The Emerald Isle (47 page)

Sunday, August 29, 1999
Ballyshannon

S
omewhere a rooster crowed, calling me awake. I drifted out of a deep sleep in which memories of the previous day mingled with inchoate fragments of dreams. Sitting up, I ran my fingers through my tousled hair, puzzled by images of Patrick at the Shannon Pot, Cahira and Colton at Carnfree, of Lorcan the brehon’s thoughtful face as he warned the newly married couple that their path was fraught with risk.

The risks had not lessened with the passing of time. By choosing a different path than his family and most of the people in his village, twenty-first-century Patrick would face hazards too.

What had happened yesterday? Last night I had been certain Patrick made a sincere commitment to Christ, yet I couldn’t be certain his decision would stand in the trials of the coming day. The parable of the four seeds drifted into my thoughts. Jesus told a story of a farmer scattering seeds along a path. Some seeds fell on the path itself and were gobbled up by birds; other seeds fell upon rock and couldn’t grow because they couldn’t put down roots. Other seeds fell among thorns, which choked the plants, but other seeds fell upon good soil, where they grew and yielded fruit.

To which group did Patrick belong? Thomas Smithson had planted a seed in the fertile soil of Patrick’s heart, and I had witnessed an immediate growth, but I honestly couldn’t say whether his response
was based in emotion, intellect, or will. In the next few days I’d probably see whether the seed had landed on the dry rock of his considerable intellect or in the soil of his emotions. I’d pray that the seed of the gospel had taken root in a genuine commitment to Christ.

I swung my legs out of bed, stretched, and padded softly to the window. A chilly breeze had blown last night, but I lifted the window and leaned out on the window sill, breathing in the pungent scents of morning, heather, and manure.

I grinned as I heard the rumbling sound of the milking machines and the loud blare of the radio. Patrick was up early, but as I leaned out the window and looked toward the barn, I was surprised to see him in the doorway of the milking shed. He stood there, propped against the doorframe, his head bent over a book.

Bemused, I leaned back into my room. What book could be so engaging that he snatched moments from the milking to read?

I showered and dressed, then went downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning,” I told Mrs. O’ Neil, who stood at the sink. She glanced at me over her shoulder, flashed a quick smile, and went back to rinsing a stack of dishes.

I sat on the bench and helped myself to toast and eggs from the serving platter. “Are Taylor and Maddie up already?”

“They’re going to Dublin to look at flower designs,” she answered, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “’Tis stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Simple is better when it comes to decoration. But Maddie picked up some peculiar ideas in New York. She wants the front of the church to be totally covered in flowers.”

I ran my knife along the mound of butter and kept my mouth shut. If I defended the New York notion of a properly decorated church, I might alienate Mrs. O’ Neil. But if I agreed with her, she might mention it to Maddie, who’d think I was complaining about her taste in wedding decoration. The less I said, the better off we’d all be.

My heart lifted at the sound of thumping on the back porch. I
tried to appear indifferent and calm when Patrick entered the kitchen, but I couldn’t help feeling happy that he’d come in. “Morning, Kathleen.”

I tingled as he said my name. Good grief, I’d have to be careful, or soon I’d be hanging on his every word like young Erin Kelly.

“Good morning yourself,” I answered lightly, transferring my gaze to my toast. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He came forward with a book in his hand and dropped it on the table. As he sat across from me, I glanced at the leather-bound volume and widened my eyes:
The Holy Bible.

He grinned at my reaction. “I’ve been reading half the night and in every minute I could find this morning.” He folded his hands, ignoring the empty plate and the tray of food in front of him. “I thought I’d start reading at the beginning and make my way forward, but I didn’t get far. Already I have questions.”

“About Genesis?” I frowned, trying to figure out what might have given him trouble— creation versus evolution, the creation of man, or Adam’s incredibly long life span. I tended to think of Genesis as fairly straightforward, but Patrick wasn’t a typical reader. He possessed a questioning intellect, and there were a number of tough questions in the first chapter of Genesis alone.

He opened the Bible and turned a few pages. “I understand about Creation. We learned about that in catechism. But the thing that gives me pause is here, in Genesis chapter two.”

“What’s that you’re reading?” Unable to control her curiosity any longer, Mrs. O’ Neil peered over at us. “The
Bible?
What’s got into you, Paddy?”

“Curiosity, Mum.” He kept his eyes fixed upon me as he answered. “And reality. Consider this— in the Bible God said, ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’ So God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and while he slept, God took one of his ribs and closed up the flesh. And from the rib,
which God took from Adam, God made a woman and brought her to the man.” He paused and looked at me expectantly.

“So?” I lifted a brow. “If you can accept the creation of the world from nothing, why can’t you accept woman’s creation from Adam’s rib?”

“ ‘Tis not the creation that gives me pause—’ tis the
reason
she was created. Was woman meant only to be a helper for the man?”

Mrs. O’ Neil laughed. “And what else would you have us be?” Vigorously wiping a wet dish, she turned to face her son. “’Tis what we are, helpers. I’ve been helping your father since the day we married, and I expect I’ll be helping him— “She turned the catch in her voice into a cough, then shook her head. “Well, ’tis a woman’s lot in life, the helping. If God decreed it, it must be so.” Her face closed in a forbidding expression. “And you’d better not let your father hear you questioning God’s holy Word. Accept it for what it is, and don’t ask questions.”

Patrick gave his mother a quick, denying glance. “I don’t think God is afraid of my questions, Mum.”

“That’s right,” I added, hoping she would understand that for Patrick, this was no small step. “The Bible says we can come boldly before the throne of grace. And the Lord promises to give wisdom to anyone who asks.”

“Right so.” Patrick leaned over the table, his eyes burning into mine. “Keeping that in mind, yesterday you told me about women who left the traditional roles of womanhood, and God blessed their efforts. Anika took up a sword, and Aidan a paintbrush, and Flanna entered war itself. They were far more than mere helpers, Kathleen. I just can’t believe God would create something so lovely and competent”— his eyes clung to mine, analyzing my reaction— “and intend women only for helping.”

His gaze was so compelling I didn’t think I’d be able to answer. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I managed to whisper, “but I was thinking about going back to the library at Terryglass soon. I could ask Mrs. Sullivan to help me look for a Hebrew dictionary
and a copy of the Pentateuch. We may be able to find the answers there.”

Patrick slapped the table in satisfaction. “Marvelous idea. I’ll go with you. The library will be closed today, being a Sunday, but we’ll go tomorrow.”

The corner of my mouth twisted in a half-smile as I stood. Obviously, Patrick wasn’t one of the seeds gobbled up by wild birds. He had already begun to put down some serious roots. The trouble was, God seemed to expect me to be the gardener. I didn’t see myself as mentor material.

“You’re not going to make it easy for me, are you?” I asked.

“I just want to understand. Curiosity, you know.” Patrick grinned at me, then sniffed appreciatively at the sausage and rashers on the breakfast tray. “Smells great, Mum. I’m starving.”

I left them alone in the kitchen and went outside to work on a less taxing project.

The house was quiet the next morning when I came downstairs to meet Patrick. I knew he was waiting outside in the yard; I’d seen him from my bedroom window. Maddie and Taylor had stayed overnight in Dublin with one of Maddie’s old school chums, and the house would be nice and peaceful today so Mr. O’ Neil could rest.

I tiptoed through the foyer, drawn by the memory of a pretty bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Mrs. O’ Neil kept the bowl well stocked, so I thought I might grab a couple of apples in case Patrick and I got hungry on the drive to Terryglass. I paused at the swinging door, though, when I heard the sound of hushed voices in the kitchen.

“Maddie is the key, you mark my words.” The words were low and intense, but there was no mistaking Mrs. O’ Neil’s voice. “She’ll convince him to stay. If he truly loves her, he will.”

I backed away, mortified by the realization that I’d been eavesdropping. Apparently Patrick and I were not supposed to hear this conversation, but what did it mean? Maddie was the key to what? And who were they wanting to stay? Taylor or Patrick?

I reached the stairs, then turned and opened the front door, calling a loud and cheerful good-bye before I stepped out into the yard. Patrick looked up, and if I were a vain woman, I’d say his face lit up as I approached. Maybe the morning sun was playing tricks on me. Or— I was
trying
to be realistic— maybe he was just grateful I was finally ready to go.

We enjoyed the drive to Terryglass, and I was glad to see that Patrick seemed to genuinely relax in my company. Whatever pressures he felt at home did not follow him today, and he passed the time telling me funny stories about his flatmates in Limerick. I was pleased to note none of the flatmates had feminine names, so the rumors of Patrick’s availability appeared to be true.

Mrs. Sullivan looked up from the reference desk and smiled when Patrick and I entered the library. “So you’re back,” she said, her smile broadening when she saw that I was returning several of the books she had loaned me. “Were they at all helpful?”

“They were wonderful, thank you.” I slid the books over the desk, then nodded at Patrick. “Mrs. Sullivan, I’d like you to meet Patrick O’ Neil. He has a question about a Scripture verse in Genesis, and we thought we might check the original Hebrew to clear up any confusion about the translation.”

“A Hebrew scholar?” Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes flashed with admiration as she studied Patrick. “Well, we don’t get calls for the Pentateuch every day, but I’ll see what I can do for the young man.”

As Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from the desk, Patrick looked at me. “Will you come?”

“I’m going to nose around in the Irish history collection for a bit,” I said, pointing toward the rare book room. “But I’ll come out later and see what you’ve found.”

I had intended to spend only an hour in the back room, but I ran across an account of Felim O’ Connor’s latter days, so nearly two hours passed before I popped out of my cave and searched for Patrick. I found him hunched over a carrel, one finger pressed to the thick pages of a book.

I let my hand fall on his shoulder. “Finding anything interesting?” “Kathleen, look at this.”

Not lifting his eyes from the page, he shifted in the wide wooden chair as if inviting me to share the seat. Hesitantly, I lowered myself into the empty space and braced myself against the edge of the desk. “What did you find?”

He tapped the page with his fingertip. “Well, almost every translation says God created the woman to be a helper fitting, or suitable, for him, but the actual Hebrew word means something altogether different.”

“Really?” I leaned closer, eager to see what he meant. Unless I was mistaken, Patrick was about to tell me something that might contradict everything I’d ever been taught about the biblical role of women. And, being a woman, I couldn’t help being interested.

Patrick nodded. “The phrase we translate ‘helper fitting him’ is
ezer kenegdo
, but the Hebrew word
ezer
is a combination of two roots, one meaning ‘to rescue or save’ and the other meaning ‘to be strong.’ “His finger slid over the column of thickly printed material. “There’s more here, but I’m trying to abbreviate the information. In summation, the phrase
ezer kenegdo
should be translated as ‘I will make a power or strength corresponding to man.’ There is absolutely no sense of subservience in the word at all.”

Patrick sat back in the chair, his face alight with excitement as his gaze met mine. “Don’t you see? It makes perfect sense. God looked around at his creation and saw that he had created nothing to equal man. So he said, ‘I will make a being equal to him.’”

“Hold on a minute, Patrick.” I smiled, thinking of the brouhaha that would result if this doctrine were preached in Aunt Kizzie’s conservative church. “For years women have been taught that we are lesser than men, and that’s why we are to submit to them.”

“That’s what bothered me when I read Genesis yesterday morning.” Patrick rested one arm on the back of the chair so we fit together more comfortably on the seat. “From all I know of God, I know he is just, and it didn’t seem just for him to create one human gender
lesser than the other. Besides”— he leaned forward and flipped to another page in the commentary— “submission does not mean one being is worth less than the other. Don’t we believe that members of the holy Trinity are equal in power and authority? Yet Jesus the Son and the Holy Spirit submit to the Father.”