Part 7: Sister Muriel, Betrys Reborn (Last)
Times in moments swirling, soul suspended
Tween clouds and sky, familiar voice asked of
Me, “Do you wish to continue as Sister Muriel?”
Thoughts of Betrys, Father Blàthan, Ireland
Home, Faeroe Island voyage. Gasping inhaled
Breath, I answered, “Yes, Mother Mary!” Sun
Reversing course west rising, east setting,
I awoke water-soaked, surf coughing at far-
North Irish isles, Betrys at my side, keel-
Marks of Norse longboat in sandy beach,
Shetland Isles, footprints out and back.
No arrows falling at our feet, dozen Norse
Warriors greeted us, swords and shields held
High, older woman escorting, shepherdess
From Sheep Isles, Ágausta she was named.
“Healing herbs we seek from Norway, our
Ship blown off course in northern gales.”
By fates or divine providence, they landed
On remote Shetland Isles. Open arms, they
Welcomed us, concerned for finding true
Course once navigating open seas.
“Tell them of solarstone,” whispered Betrys,
Gift when we safely arrive Faeroe Islands,
Norse future unfolding before our Eyes.
“We are both healers,” I offered, twin sisters,
One Christian, other Druid priestess, tending
To sick and injured in few words explained.
“In exchange for passage to Sheep Isles, this
Solarstone we offer, navigation on sunless
Days.” Austere islands to our left, we sailed
North until final land-point called Skaw on
Clouded horizon disappeared.
Three days and night sea voyage, wind gale
Blowing on the beam, Betrys whispered at my
Ear, “What happened to you, to us? Faint fiord
Memories I recall of your drowning death. New
Light visits your face and eyes.” Betrys hand
I clutched, saying, “Such light visits you as
Well. We both have been death-released,
Renewed life blesséd, reborn.” Miracles and
Mysteries of faith, I questioned not. Baptism
By cold-sea spray, first storm petrels circling,
This wave-plowing Norse ship of sail.
“Litla Dímun,” advised Ágausta, desolate
Rocky isle. “Here, seas are more protected,
Sailing not as rough.” Beneath furs, chest
Of medicines revealed, herbs, roots and
Bark, all of which Betrys and I were skilled.
How could I leave one ocean clifftop for
Another? Abandon fields and forests of
Irish homeland for trackless heights of
Sheep Isles? Calling of Holy Mother Mary
And Brigid, helping, healing Faeroe folk,
Fishers, shepherds in their time of need.
Poem of rebirth or resurrection, Sister Muriel and Betrys continue
their lives on Faroe Islands until called again to their circa 600 to
700 A.D Irish homeland. Thanks for reading.