Way up at the other end of the room, Abbot Pátraic stood next to a long table draped in white. The table held a golden cross and several other items, but she couldn’t make out the details from where she stood. She took her place in the back row, searching the faces for her family or anyone else she might recognize.
The song ended and the deadening silence lengthened, becoming oppressive. The Abbot spoke into the emptiness, breaking the spell.
He spoke in the other language, intoning his words with a practiced rhythm. Clíodhna glanced at more faces. None of the surrounding people looked familiar. How had she been gone so long? Twenty winters didn’t change people so much. She should be able to recognize the younger selves within their older bodies. Yet so many people had crowded within the walls, twice the population of the village twenty winters before.
A flash of pale blonde hair streaked with white made her steady her gaze and, stripping away the winters in her imagination, she smiled. Ita! She must speak to her old friend when the service finished.
Far on the other end of the room, Pátraic stepped back, and another monk came forward. He spoke his words, this time in their own language, and told a story about three strangers who had come to a village in search of help. No one would help them, each one turning the strangers away from their doors. Someone welcomed the strangers into their homes, offering to feed them and wash their feet.
Once their hosts made the strangers comfortable, the visitors revealed themselves as angels, and commended their host for offering hospitality.
When he finished his story, the monk clasped his hands together. “So always welcome strangers into your home, for you may welcome angels, unbeknownst to you.”
Since this custom fit in with her own culture’s honor of welcoming guests, Clíodhna approved of both the story and its message. While caring for others in hopes of a potential reward didn’t have the same honor as caring for others because it was the right thing to do, some people required more incentive.
Perhaps Clíodhna had come home at a propitious time, just after the church reminded the village to welcome strangers into their home. It seemed odd being a stranger in her own home. But this wasn’t her home, not any longer. Perhaps it would become so again, but not yet.
When the service finished, she sought her own family first. She tried to glimpse Mugain’s red hair, but found Rumann’s scowling face. She made her way through the crowd to stand next to her son, who stared at someone else.
A hand on her shoulder made her turn to see Odhrán’s ice-blue eyes staring at her with wide wonder. “Clíodhna? Can it be you? Merciful Mother!” He touched his forehead, chest, then each shoulder.
She took in a shuddering breath and let it out again. He’d aged since she saw him last, even at the battle. His beard had fetching gray streaks at the edges of his mouth and his hair… his hair had disappeared. No curly fringe around the edges, but a flawless shiny dome from ear to ear. She smiled and dared to touch the smooth skin.
He gave her a rueful grin, showing his dimple. “Yes, my hair. A vanity of my youth. I held on to my rapidly retreating locks for many seasons, only shaving the tonsure required of the church, but that time has passed. They call me Maol Odhrán now, after my bald head.” He rubbed the back of his skull.
“Clíodhna? Clíodhna, is that you? How can it be?” She turned at Ita’s voice, wavering from either age or incredulity.
Odhrán gripped her shoulder. “I must go. We shall chat again? Come visit me in the gardens.”
With a hasty nod to the monk, she turned and clasped Ita into a hug. Her friend’s bones seemed thin and brittle. Clíodhna pulled back, studying the changes in her face. “Ah, how I’ve missed you, my friend.”
Ita narrowed her eyes. “The real Clíodhna wouldn’t have said such a thing.”
Chuckling, Clíodhna shrugged. “We all change a bit with the seasons, Ita. How is your family? How is Aileran? Have you been faring well? And has this village doubled in size or is there some festival I’m not aware of?”
Ita glanced over her shoulder at the thinning crowd. A knot of people congregated around the Abbot, but most had disappeared to their own homes. “It’s difficult to adjust to so many people, that’s true enough. We’ve been getting more people as the abbey grew. Aileran… I need to tell you about Aileran. But not here.”
Clíodhna’s stomach knotted as Ita spoke.
“At first, craftsmen working on the buildings came, then tanners and weavers to provide them with clothing. Chandlers, coopers, all manner of tradesmen followed the work to this place. They brought their families and cleared some forest for their farms.”
“They’ve cleared the forest?” Clíodhna glanced around as if she’d missed this huge change, but the woods nearby still stood, albeit somewhat changed with the seasons.
“Not here, but on the other side of the village, along the river. Your side is still pristine, but they’ve cut down the trees on the other bank. The river water has been fouled now and then, too, with the waste from the tannery. They were kind enough to set up operations downstream, but it still stinks.”
Clíodhna couldn’t stop grinning at her friend and her face ached. She pulled Ita away from the people still milling around the hall door. “Can we go somewhere and talk? I’ve been away so long. What’s been happening here? I’m staying with my son, Rumann, but—”
“What? Rumann’s your son? I had no idea! Donn told Mugain and Rumann to move in there when he left. I think he still had guilt over breaking off their engagement. When did you
