very roots of the people’s consciousness; a yearning for times past, a lament for the lost generations of Eire’s people.
Far away, she heard the sound of the community’s gong; another single stroke, from the watcher of the water-clock.
Sister Brónach started nervously.
A full
Brónach compressed her lips slightly, realising how the Abbess Draigen disliked indolence, and looked round for the pail. It was not in its usual place. It was then that she noticed that the rope was already fully extended into the well. She frowned in annoyance. Someone had taken the pail, placed it on the hook and lowered it into the well but then, for some obscure reason, they had not raised it again but gone away and left the bucket in the bottom of the well. Such forgetfulness was inexcusable.
With a suppressed sigh of irritation, she bent to the handle. It was icy cold to the touch, reminding her of thecoldness of the winter day. To her surprise it was hard to turn as if a heavy weight were attached to it. She renewed her efforts by pushing with all her might. It was as if the handle was obstructed in some way. With difficulty, she began to turn the mechanism, winding the rope slowly, so very slowly, upward.
She paused after a while and glanced around hoping that one of her companions was nearby in order that she could request assistance in raising the pail. Never had a pail of water weighed so much as this. Was she ailing? Perhaps she was weakening in some way? No; she surely felt well and as strong as ever she had. She caught a glimpse of the distant, brooding mountains, and shivered. The shiver was not from the cold but from the chill of the superstitious fear that caught at her thoughts. Was God punishing her for heretical contemplation of the old religion?
She glanced anxiously upwards before bending to her task again with a muttered prayer of contrition.
‘Sister Brónach!’
An attractive, youthful sister was striding from the community’s buildings towards the well.
Sister Brónach groaned inwardly as she recognised the domineering Sister Síomha, who was the
Sister Brónach paused again and leaned her weight against the handle to secure it. She returned the disapproving expression of the newcomer with a bland countenance. Sister Síomha halted and gazed at her with a sniff of censure.
‘You are late gathering the water for our abbess, Sister Brónach,’ chided the younger sister. ‘She has even had to send me to find you and remind you of the hour.
Brónach’s expression did not change.
‘I am aware of the hour, sister,’ she replied in a subdued tone. To be told that ‘one must yield to time’ when her life was governed continuously by the sounding of the gong of the water-clock was irritating even to her timorous personality. Making such a comment was as near to rebellion as Sister Brónach could get. ‘However, I am having trouble raising the pail. Something appears to be restricting it.’
Sister Síomha sniffed again as if she believed that Sister Brónach was trying to find an excuse for her tardiness.
‘Nonsense. I used the well earlier this morning. There was nothing wrong with the mechanism. It is easy enough to raise the pail.’
She moved forward, her body language pushing the elder sister aside without making contact. Her delicate yet strong hands gripped the bar of the handle and pushed. An expression of astonishment passed momentarily over her face as she encountered the obstruction.
‘You are right,’ she conceded wonderingly. ‘Perhaps both of us can work it. Come, push when I say.’
Together they put their weight into the task. Slowly, with much exertion, they commenced to turn the handle, pausing every so often to rest a moment. Clouds of their exerted breaths drifted from their mouths to vanish in the crystal cold air. The makers of the mechanism had constructed a brake so that when the rope was raised fully, the brake could be applied in order that a single person could then take the filled pail from the hook without fear that the weight would send the bucket crashing back into the well. Both sisters strained and pulled until the rope reached the maximum point of raising and Sister Síomha put on the brake.
As she stood back, Sister Síomha saw a curious expression on the usually doleful countenance of her companion. Never had she seen such a look of wide-eyed terror as Sister Brónach displayed as she stood gazing towards the well-head behind Síomha. Indeed, never had she seen an expression other thanone of mournful obedience on the usually graven features of the middle-aged sister. Sister Síomha turned slowly wondering what Brónach was staring at in such a horror-struck fashion.
What she saw made her raise a hand to her mouth as if to suppress a cry of fear.
Hanging by one ankle, which was secured to the rope on which the pail was usually suspended, was a naked female body. It was still glistening white from its immersion in the icy water of the deep well. The body was hanging head downwards so that the upper part of the torso, the head and shoulders, were beyond their view being hidden in the well-head. But it was obvious from the pale, dead flesh of those parts of the body they could see, flesh smeared with cloying red mud, apparently not washed off in its immersion in the well water, and covered with innumerable scratch-like wounds, that it was a corpse.
Sister Síomha genuflected slowly.
‘God between us and all evil!’ she whispered. Then she made a move towards it. ‘Quickly, Sister Brónach, help me cut down this poor unfortunate.’
Sister Síomha moved to the well-head and peered down, hands reaching forward to swing the body out of the well. Then, with a sharp cry which she could not stifle, she turned away, her face becoming a mask of shocked surprise.
Curious, Sister Brónach moved forward and peered into the well-head. In the semi-gloom of the well she saw that where the head of the body should have been was nothing. The body had been decapitated. What remained of the neck and shoulders were stained dark with blood.
She turned away suddenly and retched, trying to subdue her compulsion to nausea.
After a moment or so, Sister Brónach realised that Síomha was apparently too stunned to make any further decisions. Steeling herself, Brónach reached forward, quelling her revulsion, and attempted to pull the body towards the edge ofthe well. But the task was too great for her to manage on her own.
She glanced swiftly to Sister Síomha.
‘You will have to help me, sister. If you grip the body, I will cut the rope that holds the unfortunate,’ she instructed gently.
Swallowing hard, Sister Síomha sought to regain her composure, nodded briefly and unwillingly grasped the cold, wet flesh around the waist. She could not help the expression of repugnance as the chill, lifeless flesh touched her own.
Using her small knife, such as all the sisters carried, Sister Brónach cut the bonds which fastened the ankle of the corpse to the well rope. Then she helped Sister Síomha haul the headless body over the side of the well’s small surrounding wall and onto the ground. The two religieuses stood for several moments staring down at the corpse, unsure of what next to do.
‘A prayer for the dead, sister,’ muttered Brónach uneasily. Together they intoned a prayer, the words meaningless as they vocalised the ritual. At the end of it there was a silence for some minutes.
‘Who could do such a thing?’ whispered Sister Síomha, after a moment or two.
‘There is much evil about in the world,’ replied Sister Brónach, more philosophically. ‘But a more pertinent question would be — who is this poor unfortunate? The body is that of a young woman; why, she can be no more than a girl.’
