They found the books in the barn hayloft, carefully stowed within a stout canvas feed bag, lightly covered with hay. It was a known fact I liked to read up in the hayloft.
Unaware of the storm breaking over my foolish head, I was absorbed in performing my favorite weekly task dusting Mam's 'Imari' pattern china, lovingly displayed on high shelves in the dining room. At the age of 11, I was already hideously tall, and well able to reach even the highest platters securely. Passing each piece through my towel-covered hand gave me a feeling of closeness to my mother, thinking the bright colors and exotic pattern mirrored her personality. The red of the pattern matched her hair perfectly.
The sound of heavy boots on the stone-floored hall and the strong feel of threatening, malignant purpose turned me toward the door even before my father appeared in the wide doorway. Immediately behind him shuffled a smug Father Graves, leaning heavily upon his cane, and the two Graybeal boys, both wearing their usual asinine grins.
Father dropped the canvas bag gently at my feet, his face white with shock and controlled anger. I felt the fragile teacup slip from my fingers, forever consigning one delicate china teaplate to exile behind the teapot, pariah as it would forever be without its mate.
Unable to speak…to utter a sound…I knew there were no words to expiate the crime, no excuse, no mitigating circumstances. I had broken into church property during the priest's absence. I had then taken books that were not only considered beyond my intellectual reach, but some of which were outside of the Catholic Church's doctrine. Within the bag were 'Areopagitica' by John Milton, and 'Religio Medici' by Sir Thomas Browne, both forbidden by the Papal 'Index Librorum Prohibitorum'. There was also a travelogue by Lawrence Stern, and a novel by the early feminist, Mary Wollstonecraft.
Damning materials, nearly every one.
I would later find some comfort in knowing they had no idea how often I had committed this crime.
For months after the priest's attack, I had found my thoughts increasingly upon the rectory's library, and books filling its shelves…dusty and unread…far beyond the meager offerings of dogeared novels and outdated penny periodicals I was allowed from the village reading room. I became increasingly daring as the months passed and memory faded, walking round instead of past the building on days when I knew Graves was gone, and the sisters well occupied in the school building.
Careful investigation revealed the library possessed a recessed back entrance, a modest solid oak door nearly hidden beneath thick swags of the pernicious ivy that covered the south wall of the building. Surreptitious examination found it was kept latched but not bolted.
And so one moonless summer night I walked the mile and a half to the rectory, just as I had done nearly every morning in all my years attending the parish school. I traveled the path edging the fast-running stream that divided our northern pastures, all the way to the northern border of our land. The stream and path continued, the path rising upon a ridge, across 'open' ground for another half-mile, toward the village of Ballinhassig, until the waterway twisted to the west, going around the church grounds. The path flattened and continued straight, passing between the low stone rectory and the matching chapter house, which sat before the timber and tabby school buildings. Dominating the village skyline straight ahead were the modest twin spires of the Church of Saint Doimthech, the stone walled convent beside it.
My goal was of course the rectory, which was first off the path.
After spending several minutes insuring the library was dark, and that no one was walking about to see me, I inserted a slim piece of tin scrap in the crack betwixt frame and oaken door, and scooting it upward neatly raised the latch. Slipping into the dark library, I lit my small candle with a safety match, careful to shield the light from the library's long bank of windows. After again listening hard to assure myself that I was alone in the rectory, I chose several books, memorizing their positions among the shelves, and placed them with due reverence into the canvas grain bag I carried over my shoulder.
Relatching the door was simply done using a piece of twine looped over the bar, pulling it down until it dropped into the loop and then withdrawing the string.
I was in the rectory for less than a quarter hour by my reckoning. The entire time my heart had pounded so loudly within my scrawny chest, I would have been deaf to any but the most earsplitting of declamations; several times I had felt near to swoon.
Even as I slunk home with my ill-gotten prizes, I grew sick thinking of the return visit, necessary to return the books. However, as the distance betwixt the scene of the crime and criminal increased, I was able to rationalize away my fears. If I had to enter the library again anyway, there was a speculative fiction by John Wilkins I wished particularly to read, as well as both 'The Economy of Vegetation' and 'Zoonomia' by Erasmus Darwin…books I had decided against due to weight and space concerns.
Whilst thinking of the books I had found it necessary to leave behind, any cravenly thoughts of making this trip my last dissipated like smoke in a gale. I would, in fact, find it difficult to make those few weighty tomes I had last for the entire fortnight, and to discipline myself in the number of books I could safely take from the library at each trip.
I thereafter scheduled my visits to the rectory library on the Saturday during Graves' bimonthly two-day circuit throughout the county, weather permitting, leaving the house long after my parents had sought their bed and blown out the bedside candle. Since I frequently left my bed in the wee hours of the night, Beyvin, with whom I shared it, found it of no concern.
Being out late at night was nothing new as I had spent many nights watching the changing moon on her voyage across the night sky. I was familiar with the sounds of the night creatures, hunter and hunted, and knew the feel of each of the seasons, experienced by moonlight or moon-dark. My vision adjusted well to the night to a preternatural degree, and my other senses seemed heightened as well.
The fields and copsewood surrounding the estate house were as familiar to me as my own skin. I was not afraid.
It lasted for over a year. I was rapturously happy, invigorated by the new visions and concepts found within those dusty texts. My mind engaged, I seldom registered the normal carping animadversions of the internal chorus, and barring my weekly walkout on the priest, even my days in class were more harmonious.
It was the Graybeal boys who tipped Father Graves to my illicit entry of the library. While out hunting mice to throw live to their fighting cockerels, they noticed someone walking on the ridge quite boldly in the moonlight, passing their small, smelly farm. Curious, they followed and watched as I entered and soon thereafter exited through the rectory's library door.
They professed to have known immediately who the intruder was, and I do not doubt it as I had become terribly complaisant over the long months without event or challenge. I no longer felt the need to wear concealing clothing or even a kertch over my head.
The next morning at early mass I noticed their particularly gleeful grins in my direction, but gave it no thought. The Graybeal boys, Keith and Devin, had long been an affliction to the younger generation of the Butler tribe, and both had lately turned their concentrated attentions in my direction. I was the only Butler who presently attended the parish school, and was therefore easy prey, as I passed their farm each day.
My daily walk home from school was occasionally a panicked footrace for the first half-mile that I had, so far, won.
It was the eldest boy, Keith Graybeal, who terrified me, being 18 years and a large, spotty-faced bully, who still hung around the schoolyard as his cronies were all still attending. He had recently suffered a decisive set down when he chose to blatherskite my brother Caley, who at 17 was the taller and fitter man. Keith had happened onto the same pub on the same night. Coming up from behind, Graybeal shoved Caley's face into his mug of beer, and a very brief còmhraig ensued.
The younger Graybeal, Devin, sat in my class and was a frequent dispenser of spitwads and spite in my direction.
Their father, Ronald Graybeal had accused my father of being a 'godless Scottish thug'…publicly and often. He had lately become doubly offensive when Da refused to punish Caley for violently and decisively administering rough justice for the eldest Graybeal boy's unprovoked attack.
Granny Graybeal was a crony of Granny Muldoon, subscribing to the old bana-bhuidseach's view of my father, and by extension, of me.
It was no surprise my accusers were from that family. But I could not feel ill used under the circumstances.
Keith Graybeal now appeared very pleased with himself, albeit still staying warily behind the priest's solid form. Devin was looking at the colorful china shards at my feet, his mouth a perfect 'O' of gratified surprise.
Father Graves spoke, his voice oily with counterfeit concern. "The girl will come with me. She needs godly counsel concerning her actions and the affect they will have to her immortal soul." With a smile that showed every pointed tooth in his head, he glued his flat, shallow eyes upon me. I stared, aghast, as he licked his lips with a forked tongue black as coal.
Gasping, I flew to my father, and wrapped his arm in both of mine. "No…no. Da…I n-never stole the books…I just wanted to r-read them. To b-borrow them. I was going to return them…"
Graves chuckled, poking at me with one bony-knuckled finger. "And how would you do that, but by breaking into the rectory yet again! You, my dear child, are no better than a common thief. Butler, I must demand she come with me!"
My father's brow dropped, and he cut a sharp glance at the priest. "I would talk to my daughter before she speaks to anyone. I will then decide what is to be done."
Graves' eyes bulged at this blatant stab at his authority; hissing, he moved to step around my father within range for another grab at me, declaring loudly, "This child is obviously led astray by desires unnatural for a female of her years. Why, I am certain she is possessed by the ungodly, and will surely harm the other children of your house. I must ask that you reconsider, Butler. Let me have her…I would examine her for the insidious signs of demonic inhabitation." He thrust his face at me, grinning, the black forks of his tongue busily investigating the openings between pointed teeth.
Wailing, I threw myself further behind my father, away from the priest's leering face. Could my father not see the malignancy that the priest exuded, the true demon that he was?
Instead, my father turned to me, asking, "Why are you acting this way, mo nighean? I have never seen you so. I will hear what you have to say for yourself, but you must cease acting as if Father Graves is the devil himself!"
Patently shaking with terror at the priest's eye rolling, grinning visage, I stuttered, "Da…p-please. Do not let him take me. Please…?" Overwhelmed with panic, I pressed myself against my father's side, putting the barrier of his body betwixt me and the hideous form of Father Graves.
"Mmphmm." Turning back to the priest, my father firmly pushed him back, moving to block him from where I cowered at his other side. "My daughter will talk to me before she does anyone, Father Graves. I will ask you and the Graybeals show yourselves out." In the face of my father's polite obduracy, the priest offered no further argument.
With that my father grasped me by the shoulders and marched me past the stone-faced priest, and the slack-jawed Graybeals. I did not look at them, but allowed myself to be compelled forward, until safely sequestered in the estate office, a closed door shielding me from the infernal eye of Father Graves.
My father pushed me into a chair, handed me his handkerchief, and moved to stand behind his desk to watch as the ill-humored trio at length left the house, mounted the ponycart and rattled down the long lane that would take them eventually to their respective domus. After several minutes I was able to stop simultaneously hiccupping, shaking and convulsively sobbing. Still frightened…and very ashamed, I looked to my father, who was now sitting behind his desk, his eyes soft upon my wretched face, but expression troubled.
Dropping my eyes, I gulped, and stuttered, "I am s-so sorry, Da. I c-cannot tell you how sorry. The books…I s-saw so many on the…the d-day I was chosen to clean the r-rectory library, and I just…could not get them out of my m-mind." I sat up straight in the chair and firmed my chin, meeting my father's gaze. I did not fear my father.
"Books, mmphm?" Father's expression was not impressed.
Stung at the perceived disparagement, I stoutly declared, " And n-nobody ever reads them, Da. Why, there are h-h-hundreds of books…every one of the S-Shandy novels, and the biography of Marco Polo and travel diaries for Egypt, the Orient and Africa. And even Samuel Johnson's 'Dictionary of the English Language'! And…they do naught but gather dust, and grow mildew because the library is damp. It is a waste…such a terrible waste."
"Aislyne, they were not yours. Waste or not, you had no right entering that library and taking those books." Leaning forward, my father scowled fiercely, lips tight…but I had caught the slight twitch he suppressed at my reverent description of the wonders to be found in the rectory library.
I knew he would not allow the priest near me…he would protect me. The relief melted the block of ice that had taken residence within my chest. Springing from my chair, I flew to him, slipping down to kneel at his feet, hiding my face against his knee. "Athair, tha mi duilich! I am so ashamed. I knew it was wrong…but I told myself it was right because…because they were books…and nobody cared about them."
"You know better, mo pollairean. I know you do." His voice was warm and gentle, his hands upon my shoulders a comfort. The wonder of this roused my shame and set the voices to howling. "You must beat me, Da, so that Graybeal cannot say you are godless. I want you to beat me."
And drive out the voices that drive me to think of such things…
He raised my face from his knees, his large, warm hands firmly wrapped about my face, temple to jaw. "I do not concern myself with what Ronald Graybeal thinks of me, mo nighean. But you will be punished, I promise you that."
I could only nod my head, rendered speechless again by hiccups.
"No, I think a month of laundry duty and whatever your mother thinks appropriate should serve."
I hated laundry, hated the way my hands cracked and blistered from the hot water and lye soap, the smell of which still bore unhappy associations for me. But at this point, anything was preferable to facing Father Graves alone…to being in his control. Anything…
"Yes, Da…I will do so with true penitence in my heart."
"You are a canny child, wee Aislyne. But now you must tell me why you are so greatly frightened of Father Graves."
Looking up at his words, I found my father's expression unfathomable. I dropped my face and shivered. "He scares me, Da. When he looks at me, it is as if I am made of his favorite sweet, and he would…would eat me if he could. And he hates me for knowing it." I waited for my father's anger at my words, and the blatant insinuation thereof.
Instead he laid his hand upon my head. "That is an interesting description, Aislyne." I looked up at his words, to see his eyes narrowed in thought, his jaw set.
"Da…you…you will not make me go to him, then." My father's hands dropped to my shoulders, and his eyes again rested warm upon my face.
"No, I will not. You will not be sent to the priest." Pulling me to my feet, my father kissed me upon the forehead. "Now go present yourself to your mother. She will be walking a hole in the parlour carpet with worry. You are on your own concerning her teacup, but she knows there were extenuating circumstances…even if they were of your own making."
We exchanged solemn nods, and I turned to face my mother's heartbreak over her cherished teacup.
I mourned the books briefly, seeing they had been removed, presumably for return to the rectory library.
I was, however, so very glad it was over.
My father pulled me up behind him on his riding stallion, Draoidh, where I would ride 'aside' as was proper, with one arm holding tightly to my father's waist, and the other to the saddle's edge beneath me. The stallion's barrel and flank were toasty on the backs of my legs through my woolen skirt, and the warm horsy scent of my father's riding coat soothed my rattled senses. Grateful for my father's decision to spare me the long walk, I gave myself to the pleasure of the stallion's smooth trot as we gently bumped along the ridge path. Riding to school did not occur often, but whenever my father needed to go into the village, he would delay so that I could ride with him. I did think, however, that this morning he had trumped up an occasion so as to bring me to school.
I spent the entire night sitting in the heavy rocker in our room, so as not to keep Beyvin awake with my restlessness. The internal chorus was in full throat, having prognosticated humiliation and abject wretchedness all night, making sleep impossible until long after moonset. It was fitting the weather should reflect my mood, the lowering sky and chilly breeze bearing the promise of an increasingly cold day. My spirits sank further as the unmistakable stink of sheep and dirty, unkempt pens assailed my nose; the Graybeal farm would soon be within sight, now hidden behind an overgrown scrubby tree line. Saint Doimthech's roofline loomed ahead, those of rectory, chapterhouse and schoolhouse soon bobbing into view.
My father rode up to the schoolyard's edge wherein I carefully dismounted, knees together and skirts held while I slid down Draoidh's flank. I quickly shook down my skirt and straightened my cloak, avoiding the moment when I must look up and see who awaited me at the school door.
I was surprised when my father dismounted too, and first pressing me to his chest to set a kiss upon my crown, he placed his large warm hands upon my shoulders, and somberly looked down into my face. "Today will not be easy, mo nighean, as I am sure the sisters are aware of what you have done, as well as the other students. I ask that you comport yourself with grace and restraint, and accept their chastisement as your due."
"Yes, Da." I dropped my eyes, suddenly shy of my father's attention, my nerves stretching to a fine, internal hum.
"Aislyne, I believe your mother is right, and I have given you the idea you are special, elevated above others. Although it is true you have an uncanny mind, and understanding far beyond your years, you are also subject to the constraints of right and wrong, as are we all. You are still a child, and must respect your elders, and follow our guidance in all things. You may have forgotten that."
I absorbed the sting of his words…or rather my mother's accusation…trying hard to implement 'grace and restraint'. Nodding, my father gave my shoulders a tiny shake. "Consider today a lesson in humility. If it was indeed prideful thinking that compelled you to pull such a stunt as breaking into the rectory, then you must humble yourself before the criticism you will doubtless soon receive from both teachers and fellow students."
Gulping, I again stuttered, "Y-yes Da."
He twisted me about to face the school, where now several of those 'fellow students' including the hateful Devin Graybeal stood watching me from the wide school entry.
"Siuthadaibh, pisaeg!" (On you go, kitten.) With a tiny push, I was propelled toward my waiting Golgotha, and my father swung himself upon his stallion's back, and cantered off towards the village proper.
As it was the first day of the school week, there would be no class given by Father Graves and I need not see him, nor would it be necessary to walk out of the classroom when he entered. I took a great deal of comfort in this fact.
The subtle scorn and open ridicule from the other children attending school did not penetrate my shell of 'restraint'. I respectfully…and gracefully…dropped my eyes from the censorious glares of the teaching sisters.
Sister Boniface asked me to lead the Morning Prayer, something that had never happened, in all my years attending the parish school. I rose and walked to the front of the class, picked up the heavy brass crucifix with its eternally agonized Jesus, and began the 'Pater Noster'. Few students joined me, and alone, I finished it. I began, "Ave Maria, gratia plena…" without another voice to be heard. I finished with the daily benediction, "Dear Lord, open my eyes to your wonders, my ears to your words, and my heart to your love. Amen." Silence.
I looked to the Sister for further instructions. She stood looking out over the class, quite obviously ignoring me. I turned to replace the heavy crucifix on its stand, and Sister Boniface growled, "No. You will stand before the class and hold that until I say otherwise."
I resumed the position before the class, stiffening my spine and my resolve, the words 'restraint', 'grace', and 'respect' in my father's voice repeating over and over in my mind.
I did not know which was worse: those who openly vilified and abused me for my apparent contempt for my betters, or those few who chose to see what I had done as a laudable…nay, a heroic act of sheer bravado. It was, after all, generally known why Father Graves was also called 'Handy Graves' behind his back. Anecdotes concerning the cousin, the neighbor's lad, or that family who moved away with their suddenly ill daughter were common. Naturally, nobody admitted to having it happen to them. But it happened, and we all knew it, some of us more than others…
And I had broken into this fiend's library, which had to be the most common scene of his iniquity by virtue of its need for frequent dusting by the parish youngsters…and those damnable locking doors.
It was during the morning water break that I learned of this contrary view of my misconduct. While leaning against the single small tree allowed on the school grounds, striving for invisibility, I was poked gently from behind. Expecting the worst, I spun about with fists ready, and the young man's startled expression spoke volumes regarding the snarl on mine.
He held up both hands quickly saying, "Hey, I mean no harm."
After a moment's reflection I realized he was not a threat, and knew him as Jimmy O'Connell, one of the older lads who were in their last year of parish school.
Naturally I was suspicious, and remained watchful, even as he told me there were some who admired my 'bravery' and were vastly impressed a girl would undertake such a profoundly risky endeavor. Having said all that, he wished only to ask me, "Why did you want to go in there? I mean, if you wished to kill the old pervert, why would you break in when everybody knew he was gone?"
Startled at the thought of killing anybody, I quickly assured him, "Oh, no…I never wished to kill him! I knew he was gone."
Jimmy's eyebrows waggled as he absorbed this new fact. They met again over his nose, as he asked, "But then why would you want in there?"
"Well, it is a library, Jimmy. I wanted to read some of the books…that are in the library."
Sighing, he shook his head. "You really are a very strange girl, Butler." Stepping backward, he slipped behind the school building, to avoid being seen leaving my vicinity.
It was during the midday meal when Father Graves appeared at the doorway to the classroom, directing the sister to clear the room of all, "but that Butler chit". I had just retrieved my lunch pail, having hid it behind my cloak instead of placing it on the shelves as customary, fearing my food would be tampered with in some disgusting manner. Slamming the lid back down, I stood and whirled to face the priest. Speaking firmly, but keeping my tone as even as I could in the face of rising terror, I said, "My father says I am not to be questioned by you outside of his presence, nor am I to be alone with you at any time."
Father Graves' face flushed hotly, and growling at Sister Boniface, he repeated, "Clear the room, but you will stay." Stricken with fear, I simply stood as many of the other students filed out, but several of the boys lingered, for differing reasons. One of them was Jimmy O'Connell, and two others came to stand by him, whispering, their eyes troubled.
Devin Graybeal sat unmoving back by the large room's entry, eyes shining, taking everything in.
I raised my voice. "I cannot say anything to you without my father here."
I found myself clutching the pail to my chest, and looked longingly to where my cloak hung among the row of pegs across the room. I wanted to leave, but my father's words kept repeating, "Consider today a lesson in humility."
Shakily, I gathered what little fortitude I had, and clearing my throat of my heart, I said, "Father Graves, I realize I committed a sinful act when I…I broke into the rectory library. I can only ask that you forgive me, and I will pray to the Almighty daily for…forgiveness." I assumed a most humble posture, hands still clenched upon the pail. My words seemed to have frozen all in the room, and only the priest's loud breathing was audible.
His voice was a whipcrack in the quiet room. "Get out! All of you…OUT!"
Startled, I looked up to see Father Graves shuffling up the center aisle, his cane gripped high above his head as if a club, face red with rage. Sister Boniface grabbed at him…but he turned to viciously shove her backward into a row of benches and desks. "Bitch, I told you…GET OUT!"
Graves then turned back to find me frozen like a rabbit, still standing at my desk. His mouth opened to pour forth language of the vilest sort, calling me wicked names, and vowing to rain such abuses upon me as would surely kill me. Moving awkwardly, one foot still unable to bear his weight, he lumbered up the center aisle. There was absolutely no doubt who he sought.
I dropped my lunch pail and stumbled across the untidy row of benches, away from the path of the mad Graves, and upon reaching the end, headed for the schoolhouse entry, praying I could outrun his reach. My path clear, I pulled up my skirts and ran. A quick glance assured me the priest would never catch me, despite being much closer to the doorway.
A stride from the door, and my legs were swept from beneath me. I hit the floor hard, on elbows and chest, skidding completely over the rough threshold of the doorway onto the worn wooden step outside. Immediately hands grabbed at my jumper; someone bent over me, laughing, attempting to hold me down. My reaction was instinctive; I rolled away and kicked as hard as I could in their direction, connecting hard enough to illicit a scream of pain. Scrambling to my feet, I turned to see it was Devin Graybeal, his leg canted strangely. He was staring down, and his mouth open, shrieking in pain.
Graves roared incoherently upon seeing me back on my feet. Shaking so hard I could hardly stand, I staggered across the schoolyard and headed for home.
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