Death of Saint Ita
Saint Ita, the revered abbess of Killeedy Monastery, lies on her deathbed imparting final wisdom to her devoted nuns as they pray by candlelight, while a storm brews outside the stone chapel.
Setting
A small stone chapel within the Killeedy Monastery, County Limerick, Ireland. The interior is simple yet filled with spiritual reverence. The chapel is dimly lit, with rough-hewn stone walls and a low ceiling. The space is intimate, barely large enough to hold the nuns gathered around Saint Ita's simple wooden bed.
Characters
Saint Ita
primary
An elderly woman in her late seventies, frail but dignified, with a thin face marked by years of asceticism. Her white hair is sparse, barely visible under her nun's veil. Her blue eyes, though clouded by age, still hold a piercing clarity.
Senior Nun
primary
A woman in her late forties, with a lean frame and weathered hands from years of monastic labor. Her face is lined with both age and devotion, her grey eyes sharp yet kind. Her posture is slightly stooped from years of bending over manuscripts and prayer.
Young Nun
secondary
A novice nun in her late teens, slight of build with delicate features. Her fair skin is flushed with emotion, and her large, expressive blue eyes are wet with unshed tears. Her hands are clasped tightly in prayer, the knuckles white with tension.
Monastic Baker
background
A middle-aged lay sister with a sturdy build, her hands rough from years of kneading dough. Her face is round and rosy from the heat of the ovens, with a few strands of grey hair escaping her simple wimple. She has a quiet strength about her, the kind that comes from waking before dawn to feed the faithful.
Dialog
Saint Ita
A leanbh, this life is but the hazel tree in winter—bare branches now, but soon to burst forth with new life in brighter fields.
Senior Nun
We will treasure these words, Mother, as bees treasure the last honey of autumn.
Saint Ita
When the storm comes—and it will come, daughters—remember that even the mightiest oak began as a sapling bending in the wind.
Senior Nun
A stór, shall we send for the holy oils? The tempest quickens against our walls.
Saint Ita
Nay, let the heavens roar their psalms. I go to meet them with joy, as the lark meets the dawn.