Julia of Bunnamairgie

By Jessica Eden

The Black Nun of Bunnamairgie Friary, (Julia MacQuillan) lived in the 15th
and 16th centuries in Ballycastle, Ireland (known then as Margeytown due
to the proximity of the Margie River). She was called the “black” nun
because of the color of the cloak (habit) that she wore.

The nun's story unfolds as a present-day McQuillin (Cathleen) is
searching for her family’s history and travels to Ballycastle, to find
out more. She comes across Julia's journal and the story of this
beautiful young lass who is a mystic with prophetic visions. The visions
eventually have repercussions for her in Margeytown village. Her
benefactors, Count Randall and Countess Mary MacDonald, were
historically long-time foes of the MacQuillins but become her friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665502344

Jessica Eden

Julia is smitten with the older, Bonaventure McGinnis, who is the Bishop of the small friary. Her desires as a woman are put in conflict with her faith. Then, a crisis for Julia (stemming from her visions) forces the Bishop to step in and defend her, but also confirming his love for her. Julia is a woman of her times, caught up in the violent events of in-clan fighting and the northern Irish skirmishes against Queen Elizabeth I’s troops during their fight for freedom against English rule. While living a simple life as a nun she still can't avoid the political conflict, sexism, and dilemmas any woman would face at that time and place in history. The Bonnamargy Friary (present-day spelling) stands today on the road to Cushendall. Julia’s round-stone grave is at the entrance to the ruins of the friary. She wished it to be there so those who entered the church would trample upon her simple grave.

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Copyright © 2020 Jessica Eden. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/06/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0072-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1291-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0234-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

In loving

memory of Ruby Edna Rountree Scroggin

Dedicated to Alvin Scroggin

Acknowledgements

My sincere thanks to so many that gave me help on this project. I am indebted in particular to Dr. Cahal Dallat, JP, the Genealogist and Historical Consultant in Ballycastle, County Antrim, Ireland, who sent me a package of material that helped to put the historical data concerning Julia McQuillin and the Bunnamargy Friary (current spelling) in perspective. I am also so thankful to Danny Carson, who runs the Ballycastle web site; he made the extraordinary extra effort to go to the friary and send me back additional photos as well as library material on the black nun of Bunnamargie.

I must also thank my friend; Dana Ferraro, and her husband, David Taylor, whose father, George Taylor, was instrumental in providing information in the early stages of this book. Finally, thanks goes to my family: James LeBeau, Jeremy LeBeau, Alvin Scroggin, Jan and Ronnie Davis and Julie Scroggin (many thanks to Julie who provided her editing skills), Neely Lovelady, Trenton Davis, Tyler Davis, Sarah and Wayne Hibbard, Robin Sullivan (posthumously), Steve Scroggin, Rudy Rountree (posthumously), Aven Rountree, Lacy Rountree, Franklin King, and scores of friends like Katherine Park, Jan Peterson, Phyllis Porter and many others who were so supportive and encouraging to me during the writing of this novel.

Contents

Chapter (Present Day)

1    Cathleen’s Quest

2    To Ballycastle

3    The Irish Question

4    Digging in the Roots

The Julia MacQuillin Journal: My Soulful Journey

Initiation

Conflagration

Restoration

Pilgrimage

Deception

Celebration

Reaping

Suspicions

Rebirth

Preface

The idea for this book came to me literally in a dream. When I remember my dreams, they have always been vivid and with great detail, and so one night when I dreamed of my longtime friend, Dana Ferraro, who lives in London, she was standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean. In the background was a crumbling shell of a church. A man with blondish, almost white, hair had been calling her name in the churchyard, adjacent to this crumbling church. As Dana was standing near the cliff, she turned around . . . and then I awoke.

Two weeks later, I got a letter from Dana with photos enclosed. She wrote that she had recently been vacationing near Ballycastle, Ireland with her husband, David Taylor and her father-in-law, George Taylor. While the two men were playing golf at a nearby course, she had wandered off to some interesting ruins in the area—those of an old friary and churchyard, pictured in the photos she had enclosed in her letter. The photos depicted almost exactly the replica of the crumbling church of my dream . . . and I learned that it was the 16th century ruins of Bomnamargy Friary in Ballycastle.

Interested in this site and the history of the friary, I then did some Internet research and came across Danny Carlson’s Ballycastle web site. There, I learned about a nun who resided at the friary at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th centuries, Julia MacQuillin. She was called the Black Nun of Bunnamargie because of the black cloak she wore. It then became my passion to write this book and to tell the story of Julia MacQuillin, the black nun of Bunnamargie Friary. At least it is the story that I, with literary license, want to tell.

While much of this book is fiction, it is based on many historical accounts of Julia MacQuillin’s life, as much as has been recorded, and is intertwined with the historical background of the 16th century in Ireland when religious division, England’s attempted subjugation of the Irish, witch hunts, and inter-clan warfare were a way of life. Against this backdrop, a pious yet questioning young Irish lass, Julia MacQuillin, faces the same emotions and desires, temptations of love, longing, happiness, and fear that have been the lot of all humans, female and male, since the beginning of time.

A present day, young American woman, Cathleen McQuillin, is a descendant of the McQuillin clan and travels to Northern Ireland to learn more about her ancestors. There in the ancient city of Ballycastle (once called Margeytown in Julia MacQuillen’s day, named after the Margey River that runs through the village) Cathleen will come across Julia’s journal and grow fascinated with the personal account of her ancestor who, as a nun living in a friary in a small village in one of the most important centuries in Irish history, describes her everyday life, as well as the fearful times that shaped who she was and would become as both a woman and as a religious mystic.

Bonnamary5%20Flysheet-gs.jpg

Gate to the Friary

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Chapter One

Cathleen’s Quest

I knew from a young age that I would be persecuted for what, I believed, was a special gift; the gift of knowing things before they occurred. I didn’t realize the full extent of the vitriol that would come from others who doubted me, and my word. I was called a liar and worse, a witch.

I was brought up in Chicago in a row house with three families on three different floors. We lived on the second floor. As an only child, I didn’t have anyone to play with or to confide in. The upstairs neighbors were an elderly couple. The downstairs neighbors (the landlords) were a family of four; middle-aged couple with two teenaged boys who would rather die than give me (a ten year old girl) a glance.

My dad, a McQuillin, was a traveling salesman and my mom stayed at home and kept the apartment immaculate. I tried to tell her about my dreams the ones that ended up really happening but she considered herself a good Catholic, although she rarely went to church or confession, and didn’t want anything to do with what she said was of the devil.

I would plead that these were dreams, not real. But she would look skeptically at me, wanting to believe me. But, I realized she didn’t. I don’t know why I said they were only dreams when I knew differently.

When I did see any kids outside playing, I tried to join in and I would tell them scary stories, sometimes of things that I knew would happen. I guess I would try to scare them because they teased me constantly and I wanted to get back at them. One boy liked to pinch me to see if I would cry out. He said that witches don’t cry out if they were pinched. Eventually, they began to be scared of me and avoided being around me. That was fine with me, I told myself.

I grew up and learned to keep my mouth shut about my awake dreams. As an adult, I learned to mask what happened when I would get the eerily real thoughts when I’m among people. I have a constant fear that I might be locked up somewhere. I know that I am no witch and that I’m not crazy. I believe that God gives talents to some people that are not understood. Rather than being something that is dark, I can’t help but think it is a talent that can be used for good. As an adult, my mother and I didn’t talk much about anything, let alone these pre-cognizant episodes. But, recently, she did tell me that my dad, who passed away just a few months ago, had visions too. I pressed her for more information. She said, Well, Cathleen, he saw things like you did. I pushed that back in my mind too, like I did your dreams. I guess I just didn’t want to believe it and didn’t think any good would come of it.

I had to find answers about why I could see future events. I began a quest to find out why I had these thoughts that some called a gift and others called a curse. Since my dad was plagued with this too, I thought my Irish lineage might hold the answers.

The MacQuillin clan, it turns out, had some interesting ancestors that I traced back to County Antrim, Ireland. So, that’s where I was going to begin. I would show everyone that this gift, which is how I preferred to think about it, was real and beyond my control.

I was getting closer to finding out more about the history of the clan. I wanted to learn everything I could about them, not only for the purpose of knowing if my gift was hereditary, but also to write about it for the generations who had descended from this esteemed family. This was my mission but I was, as of yet, unaware of one event that would lead me to a particular ancestor whose personal life would overshadow all of the others and seemed to be intertwined with my own life in so many ways.

I had engaged an Irishman who advertised on my online genealogy site as a historian and guide. He would help me navigate the intricacies of communicating with the people of Ireland; though they spoke English, I felt I’d still have trouble understanding their thick brogue. As I waited to board the plane from Chicago to Dublin, my nerves were on edge. I hadn’t flown since before 9/11, and the thought of the huge jet lumbering up the runway, gathering speed, and beginning its heavy lift into the air frankly terrified me.

A light drizzle began as I went over the details in my mind of getting from Dublin to Ballycastle, a small, seaside village on the Antrim coast. I’d read on the Irish travel site that it was a quaint fishing village and was near the Giant’s Causeway and Dunluce Castle, the original stronghold of the MacQuillin clan. I was thinking of all the things I wanted to see and do there when over the loudspeaker, the attendant called, American Flight 189 Chicago to Dublin now boarding. Heading down the enclosed walkway to the plane’s door and already feeling claustrophobic, I said under my breath, Well, there’s no turning back now. I’m really doing this.

Dozing on and off during the nearly nine-hour flight, I woke fully just as the pilot was welcoming the travelers to Dublin. I realized that I had slept through much of the flight; thanks to the Xanax I remembered to take before boarding. The worry and exhaustion had taken its toll and I felt groggy and irritable, but I was glad that I had been blissfully unaware of the flight. A mental note to self: Never watch airline disaster shows before going on a trip!

The busy airport was packed with fellow sojourners. I wondered where they were all going and whom they were meeting at the end of their journeys. I looked for the hotel bus that would transfer me to Cassidy’s, the Dublin hotel where I would meet Sean, my guide.

I planned to stay there tonight and recuperate from the flight and then we would go to Ballycastle the next day. Other travelers, some German and some French, were being dropped off at their hotels, and I was anxious to get to my own hotel and lie down. Even with the sleep I’d had, the jet lag hit me hard and I was nursing a splitting headache. Thankful for a clean room with good plumbing, I didn’t even bother to unpack when I got to Cassidy’s. A quick beef pie and a strong Guinness in the downstairs pub re-energized me somewhat as I downed two aspirins.

Are you an American then? The voice came from a rather striking young Irish lad, with a thick accent, sitting on the stool next to me.

Not wanting to encourage conversation, I simply said, Yes. The last thing I needed was some brawny Irishman to distract me from my purpose, my raison’d’etre.

Aye, we get a few here in the summer but mostly we get the French and some Germans and Italians. Are you staying in Dublin long?

No, I answered as politely as I could. Just a day really. I’m going up to Northern Ireland tomorrow.

Yeah, he said eyeing me. I’m supposed to meet an American lass here. You wouldn’t be Cathleen would you?

Are you Sean? I said rather delightedly as I got a closer look at him.

Sean O’Brien at your service. He reached out his hand, grinning, and I took it tentatively in my own to shake.

I know what ye’re thinking. It sounds so Irish doesn’t it? But then you’ve got the ‘Mc on your name so you do. Might be ye having some Scottish ancestry, yes?"

That’s just what I was thinking, how Irish his name sounded and how much he looked like the typical, redheaded Irishman I’d seen on the streets of Chicago. He had sandy-colored hair with streaks of burnished red, and a porcelain white complexion that colored pink very easily. He was tall, with broad shoulders; quite good-looking actually.

Okay, I suppose most Americans, of Irish ancestry particularly, love the names, the stories, the beer, everything Irish, I said. Wanting to know more about him, I asked, What do you do, Sean, in Dublin?

I’m an assistant history professor at Trinity College, the most venerable institution in all of Ireland and a bastion of Protestantism, he said, grimacing as he blurted out the last bit. I shouldn’t say that. But I’m a good Catholic lad, proud to be there but … well … he stammered, I am awed by it all and feel a bit of guilt at the same time. Have you been to Trinity to see the Book of Kells yet? That’s one of the most popular tourist destinations in Dublin.

No, but I would love to see the book, I said with enthusiasm. I’ve heard so much about it.

Well, Sean said, It really isn’t just one book. It is a collection of books that comprise the Gospels and other Biblical writings dating back to the 800s. Sure, you can’t miss that Cathleen. Course, my subject is the ‘Troubles,’ which I know ye’ve heard about. Warming to his subject, Sean continued, For a long time, many young people in Ireland thought this war would never end. You know, because of emigration and the famine, over fifty percent of the population in Ireland is youngish, and in Dublin, under thirty. We just got sick and tired of the killing. But to put it in general terms, the Nationalists, which would be those in the Republic of Ireland, and who are mostly identified as Catholic, want reunification with the Unionists of Northern Ireland, who are predominantly protestant and want to remain part of the UK. But as I said, Northern Ireland has been under British control since Queen Elizabeth, I.

Although I had read and studied English history, I had to admit that I didn’t know a lot about Irish history. I felt rather ignorant sitting next to this homegrown, Irish Catholic man.

Sean continued, "You know many Dubliners don’t get up near Belfast, that’s for sure. But the scenery is enchanting. Do you know much about the ‘Troubles,’ Cathleen?

Well, I know what I’ve read about the Irish freedom fighters and the IRA, but I thought that was all over with now, I said tentatively, not wanting to look ignorant in front of Sean.

It is now for the most part, since the Irish Peace accord was signed in 1998. But there are still some, on both sides, who hold long-standing grudges. This struggle has been going on for centuries, really, since Elizabethan times. Ireland has always been divided, not just geographically but religiously between Protestant and Catholic. Those that are loyal to Rome and those being loyal to the Crown.

I kept glancing over at Sean to get a better look at him. I thought he hadn’t noticed my doing this, but as he downed the last of his pint, he swung around to me and said, You know, I am looking forward to helping you research your MacQuillin name. I’ve traveled some in County Antrim and I’m glad a yank lass, such as yourself, who can’t keep her eyes off the Irish lads, isn’t going to go prancing about in that part of the country by herself.

I worried that my thoughts might betray whether I believed he was on the level, if he would try to put the move on me, or if I should trust him. As if he was reading my mind, he said, You needn’t worry, Cathleen, I’ll stay in me own room wherever we board and I won’t lay a hand on you, I promise. He winked, and said under his breath, Unless you want me to.

I decided I could trust him and I held my glass up as we clinked them together to cement our agreement. I hoped I wouldn’t have second thoughts once we got underway. But after all, I reasoned, I had vetted him and he did know the territory—and he was a history professor, after all!

We agreed to meet in front of Cassidy’s in the morning at eight o’clock. I had a rental car but thought I’d ask Sean to drive, since I didn’t feel comfortable driving on the left side of the road.

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Chapter Two

To Ballycastle

The next morning, after a full Irish breakfast of eggs, potatoes, and my favorite, soda bread, as promised by the hotel, I half expected Sean not to show up. But, there he was on the front stoop waiting for me. He had a small bag with him and was eyeing me keenly as I awkwardly flounced down the steps. I didn’t feel as sure of myself as I tried to make him think. What was done was done and I’d just have to trust him, I reasoned.

I walked around to the parking area and opened the door to a white Volkswagen Rabbit. It looked like it would be comfortable enough for a few hours journey. Sean, I said, would you mind driving since you know the way?

No. Sure I don’t mind. I’ll try not to give ye a thrill hugging the curves, he said, showing a devilish grin as he opened the door.

I loved listening to his voice. The Irish had a way of ending their sentences with an upward inflection as if they were always asking a question instead of making a statement. Sean was a good driver and easily negotiated the narrow streets of Dublin, shifting gears and honking at slow pedestrians all the way out of the city. Once out on the highway to Belfast, I began to relax a little, and I could tell that Sean was a little less edgy too. We didn’t say much to each other. I decided Sean probably wanted to give me the luxury of just looking at the scenery. I was glad because that’s exactly what I wanted to do. The houses on either side of the highway were like the walkups I’d seen in Chicago except that here, they all had a little spit of a garden with flower boxes filled with beautifully colored roses, petunias, and daffodils.

Motorcycles whizzed by but I felt I was in very capable hands with Sean at the wheel. As the scenery began to change when we’d been on the road for several hours, he looked over at me and said, We’ll be coming up on Belfast in a minute. It is much like an industrial city but even so, every city has its own personality, don’t you think?

Yes I do. I said, thinking of the cities in America in the northeast, like Pittsburgh and Bridgeport, Connecticut, which reminded me in a way of Belfast. A light rain had started and I peered out the window, seeing the hard-looking and grimy city of Belfast with its old church steeples planted next to manufacturing plants and modern office buildings. The oldest buildings in Philadelphia didn’t date back as far as some of these buildings did. Sean, I asked, How old are some of these churches. Do you know?

"Aye, that one over there would be St. George’s Parish church