Confessions of a Pagan Nun Read online

  “Cool, clear, gem-like precision . . . a beautifully written and thought-provoking book.”

  —Library Journal

  “The depth and subtlety of this document casts a spell upon the reader, bringing words to an ancient silence. Kate Horsley’s moving tale both embodies and confirms the power of language.”

  —Branches of Light

  “The story reads so convincingly as a personal journal that one may forget that it is, in fact, a work of fiction.”

  —NAPRA Review

  “This powerful little book is not for lightweight, fainthearted, or doctrinaire readers, but it will be deeply satisfying for many. It can be read simply as a compelling piece of historical fiction or as an insightful meditation on the nature and roots of sectarian conflict.”

  —School Library Journal

  “As a slant of sunlight illuminates jewels long buried, Kate Horsley’s novel brings words to an ancient silence and a living, vivid presence to people who lived in that time of great changes and estrangements we call the Dark Ages.”

  —Ursula K. Le Guin

  “An exquisite historial novel. The poetry of the language is stunning.”

  —Margot Adler, author of Drawing Down the Moon

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Cloistered in a stone cell at the monastery of Saint Brigit, a sixth-century Irish nun secretly records the memories of her Pagan youth, interrupting her assigned task of transcribing Augustine and Patrick. She also writes of her fiercely independent mother, whose skill with healing plants and inner strength she inherited. She writes of her druid teacher, the brusque but magnetic Giannon, who first introduced her to the mysteries of written language. But disturbing events at the cloister keep intervening. As the monastery is rent by vague and fantastic accusations, Gwynneve’s words become the one force that can save her from annihilation.

  KATE HORSLEY lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and teaches creative writing at Central New Mexico Community College. A poet as well as a novelist, Horsley has a PhD in American Studies and has published five novels. Her book A Killing in a New Town was the winner of the 1996 Western States Book Award for Fiction.

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  Confessions of a Pagan Nun

  A NOVEL

  BY

  Kate Horsley

  SHAMBHALA

  Boston & London

  2012

  SHAMBHALA PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  Horticultural Hall

  300 Massachusetts Avenue

  Boston, Massachusetts 02115

  www.shambhala.com

  © 2001 by Kate Horsley

  Cover art and design by Jim Zaccaria

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The Library of Congress catalogs the hardcover edition of this book as follows:

  Horsley, Kate, 1952–

  Confessions of a pagan nun/Kate Horsley.—1st. ed.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  eISBN 978-0-8348-2375-4

  ISBN 1-57062-719-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN 1-57062-913-7 (paper)

  1. Ireland—History—To 1172—Fiction. 2. Druids and Druidism—Fiction. 3. Woman—Ireland—Fiction. 4. Women, Celtic—Fiction. 5. Nuns—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.O6976 C66 2001

  813'.54—dc21

  2001020066

  For Aaron

  THANKS TO Mark Stewart for consultation on Gaelic terms and Celtic wisdom and to Michael Reed for initial editing; Barbara Daniels for a place to write; Ivan Melada for meaningful encouragement; scholars dead and alive; my teachers Jitsudo Sensei and Aaron Parker Lockwood; Father Roland Teske, SJ, for Latin translation assistance and Biblical acumen; Victoria Shoemaker, my beautiful agent; Sister Mary Minehan of Kildare and her sisters for keeping the flame; Carmel Hester of the Kildare Town Library; Joel Segel, dauntless editor; and Larry Hamberlin for being a stickler. And thanks to those of you who read to children.

  Contents

  Translator’s Note

  Declaration

  [1]

  First Interruption

  [2]

  Second Interruption

  [3]

  Third Interruption

  [4]

  Fourth Interruption

  [5]

  Fifth Interruption

  [6]

  Sixth Interruption

  [7]

  Seventh Interruption

  [8]

  Eighth Interruption

  [9]

  Ninth Interruption

  [10]

  Tenth Interruption

  [11]

  Last Entry

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  E-mail Sign-Up

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  OF THE LETTERS and other documents written in the earliest days of Christianity, few survive whose authenticity is unquestionable. Most of these were written in Latin. I give as an example two documents from the same general period as that of the manuscript presented here: the Confessio of Saint Patrick, written around AD 450; and the letters of the nun Egeria, who wrote an account of her pilgrimage to the East early in the fifth century for the benefit of her sisters in northern Spain or southern France. Gwynneve, the author of the text translated here, in addition to writing around fifty years after the time when Patrick and Egeria were writing, was near them in other aspects as well: like Patrick, she wrote in and about Ireland; like Egeria, she was a woman whose name and identity are not clarified in any history of her time.

  However, the differences are more significant than the similarities. Unlike Patrick or Egeria, who both wrote in ecclesiastical Latin (albeit in different styles), Gwynneve wrote in Gaelic, her native tongue. She was also literate in Latin and Greek, as can be seen in her accounts of her duties. One may speculate that the use of Gaelic, a language so personal and beloved to her, led her to give details of her life unusual in other texts of this time. Whereas there are ecclesiastical narratives that include details of the writer’s history (such as those of Patrick and Augustine of Hippo), most of these do so in the service of the writer’s conversion to Christianity, as accounts of the author’s sin or salvation. Gwynneve’s style was clearly influenced by these Christian writers and by Roman documents, such as the detailed and secular writings of those philosophers whom Christian scholars transcribed, but her tone was greatly shaped by the Gaelic tendency toward poetic imagery and emotional revelation.

  In this period, the church was nearing success in eliminating the many heretical movements that abounded in the early days of Christianity, including the Pelagian heresy, to which Gwynneve alludes, and the Gnostic heresies, such as the Montanists’ movement. The church threatened heretics with severe punishments, including death; that is very likely the reason why this document was hidden and only recently recovered.

  The manuscript was found in an excavation near Kildare, in the county of Kildare in Ireland, about two kilometers from the convent dedicated to Saint Brigit. (Saint Brigit was a Christian manifestation of the pagan goddess Brigit and a woman said to have been raised by a druid and converted by Patrick.) The original manuscript is in codex form, a number of parchment folios sewn together and bound in pigskin. Slightly damaged by water stains, it was discovered in a sealed box made of clay and iron, among artifacts in a well or narrow pit used to hold human remains, agricultural offerings, and other religious items. Accordi
ng to local folklore and archaeological evidence, the well had once been the site of a ritual that entailed throwing fresh hemlock into its depths twice yearly, followed by a feast in honor of an unnamed spirit or saint who supposedly gave comfort to the dying and to mothers who grieved for dead children.

  The codex, the only one found at the site, has been dated at around AD 500. As stated above, the original is written in Gaelic with a few Latin phrases. Where there is no equivalent word in English, the Gaelic term is retained. A footnote explains the term at its first appearance in the text; a glossary at the end of the book may also prove useful. The Latin phrases have been kept to maintain the original writer’s desire to interject them as exceptions to the Gaelic; again, footnotes provide translations. For purposes of clarity and flow, I have added contemporary punctuation, which was not in use at the time the manuscript was written. I have also made a modern distinction between upper and lowercase letters.

  K.H.

  DECLARATION

  I, GWYNNEVE, as inner quite uncultivated and the least of all the faithful and utterly despicable to many, appeal to Saint Brigit or the goddess Brigit, whatever it is her wish to be called. I pray that she, being the guardian of poets, will bless me with honest and strong words.

  I am what is called a cele dé1 near the age of barrenness, when a woman’s womb becomes useless and hairs sprout on the chin. I reside in one of a cluster of hives made of stone at Brigit’s church, a place of plain beauty but always cold and damp except in summer, when the wind is green. It is a constant temptation for me to pause in my work and stand outside on the hill to see the valley and the waves of hills beyond.

  I live and work most days and nights in my clochan2 with one waxen candle to light the parchment. I labor like an insect beneath its mud dome transcribing scripture, since I am one of a few nuns who are literate. I am fast at my work, for my teacher, Giannon the Druid, was an expert at the magic of words and taught me both thoroughness and impatience. I have just now completed a transcription of sciathlúireach.3 There are only a few more hours before the bell will ring for lauds at dawn, but I do not want to sleep. I do not sleep deeply or long some nights, but linger in a netherworld between thought and bestial images. The dead will sometimes speak to me. An agitation overtakes me. At these times it soothes me to write. The relentless thoughts about what I have witnessed and heard find some peace when I turn them into marks on parchment. I cannot keep silent about some occurrences and observations, nor in fact would it be proper to do so. It is a holy duty to know the truth and tell it.

  The truth has a volume much larger than one person’s body and soul. I am small both in body and soul but will try to be like the ant who carries many times its own weight. Those who read these pages, have mercy on me. Beati immaculati in via.4

  The cross of Saint Brigit be under my feet.

  The mantle of Mary be about my shoulders.

  The protection of Michael over me, taking my hand. In my heart, the peace of the Son of Grace.

  In my soul, the protection of all good spirits in this fierce and beautiful land.

  1. Cele dé: a servant of a god, or nun.

  2. Clochan: a beehive-shaped cell made of stone.

  3. Sciathlúireach: protective prayers from one of the books of Saint Patrick.

  4. “Blessed are those of blameless way.”

  [ 1 ]

  My túath1 was Tarbfhlaith, where I was born to my mother, Murrynn, and my father, Clebd. I can say little of their ancestors, they having been mostly unrenowned in battle, except for my mother’s father and his sister. Some have heard of them as Connacht and Flaev. He was a finna2 to the High King Loeguire, the chieftain who refused baptism when Patrick offered it. Connacht and his sister Flaev were two of the lean warriors who died during the five hungry years. My aunt, it is said, stood before her brother to protect him and was cut in the legs and fell. Connacht, revealed behind her, received an ax blow to the mouth, which severed his head at the jaw. Flaev lived for several days while the cruel hatred of her enemies, which had entered her through the wound in her leg, reached her heart and smothered it. The heroic deeds of Connacht and Flaev were woven into the songs our men sang at feasts while they beat the table with their fists.

  I loved the look of the men’s fists and the roar of their voices. I loved how the women at these feasts tore their robes and revealed their breasts in celebration of sacrifice and lust. For many years, I perched on my elbows beneath the feast table to hear the names of my grandfather and my aunt sung. But the lines of the songs were repeated so often that they became as common as straw. After traveling to other places, I learned how small my túath was. The chieftain’s hall, in fact, was no more than a hut longer than the scores of huts that seemed to have tumbled into a mud clearing beside the lake called Oille. I could not be so loyal and devoted a member of the túath of Tarbfhlaith as others, who were content to sing one song their whole lives and speak often of pigs and oats. Since I was a child, I have wandered far from my túath and even became fortúatha.3 I still have a place in my eyes for the strong oak and pine that embraced my túath and a place in my nose for the smell of the soft grass beside the furrowed fields. But my attachment to the people of Tarbfhlaith flowed from me slowly and steadily like water from a cracked vessel. Many feasts became contests between those who drank too much ale and accused their neighbors of pig killing or stealing, for our meat and bread were precious and not sure to sustain our lives, though a man or woman worked from pink light to gray light to provide one meal. Few were like my mother, who raised her face up from her food bowl to look at the stars or hear the lark go deeper and deeper into the forest.

  My mother’s influence never leaves me. I cannot now hold her warm hand, so I will tell of her character. In all the writings I have transcribed, there is no account of such a woman. I do not call her a saint or a hero, but a good mother who died at the beginning of the great changes, leaving me with an unredeemable loneliness. Let me honor her here in case there be no other place where she is honored, for she did not die with her head severed at the jaw, nor atop a large horse, nor in any manner likely to be lauded in chieftains’ halls or Christian manuscript.

  I confess here that my mother was not Christian, but in her time there were few who knew of the replacement of our gods with the three gods in one. She worshiped not God but what He created, and she knew plants well but not as a scholar. The tonsured men were not yet here to give the plants their Latin names. My mother knew them by their true names: fraechoga, crem, and birer.4 When there was sickness in the túath, many were glad to see my mother’s slender feet walk the mud paths between huts with her bundles of herbs. As a small child with limbs that seemed too thin to be of any use, I went with her into the forest while my older sister tended the pigs. My mother taught me to smell the earth she held in her hand and understand the odor of fertility, to compare it with the odor of barrenness. She showed me the brown, infertile circle in the forest where small creatures who live mostly under the ground pour out their spite in dark rituals of purification. She said to me more than once, “A soul cannot live with too much spite in it, just as a body cannot live on food that is too bitter.” The sometimes bitter creatures who caused painful mischief for us were the ancient ones who had grown small and were led by their queen, Bebo. There were still eruptions of the timeless and fierce fights between Bebo’s subjects and the great ones who also lived beneath the earth with our dead heroes. They still argued over stolen cattle, so long dead that even their calves’ calves were turned to dust, though these stories are still told at feasts and even translated by the Christians, who concede their power over the people of this land. But my mother spoke of the ways of gathering pleasure from a hard life, not of ways of stealing livestock. She was not ashamed of her beauty or to rub her hands with perfumed oil or to leave a feast when men’s war tales went on too long.

  Even as a child, as light as straw and hardly expected to live to womanhood, I had no interest in the stories of
raids upon various kingdoms for the purpose of owning one bull or another. I occupied myself instead with the mystery of places and beings we cannot see as we see a tree or a horse or a cup or a man. I could ask my sister or my father about the health of the pigs, but I went instead to my mother and asked if the forest were endless, if the stars were the eyes of creatures in the sky. I asked if my grandfather were sitting at a banquet table beneath the ground with his head severed at the jaw. Terror curdled the milk in my stomach when I thought about him unable to eat the fine food served there, meats and cheeses at every supper. Since then I have dreamed of my grandfather and my aunt sitting with Our Lord Jesus Christ at the Last Supper. In this dream he is enraged that his jaw will not close and allow him to eat, and so he turns the table and spills all the food onto the floor. My mother did not claim to know the condition of her father in the afterlife, nor what the dead suffered or did not suffer. She shook her head sadly when she could not give an answer, and she took my hand in hers and pressed it as though to shape it. She said once, “Stop your thoughts! Watch the clouds drift into different forms.” And I did so, giving her time to dig the roots that she used to put flavor in our food bowls. She was a clever mother who could give both to herself and her child at the same time.

  When a white flower emerged and stood bravely between the muddy indentations made by hogs’ hooves in the pens, my mother said, “Here is a message for you, Gwynn, that not all beauty is trampled before it can show itself among the pigs.”