supplications to our Lord more than ever. As I will pray for you.

Decius

BRIGID: A LIFE

The gold and silver chalice gleams in the candlelight as Brigid utters the secret words of transubstantiation. She admires its complex renderings as they spring to life in the light, and thoughts of Patrick fill her mind. For without his consecration and his instruction in the sacrosanct rituals known only to priests, deacons, and bishops, she could never have built her abbey or fulfilled the true role of abbess. She says a private prayer for his soul.

Though she has performed Mass in her church hundreds of times, nay thousands, the rite moves her still. She realizes the blessing of her position and the magnitude of her vocation. Ever grateful, she imparts the final prayer to her growing congregation with tears welling in her eyes. She is careful not to let them drop; goddesses do not cry.

As she returns the chalice and paten to its ornamental bowl, she watches the worshippers file out of the church, into the dying light of day. In the emergent shadows cast by the stone roof, barreled vault, and linteled doorway, she discerns Adnach. She is well pleased to see that the tough chieftain has attended her service, and with his brood,
no less. For where the chief leads, his people will follow. She smiles with pleasure as she tallies the souls she has fished from the waters of the old Gaelic gods, but then stops herself. To calculate the number for purposes of impressing the Roman Church with Gael’s growing orthodoxy is acceptable; to reckon that number for her own satisfaction serves only the devilish sin of pride.

Brigid hoists the ornamental bowl containing the chalice and paten midway to the ceiling, so it may serve as sublime decoration and constant reminder of His sacrifice. She looks up from the altar, expecting to see an empty church. Yet one parishioner remains. The worshipper sits at the very back of the room, almost entirely engulfed in shadow.