Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “I want to go with you,” I said. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.”

  “If you want me to stay, I will,” he said. “You must eat and drink something.”

  Suddenly the bowl was at my lips. I opened my mouth, and water gushed in—too much; I choked on it and coughed. The cough awakened the pain in my side. It felt as if a spear point lodged between my ribs was being twisted in the hands of an enemy. I screamed aloud. The bile rose in my throat; my stomach heaved, but it was empty, so nothing came up. I gasped for breath, but the pain was excruciating. Cold mist descended over me, and I passed from consciousness.

  Sometime later I revived. I opened my eyes on a brilliant golden sunset and the smell of meat roasting on the fire. I moaned as I opened my eyes to find the large, dark angel hovering over me. He held a bowl to my mouth and dipped out a morsel of milk-soaked bread, which he pressed to my lips. I opened my mouth and allowed him to put the soggy tidbit on my tongue. The milk and bread were warm. My jaw was stiff and aching, but I chewed and swallowed, and the procedure was repeated—once more and again—until I could eat no more.

  “That is better,” said the angel.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Almost,” he replied, then smiled. “Almost, but not yet.”

  The mice which had from time to time been nibbling on my arm returned and began gnawing with a vengeance. “My arm tingles,” I said.

  “Let me have a look.” He pulled away the fleece covering me and lifted the arm. I could see it from the corner of my eye, and I no longer recognized it as my own: The limb was swollen, discolored, and misshapen, with an odd, bulging knot in the middle. He laid the palm of his hand on the knot, and instantly the tingling sharpened to a throbbing ache that made me cry out.

  “Move your fingers,” he commanded.

  I obeyed, but nothing happened.

  “Again.”

  I worked them again, but they moved only very slightly.

  “It is as I thought,” he said. “The bone is broken.”

  I understood the words but could not think what they meant. “The bone is broken,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” the angel replied, “and two or three of your ribs.” He lowered the all-but-lifeless limb gently to my side and replaced the fleece. “The arm is more worrisome, but I can help it to heal,” he said. “The pain will be unbearable.”

  I looked up at him, wondering why he appeared so pleased with my wounds. “Where is the other angel?” I asked.

  “Sionan?” he said, and laughed. “She has gone to get supplies.” He produced the bowl again and said, “I want you to eat some more. We must strengthen you for the trial ahead.”

  Sionan, I thought, is my angel—she who came to me, she who brought help and healing to me.

  “And is it Cormac?” I asked.

  “Cormac and none other,” the dark angel replied. He gave me another milksop, and I swallowed it down.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Are you not one of the Good God’s creatures?” he asked, pushing another gob of milk bread into my mouth. “How else should I behave?”

  I chewed and swallowed. “You could just let me die.”

  “No,” he said, his smile quick and light, “that would be a sin.”

  This small exchange exhausted me, and I lapsed into a deep and dreamless sleep, waking once in the night to see Cormac, wrapped in his cloak, gazing up at the stars, his face illuminated by the fire. His lips were moving, and a soft droning sound issued from his lips—a gently undulating tone that rose and fell like the ocean’s swell; if there were words, I could not make them out. The sound was pleasing, however, and I quickly fell asleep again.

  Sometime later I was shocked by a shattering pain which brought me screaming from my sleep. I woke to find Cormac crouched at my side with my broken arm in his hands. Sionan knelt at my head, holding my shoulders firmly to the ground while Cormac straightened the arm, grasping it tightly above the wrist. Ignoring my cries, he reared back with a mighty heave, pulling on the injured arm with all his strength.

  I felt a grating, grinding sensation in my forearm and heard a dull snap—like the sighing crack of a damp twig—and a pain unlike any I had ever known stole the breath from my mouth. I screamed, but no sound emerged. The agony seemed to last forever, but in a moment the fiery torture had dulled to an angry, livid, throbbing ache, and I lay on my back on the ground and wept. Meanwhile Cormac busied himself over me, deftly binding my arm to a slightly flattened rod with short strips of cloth he had prepared.

  “There, now,” Sionan said gently, cradling my head in her hands. “The worst is over.” She raised my head a little and pressed a bowl to my mouth. “Here, drink this. It will help dull the pain.”

  I drank, and the thick sweetness of honey mead filled my mouth; I tasted also the dark tang of another substance mixed into the mead, but I was past caring. I emptied the bowl; Sionan set it aside and laid my head in her lap. Then she began to sing, very softly, very gently—and stroked my head until I fell asleep a short time later.

  More herbs and elixirs followed, and slowly, achingly slowly, my body began restoring itself. In my waking times, which were few and brief, either Sionan or Cormac attended me, hovering like the ministering angels they were. I ate and drank what was given me and, having eaten and drunk, I eventually had to get up to relieve myself. As it happened, only Sionan was there with me, and though I put it off as long as possible, the time came when I could hold it off no longer.

  “When will Cormac return?” I asked.

  “Tonight,” she said, adding, “perhaps. He had duties with his master.”

  “I see.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “No, it is just that—”

  “If you are uncomfortable, Cormac said I could give you some more of the potion.”

  “I have to relieve myself,” I told her.

  “Oh.” She looked at me for a moment. “Well, we will get you up, then. Here”—she bent near and took me beneath the arms to raise me—“let me be your strength.”

  With a deft movement she lifted me into a sitting position, where, despite the ferocious ache in my side, I remained panting to catch my breath.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” she asked, the corners of her mouth bending down in sympathy. “I could bring you a bowl.”

  “I will not pee into a cup like a child. I want to stand.”

  It was a tedious procedure, fraught with pain and not a few curses, but in the end I was on my feet—dizzy, swaying, half faint with exhaustion. Every bone and sinew in my body hurt, every muscle ached. My bruised skin stretched tight on swollen limbs. The splint held my broken arm at an unnatural and uncomfortable angle, but I was on my feet.

  Resting my weight on Sionan’s shoulders, I hobbled a few steps beyond the edge of the fire ring, then stood in humiliation to pass water while she bore me up. That finished, she helped me pull up my trousers and stagger back to my place.

  “Would you rather lie in the bothy?” she asked.

  “No, I like it better by the fire. It is warmer.”

  “Wait a little,” she said on our return to the fire ring. “Stand here and do not move.”

  Sionan darted away, retrieving Madog’s shepherd’s staff, which she put into my hand. “Lean on this while I prepare you a proper bed.”

  I stood gripping the staff with my good hand while she rushed around making up a bed for me from stuff she had gathered. Upon a bed of fresh pine boughs she placed several armloads of dry reeds, which she covered with the pelt of a red deer and some fleeces from the bothy. Then the excruciating act of lying down commenced. By the time I was settled again, I was shaking and sweating, and one or two of the wounds had reopened, but I felt as if I had conquered an entire army. I knew then that I would live and not die.

  The bed of pelts and pine boughs was more comfortable by far than the damp bare ground. “Thank you, Sionan,” I said. “If not for you, I would be dead long since.�
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  She smiled sadly. “I could not believe they would beat you so and then leave you up on the mountain by yourself.” She shook her head. “Stupid, stupid men.”

  “What will your husban—” Somehow I could not say the word. “I mean, what does Cernach think about you spending all your time up here tending me?”

  “Cernach was killed in the raid against the Connachta.” She said this as if describing yesterday’s weather. There was neither sadness nor regret in her tone, and she did not seem the least sorry for the death of her new husband.

  I thought back to the day of the raid. I had, of course, seen Cernach before the raid—if not for him, I would have made good my escape—but I had not seen him after. And when the warriors returned, I had worries enough of my own. “Oh, I am sorry, Sionan.”

  “Why should you be sorry?” she asked simply. “Cernach was no friend to you.”

  “That is true,” I agreed. “But I thought you might be sad.”

  “Well, I am not,” she replied, the fire flaring up in her eyes.

  “I was given to Cernach by the king. Our marriage pleased one person and one person only, and that was never me.”

  “I see.”

  “Cernach was a dull and ill-tempered man. He cared little for anything save fighting and drinking. He raised his hand to me more than once, and I vowed he would die—or I would—before the year was out. The Connachta saved us all a lot of trouble.”

  Sionan’s bitter outpouring surprised me, and I could think of nothing to say.

  “You condemn me for my hardness of heart,” she said, gazing at me defiantly.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “Who am I to condemn anyone?”

  “I don’t care what you think. I did not like Cernach, and I never loved him. That is the truth of it.” She frowned, lowering her dark eyes. “Still, I tried to be a good wife to him…” she paused, shaking her head, “but he should never have beat me.”

  She raised her head and looked away. I saw tears glimmering in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sionan.”

  She rubbed away the tears with the heels of her hands, and an awkward silence stretched between us. “What about the sheep?” I asked at last.

  “The sheep?” she tilted her head to one side. “Oh, they have been moved down to the valley. One of the pig lads is looking after them for now, never worry.”

  “When will Cormac come back?”

  Her lips bent into a slow, teasing smile. “What, are you tired of me already?”

  “By no means,” I said quickly. “I only wondered.”

  She regarded me with benign concern for a moment. “You should rest now. When you awake, Cormac will be here, no doubt.”

  “Thank you, Sionan,” I said, overcome by a sudden outpouring of gratitude. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “You said that already,” she answered lightly. “Now, go to sleep.”

  She sat with me a long time, watching over me while I slowly sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. The next morning when I awoke, she was gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  IT WAS LATE morning when Cormac returned to the bothy. The young druid stayed with me for the next three days, and we had many wide-ranging talks. His knowledge of his island realm seemed inexhaustible. I, however, was too easily exhausted. Try as I might, I could not keep up with him. Our mild encounters left me bemused, bewildered, and slightly disconcerted by the things he said.

  For example: One day, as I was lying on my bed looking up at the dark clouds swirling overhead, he sat down cross-legged beside me and said, “Do you believe there are objects of such potency that the sick are healed simply by touching them?”

  “I suppose.” Certainly the rustics and pagan Britons held similar beliefs.

  “It is true,” he affirmed with a sharp nod. “There are other objects which protect their bearers from all harm and still others that cause no end of harm and mischief to anyone unfortunate enough to encounter them.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “Likewise there are seers able to view the past simply by holding an object.”

  “Have you ever witnessed this?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “How do you know what they say is true?” I asked, drawn into the discussion somewhat despite myself. The pagan practices of the godforsaken heathen were beneath the regard of civilized men. Yet, Cormac was my physician and friend, and I had no wish to insult him. He seemed intent on talking, so I listened.

  “Ah! You are a quick one, Succat. You cut to the heart of the matter there.”

  “Well? How do you know?”

  “Alas.” He sighed. “It is hopeless. You see, no matter how persuasively they speak to earn their meat and meal, it is impossible for anyone to tell how much of what they say is true and how much is merely dream, how much speculation, and how much invention. Not even they themselves always know.” He leaned slightly forward. “To this I can testify,” he said confidently, “for I myself have the same gift.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded. “Even so, I can tell you that something is retained in objects that have been used and loved by their owners over time, or which are associated with great good or powerful evil.” He picked up a twig and began scratching in the dirt. “A certain subtle power remains that can be felt and interpreted. But it is vague and dreamlike and fully as illusory as it is true.”

  “That is interesting,” I told him. “Is there any more of the mead left?”

  “And did you know,” he said, warming to the subject, “there are sacred places so potent with holiness that they can be recognized by anyone who sets foot within the charmed circle of their grace—although no altar, no votive stones, no carved images mark the site?”

  Before I could reply, he continued.

  “Usually these are places where tremendous good has triumphed over evil,” he said, rocking back and forth slightly, “or where unimaginable calamity has claimed a victory over the forces of light and reason. To step within the radiant sphere is to join the human spirit to the spirit of the place, for good or for ill.”

  I thought of the dolmen Madog had shown me and where we had laid the old shepherd to rest when he died. “It does not surprise me.”

  “All this I know.” Cormac regarded me with a wise and judicious look. “All this I have observed.”

  We talked then of his druid training, and he told me many things. All the time we talked, he seemed to be assessing me, trying me—though for what purpose I could not guess. Perhaps my receptiveness to the ideas he expounded interested him. In my own way I was agreeable—at least I did not wish to offend him. I owed him a great debt of gratitude for my healing.

  Whatever he saw in me, he seemed determined to delve deep and bring it out; thus our discussions grew by turns more earnest, solemn, and weighty.

  “All men yearn for certainty,” he proclaimed one night. This is how our discussions usually began; Cormac would announce the topic, and off we would go. Sionan had been with us earlier in the day but had gone down to the ráth, leaving Cormac and me to talk long into the night. “Do you believe this?”

  “I do. It would be a great boon to know where we stand in this world, what is, what has been, what will be. And to know it absolutely.”

  “Indeed.” He seemed well satisfied with my answer. “All men pray for assurance that time cannot corrupt nor doubt corrode. Thus the soothsayers compare the liver of a slaughtered sheep with the clay model in their hands and declare sureties which can never exist. Divine inspiration is lacking, therefore they are fallible.”

  “My grandfather said such men were wicked for deceiving those who trusted, and it was a sin even to speak to them.”

  “Nor is that all. There are priests who have learned the secrets of discerning the future from flights of birds.” At my questioning glance he said, “Truly. But when they are confronted with signs they do not recognize, they become confused and utter their predictions blindly. Likewise, there are some who seek an
swers in the smoke and flames of sacrificial fires and others who claim to read destiny in the issue of blood and bile of dying men.”

  “How is this accomplished?” I asked.

  Cormac frowned. “No, I will not speak of them. Nor will I stoop to mention the interpreters of lightning who ascend the hilltops before the storm in order to rank the thunderbolts according to their color and position in the vault of heaven, which they have divided into sixteen celestial regions, each ruled by a separate deity.”

  “Tell me, Cormac,” I insisted.

  But he would not. “I will not speak of such things, for thus it has ever been and thus it shall ever be. Nothing is more lamentable than dead and ossified knowledge: fallible human understanding instead of divine perception. A man can learn much, but learning is not knowledge. The only true source of infallible certainty is divine illumination.”

  “Now you sound like my grandfather,” I told him.

  “So you say. Tell me about him.”

  “Potitus? There is little enough to tell. I was still very young when he died. He was the presbyter of Bannavem. He performed the observances of the Holy Church for our town and the surrounding countryside.”

  “He was a Christian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  “I was,” I replied, “but no longer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you need to ask?” I said, my voice growing tight with irritation. “Look at me, Cormac. I am a slave. I prayed for deliverance—with all my heart I prayed—and this is how God answered me.”

  “Then why not accept his answer?”

  “Bah!” I sneered, exasperation getting the better of me. “Now you do sound like my grandfather.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  “Strange? It is uncanny,” I retorted. “I mean no disrespect, Cormac, but I find it more than strange that you, a heathen, should hold the same views as my grandfather.”

  “Where is the difficulty?” he asked. “Is it that your grandfather and I should agree, or that a heathen should know something of God?”

  I stared at him. “What do you know of the Christian God?”