“On this side of that mountain,” said Gara, “stands a cave. Inside that cave, if I understand my new faith, lives a great force of evil.”
“And who might he be?” said Patrick.
“He’s been living there for some time,” says Gara. “He makes all kinds of mischief among the populace. Murder and thievery and assault and”—he lowered his voice—“difficulties with ladies and so forth. He makes bad liquor, he cheats at gambling, slaughters animals at night, destroys crops in the fields.”
Patrick said, “He’ll flee before the word of God. I’ll confront him.”
“As you go,” said Gara, “take one of my musicians with you. My drummer—you’ll find him helpful.”
I want you to stop for a moment and fix that picture in your minds. The year is four hundred and forty Anno Domini; the sky is blue; the river ripples by. In the middle of this circular fort, standing in front of his rectangular house with its thatched roof, stands a man of about fifty years old. He has a shrewd face, now soft with emotion. Beside him stands his wife, a handsome woman with blond hair that’s turning gray; nearby, his married daughter, her husband, and their two children, and all around them, men and women and children, the farm stewards, the servants, and their families.
They’re all wearing more or less the same type of clothing—a tunic of linen that comes down as far as the knee and a pair of sandals, made by the simple expedient of cutting out a foot-shaped piece of leather and making eyelets in it for laces or thongs that tie around the leg. Were it a harsher day, most of them would also have been wearing a large, square, woolen cloak, big enough to wrap many times around the upper body and fastened with a great ornamental pin—I’m sure you’ve all seen pictures of the Tara Brooch. If you haven’t, it’s a very big pin attached to the back of a jeweled circle.
Patrick was similarly dressed. Ever since he had been a shepherd, he felt the cold and tended to wear a longer tunic than most, and so, winter and summer, hail, rain, or snow, he wore a cloak. His garments, like those of many missionaries, tended to be white, and his followers had begun to copy the way he dressed.
And there they all stood, Gara’s household and Patrick’s retinue, talking and laughing and rejoicing. Finally, after many good-byes and promises to return, the travelers left the house of Gara. Well fed, laden with new provisions, and with good wishes hanging in the air like sweet little white clouds above their heads, they felt powerful and brave. So they should have; they were traveling in the company of one of the most interesting and successful men the world had known up to that point.
Consider for a moment the challenges Patrick had overcome. Kidnapped at sixteen; made to work as a slave in conditions foreign to him in every sense; a daring escaper whose voyage to freedom must have been full of hardship—yet he came back to the land that had kidnapped and abused him, to bring it what he believed was the greatest salvation ever.
That was some man. So what if he was a little bad-tempered? So what if he fell asleep too easily after a mug of ale? So what if he could be rude and unfeeling? This was a man among men, devoted to the cause he had taken up and for whom no hardship was too great. And remember, he was also a man who found time to write as he traveled the road. It’s no wonder Ireland took to heart what he had to say. And he brought us into contact with a wider sensibility, with European religion and the Middle Eastern mysticism of the early church, in a way that had never happened before.
The roads in Ireland at that time were no more than drovers’ trails. As advised by Gara, Patrick and his followers headed due south. Knowing a great deal of the enemy ahead, that is to say, being highly aware of the nature of evil, Patrick sent many of his supporters scattering in all directions, looking for reinforcements. They arranged to meet two days later, about half a day north of the infamous cave.
In the meantime, Patrick strode on with the few people left to him, and he ate well and he drank well, and they all prayed and sang, sleeping under the stars, wrapped in their cloaks. Next morning, the people in the fields waved to them as they walked by; some, it was said, even laid down their tools and joined the march.
The two days passed like two hours, and at the appointed moment Patrick climbed a small hill. To the south of him sat the mountain Gara had described, flat as a table. A little to the west of it, and much nearer, a small clump of rocks, topped by a little grove of trees, stood out in the landscape. From Gara’s description, Patrick knew this must be the devil’s cave. And, as he looked at it, shading his eyes against the sun, he could see smoke rising.
Patrick turned away, his lips grim as a whip. But then he started in surprise. Bearing down behind him, across the open plain, came crowds and crowds of people, divided into bands as orderly as the regiments of an army, each group led by one of Patrick’s followers. He couldn’t count how many people—maybe a thousand.
He thrilled to this sight; this crowd was beyond anything he expected. They’d all heard of Patrick, accepted the invitation from his followers, and they determined to make the whole business memorable. Therefore they had dressed in their finest, and in Ireland of those times their finest amounted to something wonderful.
Linen tunics of red and green and violet and orange, and woolen cloaks of heliotrope and vermilion—colors like pretty girls—waved and shimmered in the distance like beautiful visions.
Some men played pipes and drums; the others danced along to the music. It was an army of jollity spread out across the countryside like a great, wide, sweet, colorful tide. They laughed when they weren’t singing, and they sang when they weren’t laughing, and they had only one aim in their souls—to support Patrick, to be as good and helpful and cheerful as any people could ever be on the face of this earth.
When he saw this crowd coming to help him, the tears shone like diamonds in Patrick’s eyes. He waited on the little hillock until they reached him, and then each of his own people, one by one, left the group they were leading and came across to Patrick. They all said the same thing to him, as if they had rehearsed it.
“We’ve gathered these people who want to help. And afterward they want to hear the word of God from you.”
“And indeed they will,” said Patrick. “They can be sure of that. I won’t preach to them just now because I need to conserve my strength. But tell them that I’ll address them after I have dealt with this vile creature.”
“Do you want us to help in any way?”
“Let’s march closer,” said Patrick. “But only I and I alone will approach the cave.”
They set out, Patrick at the head of this wonderful throng. And the people in all their finery loved walking after this famous man as he strode out across the country under the clear blue sky.
Patrick assumed the demon to be Satan himself, and he knew as much as any man on earth about the adversary facing him. But he didn’t know three crucial things.
First he had no idea what the Devil looked like. He had heard that the Prince of Darkness changed his shape as often as he wished. Secondly, he had no measure of how powerful Satan might prove face-to-face, or what force his powers could rise to. And thirdly, he didn’t quite know how to drive him out of Ireland. But Patrick had learned to depend on himself since the day he was kidnapped into slavery, and he had no doubt that he’d cope with this too.
They reached their destination quite soon, and Patrick observed that as they drew closer to the black cloud, the musicians in the multitude behind him stopped playing, one after another. The singers fell quiet too, and soon all he could hear was the swish-swish of people’s legs walking fast through the grass to keep up with him.
Now he began to observe something else. The black cloud spread wider and farther than he thought, and as they reached the wisps at the edge of it, people behind him started to cough. Patrick himself coughed, and then the smell hit his nostrils—as foul as a boneyard set on fire with manure, the worst smell in the world, the smell of hell itself.
Patrick turned to face his followers.
; “Go back,” he said. “Go back until you can’t smell this anymore.”
All turned and retreated. Except one woman; she ran forward and handed Patrick a little bundle, a cloth package in blue pleated linen, all neatly wrapped. Patrick took it.
“Hold it to your nose, sir,” said the girl, lovely as a smile.
It smelled of flowers from a meadow. Patrick thanked her. Turning, he headed for the cave, the little package pressed to his nose. It took him about five minutes to get there, because—a curious thing—the ground grew rockier and rockier on the way, although from the distance it had looked smooth to the eye. Soon he stood at the edge of the copse; he could see the mouth of the cave and, deep within, the glow of a fire. The smell, even through the nosegay, almost made him drop.
But there he stood, this noble, upright man with his white beard, his staff in one hand, and the blue linen package pressed to his nose.
A noise just ahead, at about the height of his right knee, disturbed Patrick. Then he heard another noise, at about the height of his left knee. He looked carefully. In the shadows he saw what he first thought to be two sticks or very thick reeds, except that they were weaving and swaying, over and hither, in the air. He took a step forward, and one of them made a louder noise—a real, vicious hiss, and a rattle to follow it.
They weren’t reeds or sticks—they were snakes! A pair of big black snakes guarded the cave, and when anyone drew near, they rose in the air as though a snake charmer played his pipe. Their venom could kill a man, and they could spit it thirty yards and more.
Patrick stood stock-still to get his fear under control. There’s nothing braver than a man who knows fear and conquers it. Taking a deep breath, he poked his long staff forward, and the first snake struck at it. With a fast circular whip of his staff, Patrick coiled the snake around the stick and slammed it down on the ground. He jammed his foot down on the snake’s face and then grabbed the reptile just behind the head, a tight and close grip to avoid being bitten on the hand.
Patrick picked the snake up in the air—a difficult thing to do, this was a heavy snake, five feet long and five inches thick. Like a man using a slingshot, he whirled and whirled and whirled the snake over his head and flung it as far as he could out into the open country. The snake flew through the air like a black, flying coil. It landed on a rock and broke its head.
While all this was going on, the second snake darted over at Patrick, twice as menacing as the first. He spat—a mouthful of green venom like a little missile hurtling through the dark air. It missed, and Patrick caught him too, and flung him farther and in a different direction. The serpent went higher and higher in the sky, so high that he looked like a black circle spinning and wheeling, and then he landed with a crash.
But he didn’t land on his head, and therefore he didn’t die. He scuttled across the countryside, headed for the port of Wexford, sneaked on board a ship, got away from Ireland, and spread the word that no snake should ever come here; it was too dangerous. And there have never been snakes in Ireland since that day.
Patrick stepped forward to the mouth of the cave. He peered in but could see nothing. Suddenly a voice greeted him, a well-spoken voice, a little trace of a strange accent, but an educated speech—this was someone well traveled. The voice spoke in Latin, but I’ll translate it for you.
“You shouldn’t abuse the property of others.”
“Well, you know all about that,” said Patrick, stepping in a little farther until he all but blocked the mouth of the cave.
“I know who you are.”
“And I know who you are,” said Patrick.
“But you have only one name and a dull name at that. I have many names, all of them exciting.”
“I need no more than one name,” said Patrick, “I have nothing to hide.”
“In that case, I pity you. Life is more interesting my way.”
“Out! Come on!” said Patrick. “Go! You cause nothing but trouble.”
He tried to step inside the cave, but something stopped him. It felt like a barrier that he couldn’t see, and yet he also felt as though some force held him back from behind.
But he could now see everything inside the cave; it was a lavish place, hung with all manner of beautiful cloths. He could see nobody inside, and yet the voice came from straight ahead.
“Do come in,” said the drawling tone again. “Or d’you feel incapable?”
“I’m never impressed by tricks,” said Patrick.
“This is no trick—this is power. Don’t you know the difference between trickery and power?”
“I’ve no interest in such matters,” said Patrick. “My concerns lie in making the good defeat the bad, in giving the sacred its rightful power over the profane.”
“You know who I was. You know the kind of power I had.”
“Yes,” said Patrick. “You’re the angel who fell, the one God threw out. God in his wisdom, I might add.”
“But I had true power—and that felt like nothing you’ll ever know, old man. You have no power of your own.”
“God is my power,” said Patrick.
“But I have power over people’s lives. I can make men kill their own children.”
“Why is that useful?” said Patrick.
“I can make women drool over such men.”
“And how does that improve the world?”
“I can make children mad.”
Patrick stood resolute as a statue in marble.
“But can you make someone feel the world all around loves them? Can you make them feel the rain is for cooling them, the wind is for drying them, the sun is for warming them?” He reached down and plucked a tall blade of grass. “Can you make something as infinite, as beautiful, as perfect as this? Look at its shape, its edge, its lovely color, the way it curves. You’ve never made something as eternally wonderful as this blade of grass—you never could, and you never will.”
Not a word came from that cave. A sound came, yes. But not a word. The sound had impatience in it, maybe even a little tinge of anger. Patrick sensed that his blows had landed.
“Can you lead to dignity a man abused by his employer? Can you give hope for a new life to a woman whose infant has died? Can you guide an oppressed people to freedom and power? The God of my heaven can do those things.”
Something now happened inside the cave. Patrick saw a movement—he never afterward felt competent to describe exactly what it was; just a movement, a flicker of light, nothing more. The inside of the cave changed color, grew hazy, reddish pink, and shimmered before Patrick’s eyes.
The languid voice spoke again.
“For all your preaching, old man, you can’t say that you were there when it began. But I was. And I’ll be in at the end, too, like I was at the beginning. After all, what are you? A tall man with a beard who can walk fast and tell innocent people stories about a carpenter from a country they never heard of. What use are you?”
Patrick had to rein in his anger, for which he had by now something of a reputation. The cool voice from inside the cave irritated him, and he recalled how he’d learned to use his fists as a slave. But he held fast.
“I give people hope.”
“Ah! But I give people enjoyment—which they much prefer. And anyway, you live by promising them something whose existence you never have to prove.”
“Not so,” said Patrick, who had heard that argument from some of the Irish and never felt he answered it well.
The voice from inside the cave picked up the uncertainty and sharpened up.
“If you weren’t traveling among ignorant people, nobody’d listen to you. If you preached where people have education, they’d expel you. Go to Greece. Go to India. See what they think of your nonsense there.”
Patrick’s blood began to boil like water in a pot; he ran his hand through his hair and clenched his teeth.
“I know all about you,” said the voice from inside the cave. “I knew about you up in Antrim. And I know what you did ther
e. Isn’t it hypocritical, telling people they should behave, given the secrets of your past?”
Like a man driven by fire, Patrick dove into the cave. But a kind of black sheen whipped across the entrance, like a curtain made of steel, yet shining like satin. It stopped Patrick dead—he had never seen anything like it before, and he bounced off it. And then he had to endure a hoot of posh laughter coming from inside the cave. For a moment he knew not what to do.
However, help approached. While Patrick had been arguing with the languid creature, Gara’s drummer had grown concerned. Watching from a distance, he had seen the snakes being thrown into the sky, and now he had seen Patrick forced back as he tried to get into the cave.
The young man came forward silently. So that he would not strike the drum accidentally if he stumbled, he spread grass all over the drumhead. On and on he came, tiptoeing across the open ground toward Patrick, whom he could see up ahead. His master, Gara, had whispered to him as he left the house, “Use your drum as magic. If you see things going badly, strike up a rhythm that’ll inspire people.”
The drummer came to within fifty yards of Patrick, just in time to hear the cackle of mockery from inside the cave and to see Patrick lunge forward a second time. But again he was repelled by something invisible.
Just as Patrick was about to leap forward a third time, the drummer brushed the loose grass off his drum and set up a slow, steady, powerful beat. It started like an insistent whisper. They say that mushrooms whisper up from the grass, asking to be picked. It was that kind of whispering beat, so soft only the keenest ear could hear it—in fact, so soft that only Patrick could hear it.
He stopped. Some people waste their smiles by using them too often. Not Patrick. He rarely smiled—but when he did, his face shone like the sun after rain. In a flash he understood the drummer’s lovely beat—it was keeping time to his own heartbeat, the most powerful rhythm in us all. Patrick turned around and smiled at the musician—a young man of twenty-five years or so, good-looking lad, touch of red in his hair. The drummer kept up his lovely, steady, tranquil rhythm.
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