Evangeline Denmark
A retelling of the tale of St. Brigid’s Cloak
Our story begins at the edge of history, where myth and fact bleed into one another. Where the wild ways of knowing are shaped by new creeds and the people see in the sacred cycles the hand that spun them in motion. But there are still some who gather in moonlit groves to worship in the old ways. Still some who sacrifice against scarcity and dread the wrath of fickle deities. For one blighted crop, one harsh winter, or one spreading sickness can spell ruin for all.
It is hard to be a king in such times. Hard to know whom to trust when the world is shifting and power does not always belong to the strongest.
Crimthann mac Énnai, King of Leinster, could take no chances.
He should’ve known better all those years ago when Brigid, no bigger than a green rush, upended his household in the span of an afternoon. Her father, a haggard chieftain looking to escape his wife’s anger, stood before the king, half-heartedly negotiating a bride price for his bastard daughter. While they bartered, Brigid eluded her watchers, found her way to the weapon stock, selected the king’s own jeweled sword, and gave it away to a beggar.
He would’ve thought her a liar had the sword not been found in the beggar’s possession. He would’ve thought her mad had her gentle explanation not stilled the disquiet in him. Even so, he did not need a wife such as this. He paid her father off, gave the girl her freedom, and provided a position for her in the dairy, where accounts of miraculously replenishing butter and milk stores delighted the young and unsettled the old. Such plenty never came without a price and any household accident or injury was offered as proof.
The same Brigid stood before him now, quiet, uncanny, cloak drawn close around her small frame. “I’ve come to receive the gift of land,” she said.
Crimthann stifled a groan. “As I told the others, I have no land to bestow, no laborers to spare, and no gold to give other gods. You’ll have to build your convent elsewhere.”
She tilted her head. Fiery light from the setting sun stole through the door, overlaying the threadbare cloak she wore with a glowing mantle. “All these things—land, labor, and wealth—have already been given us for the glory of God and the care of his people.”
“And what of my people?” Crimthann replied. “My duty is to them and to the glory of Leinster. Good sister, if you already possess these riches, why come to me with your demands?”
She met his gaze. “So that you might see, and so that you too might be blessed.”
Brigid turned to go, the rays of the sun reaching for her like a groom for his bride, but she drew up. Again she cocked her head, almost as if she heard a sound the king could not. “If you have not land for a convent, then will you give me as much land as my cloak can cover? Grant me this and neither I nor any of my sisters will trouble you again.”
The king should’ve known better. He should’ve laughed at her strange request and sent her away. But he didn’t feel like laughing. He felt as he did on long rides beneath the stars, or at the cliff’s edge with the sea crashing beneath.
With goosebumps raised and innards wobbling, he said, “Very well, Brigid. I will give you the land your cloak covers.”
Long after the holy woman left, Crimthann remained alone in the gathering shadows wondering what would come from his hasty promise.
When Brigid returned, Crimthann went out to meet her. Though he’d told no one of their agreement, somehow the whole kingdom seemed to know about it. Everyone, from warriors down to toddling children, gathered at the ridge of Drum Criadh, where Brigid waited beneath the sheltering branches of an oak tree.
The sun had set and the whole land lingered on a threshold, tipping ever so slowly into purple-edged night. A murmur brushed over the crowd as white-robed figures joined the onlookers. The druids had come to see the outcome of the king’s foolish bargain.
There was no getting around it, so Crimthann raised his head and strode toward the waiting woman. Brigid’s bright eyes sparkled in a face softened by years and care, and again Crimthann thought of that day, many years ago. What if he had married Brigid? Would he be in less trouble than he was now? Or more?
“You will keep your promise?” she asked
Crimthann nodded. “All the land your cloak covers, good lady.”
She smiled and removed the meager cloth from her shoulders, shaking it out with a degree of ceremony that set the crowd tittering. Crimthann flushed. Why had he not just given this woman a parcel of land and been done with it?
The laughter died away as all attention centered on Brigid. The king expected a trick. Any moment she would begin to unravel the threads of her cloak, or perhaps shred it into scraps and toss them to the wind.
But she did neither of those things.
Instead she turned toward the fertile valley that stretched from the wooded slope to the shores of the lake and murmured, “The trees will provide wood and berries, the lake water and fish, and the land crops to feed hungry souls.”
Crimthann blinked. He swallowed. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He looked from Brigid to the valley and then back to Brigid.
“What?”
She clenched the folds of her cloak, smiled at him, and said in that calm, certain voice, “So that you will see.” Then she flung her cloak into the air. For an instant, the scrap of ordinary fabric floated before the king’s face. Then the cloth began to stretch and stretch, growing thin and fine as a babe’s blanket. It grew and grew, unfurling above them like the folds of a great tent. Brigid clung to one corner as the miraculously expanding cloak drifted upward and outward, increasing in every direction. The wind caught it like a sail, sending it billowing up into the dome of the night sky. The mantle was now transparent and shimmery as a dragonfly’s wing. Behind it the stars blurred into orbs of wavering light.
Crimthann thought he saw bright figures moving amongst the stars. He thought if he looked long enough, he would see all the way back to the time when his people came to these shores, and beyond to the land they left behind. And even further to mysteries he could not put into words.
He thought he could never tear his eyes from the visions behind the veil, but the gasps and cries of his people drew him back to earth
Everywhere slack jaws and frantic gestures signaled awe. Far down the slope of the hill, tall shapes glided from the forest canopy to gaze at the heavens above. Their forms looked human and yet they were not at all human. Whispers of ‘Tuatha de Danann’ rose around him, and the hair on Crimthann’s arms and the back of his neck prickled. The Others had come to witness this miracle.
Laughter and squeals carried from a nearby garden where a cluster of children watched as tiny creatures on two legs scurried from beneath cabbage leaves, only to disappear in the tall grass.
Astonishment turned to joy all around, and Crimthann felt the change deep within himself. ‘All these things have been given…’ Brigid had said. ‘They have already been given for the glory of God and the care of his people.’ Crimthann had no land of his own, not even a patch big enough to spread a cloak over. And yet he’d been given all of this, as Brigid had been given it, and his people had been given it.
Brigid’s wondrous cloak began to drift downward, bringing with it a crackling energy and wind that whipped the waves into white caps. The people stilled as the mantle drew nearer and nearer, all eyes watching the slow decent. Just before the gossamer cloth reached his head, Crimthann closed his eyes. It settled on him, feather-light at first, then with the weight of a fine robe. His skin buzzed with a strange warmth that traveled deeper and deeper until his bones hummed.
In time he opened his eyes to find Brigid’s cloak had vanished and the world as it was before. Well, almost. If he concentrated, he could still feel the whisper soft touch of the mantle against his skin.
The people made their way back to the village, to their homes and hearths. And many to the inns and taverns.
Bridget stood, holding a glowing candle he did not remember her having before. He opened his mouth to ask where the flame had come from, but she spoke first. “We will begin work on the convent tomorrow.”
Crimthann nodded. “You will have everything you need, Sister Brigid.”
“Indeed I will,” she replied. “Now come, I will buy you a pint. You’ve seen much this evening.”
The king’s smile was short lived. “Good lady, I’m afraid we’ve a shortage of beer in the village.”
The light from Brigid’s flame twinkled in her eyes. “Not to worry, Crimthann mac Énnai. Wait till you see what I can do with only a cup of water.”
