Patrick

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Out beyond the shining rim of stars, I saw the dark, inscrutable heart of the deep, impenetrable and unknowable. Here lay the mystery of all existence, wrapped in infinite layers of time yet unwound. Though I could not see it, I could feel the long, slow stirring of its elemental pulse in the pit of my soul. I felt the steady, rhythmic beat as an ineluctable tide force, rising and falling, drawing and sending, moving in arcing ripples through the ordered ranks of creation, setting here an entire world in motion, there a tiny heart.

  I saw these things—I know not how—and felt myself lifted high and exhilarated by the vision. It seemed as if I had dipped myself in a bottomless sea of wisdom; a knowledge older than the rivers of the world, older still than the rocks beneath the mountains, as old as the ever-circling heavens above the earth, flowed all around me…divine knowledge.

  The unformed presence in my cavelike chamber took on the aspect of a living being. What is more, this living presence, closer than my own breath, bound me to itself, enfolded me within its all-encompassing strength. It had ever been with me, and it would remain with me henceforth and forever in whatever realms I might wander. Though I live or die, it would be with me still, enfolding me, upholding me, encircling me.

  Lying there in the silent darkness of my chambered tomb, I allowed this knowledge to seep into me, into my hair and mouth and nostrils, into the pores of my skin and beneath my skin; I let it soak into my bones, into the pith and marrow of my frame—until I became saturated with it. This knowledge trickled in, filling all the hidden, hollow places within, suffusing body and soul with the invincible awareness that I need never be lost or alone again. And more, that my life had been given for a purpose yet to be fulfilled.

  I lay on the fleece-covered bearskin luxuriating in this knowledge, exulting in it, rejoicing in the very great gift which had been given me.

  How long I remained like this, I cannot say. It seemed at once a lifetime and only moment. Indeed, time seemed no more than a trick of the senses, the flicker of a candle flame in a bowl, the shifting of a water shadow in a stream. Presently I became aware of my surroundings once more. I drew a deep breath and threw aside the deerskin covering. In the darkness of the burial niche, I rose and started crawling on hands and knees into the main chamber and from there down the long, low passage leading to the light.

  Upon emerging I stumbled from the entrance to stand blinking in the early-evening sun. It took a moment for my eyes to accept the light. I heard a voice. There was a rush of movement toward me, and I was gathered in strong arms and all but carried from the mound.

  They bore me away and sat me down in the shade of a cloth canopy which had been erected on the grass a little distance down the hill from the mound. “Are you well, boy?” asked a voice. I turned to see Datho’s anxious face looming over me, dark eyes keen and searching.

  I tried to speak but found I could not move my tongue.

  “Here,” said another voice, “take this.”

  I looked around as Cormac pressed the cool rim of a brass bowl to my lips. “Drink,” instructed Datho. “It will revive you.”

  I drank and tasted water mixed with honey. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. “How long?” I asked. “How long was I in there?”

  “Three days,” replied Cormac.

  This seemed impossible to me. “Truly?”

  Datho nodded solemnly. “Three days have passed since you entered the mound.” He smiled. “We were beginning to worry about you.”

  “Did you see anything?” asked Cormac excitedly.

  “I saw…” I closed my eyes; the images cascaded through my mind. “Amazing things.”

  “Tell us quickly,” urged Cormac, “before you forget.”

  Datho intervened. “Hush, Cormac. He has been gone three days. Give him a moment to come back.”

  I turned to Cormac, who was eagerly bending over me. “I will never forget what I saw.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I RESTED FOR A time, sipping the honey water while Datho rubbed my hands and feet. Gradually my limbs warmed as the blood started flowing again and, under Datho’s gentle probing, I began to tell them what I had seen. As I talked, Cormac crept away, returning quickly with three other druid chieftains. They settled themselves beneath the canopy to listen; occasionally one or another would ask a question, which I would answer without thought or hesitation as the words simply sprang to my tongue.

  When I finished, they rose and withdrew a few paces apart to deliberate. Cormac offered me another drink of honey water, which I gratefully accepted. “What are they doing?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Thinking,” said Cormac. “Are you hungry?”

  I nodded. Now that I was once more in the land of the living, my appetite was swiftly returning. Although it still seemed to me that less than half a day had passed, I was suddenly hungry enough to believe I had endured three days without food or water.

  “Rest here,” Cormac said. “I will bring you something to eat.” He rose just as the filidh chieftains returned from their contemplations. “Stand up,” commanded Datho. Cormac helped me to my feet; I rose too fast and became dizzy. The big druid put out a hand to steady me. Datho, steeped in vast authority, drew himself up and addressed me while his brothers stood looking on.

  “Fortunate are you among men,” he said. “It is a rare gift you have been given. Few who undergo the ritual death emerge with a vision of such power. That this has happened to you is a great and wondrous sign and a cause for rejoicing.”

  The three chieftains with him stroked their beards and muttered their agreement. Datho continued, “Therefore, we respectfully request that you allow us to honor this sign with a rite of consecration.”

  I did not know what to say to this, so I replied, “If it pleases you, Ollamh.” The druids murmured their approval.

  “The ceremony will take place tonight,” Datho informed me, then bade Cormac to get me something to eat and allow me to rest. He and the others moved away, heads together in fervent conversation.

  “You have stirred the pot, my friend,” said Cormac, easing me down gently.

  “What did he mean, ‘wondrous sign’?”

  “Visions are given for a reason,” he replied. “Yours—if it was a genuine vision—was one of great power, and so the purpose for which it was given is likewise very great.”

  “Do you doubt me, Cormac?” It rankled me to be disbelieved—especially on those rare occasions when I was telling the truth.

  He regarded me with a dubious expression and shrugged. “We will see if anything comes of it.”

  Leaving me with the bowl of honey water, Cormac went off to fetch some food. I lay down beneath the canopy and felt the warmth of the lowering sun on my skin, realizing for the first time since emerging from the mound that, save for the loincloth, I was naked. I closed my eyes and dozed, waking when Cormac returned with some cooked fish and a bowl of blackberries.

  “Do you think I could have my clothes back now?” I asked, accepting the fish on a skewer. He said that he did not see any reason why this should be prevented, and went in search of my missing garments. I ate the fish slowly and then started in on the berries, listening all the while to the sounds around me as the day faded.

  The filidh and their disciples dotted the hillside in small clumps of three, four, or more. Wherever I looked, I saw heads bent in earnest discussion. The murmur of their voices filled the air like the drone of bees. I saw them, saw the hillside and the valley beyond with its dark, snaking river. It all seemed to me less substantial now—as if the fabric of the natural world had worn thin. It seemed to me that if I concentrated very hard, I might see right through it and into the world beyond—but the effort required was too great, or I was too listless and lazy to try.

  After a time Datho returned, now in the company of an old woman dressed in a long white robe. Her hands were gnarled and curved like claws; her eyes glittered like polished pebbles set deep in the orbits of her skull. “Here he is, Meabh,”
he said. They stood over me, gazing down as if at a curiosity of nature.

  “Come here, boy,” said the old woman, indicating that I should rise. Her voice, though rough, held a firm note of authority.

  I rose and stood. Her elderly face was a puckered web of creases and crinkles, her hair a wispy nimbus through which I could see her balding pate. She squinted one dark eye and leaned close. “Handsome,” she said, and I smelled the scent of onions on her breath. “They tell me you have had a vision. Well? I would hear it.”

  I began to recite what I had seen. Meabh lifted her head and gazed skyward while she listened to my somewhat disjointed account. When I finished, she nodded. “It is good.” To Datho she said, “You are right.”

  Then, turning to me she said, “The healing dream is as powerful as it is rare. You have been blessed.”

  “Thank you…Banfilidh,” I replied, uncertain how to address the hag. It was a word I had heard once or twice, one she accepted without comment.

  “Datho has asked to be your ollamh,” she said, her gaze sharp and shrewd as a weasel’s. “Are you content?”

  “I am that, Banfilidh.”

  “Very well, I consign you to Datho’s able care. Heed him closely, that you may grow into your prominence.”

  I accepted her judgment with a bow, whereupon Cormac returned with my clothes. “Ah, Cormac Miach! How well you look. I am pleased to see you.” She held out her thin arms to him, and he embraced her warmly. “Datho tells me you have completed your twelfth year. He tells me also that you have made good progress.”

  “Thank you, Ollamh,” he replied. “No one could ask for a more able and resourceful teacher. His patience and wisdom are inexhaustible—I should know, I have tried both often enough.”

  Datho protested this assessment. “It is the ability of the student, in this case, who makes a master of his teacher.”

  Embarrassed by this odd gush of emotion between the two, I took my clothes and quickly dressed, turning away so they would not see the sour expression on my face while they carried on in this peculiar, deferential way. When I turned back, old Meabh was eagerly gripping Cormac by the arm. “I think the time has come for you to sit at my feet for a season, Cormac. Would that please you?”

  “Beyond measure,” he said. Glancing at Datho, he added, “If my ollamh would allow it, I would be happy to serve you in any way I can.”

  “Go, my son, and with my blessing,” said Datho, a slight resignation creeping into his tone. “You will profit mightily from Meabh’s tutelage. But know, too, that you will always have a place with me when you are finished.”

  “Then I am honored to accept your offer, ollamh,” Cormac said, scarcely able to hide his jubilation.

  “Come to me after the Comoradh,” she told him, and then, taking Datho’s arm, she led him away down the hillside.

  “Who was she?” I asked Cormac when they had gone.

  “Meabh is the oldest ollamh in Éire—or Britain either, so far as I can tell. Her knowledge of the masters is beyond that of any living filidh. She is very particular about those she accepts for instruction. It is a very great honor to be chosen.”

  “Then you will be leaving,” I said, suddenly aware of how much I had come to depend on the big druid. “I will miss you, Cormac. I will.”

  “Oh, we can still see one another from time to time,” he replied lightly. “But you will be so busy from now on you will not have time to miss anyone—not me, perhaps not even Sionan.” Resting a heavy arm on my shoulders, he drew me close to whisper in my ear. “I know that you and Sionan sleep together,” he told me. “I said nothing because it was what she wanted. But from now on you must think of her welfare.” His voice was firm and his glance direct. “Understood?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” He gripped my shoulder hard. “Disappoint her and, brother bard or not, you will soon wish you had never been born.”

  He released me then with a hearty smack on the back. “I am glad we are agreed.”

  When I made no reply, he slapped me on the back again and said, “Cheer up, Succat, I do not begrudge you. In fact, when the time comes, I will happily perform your marriage rite myself.”

  Later, as the moon was rising in the east, the filidh gathered on the hillside. Along with two others I was led by Cormac up a long, torchlit path to stand before the heel stone. Datho, who was to be my teacher, received me, spreading wide his hands in welcome. He raised his voice to the throng, saying, “Brothers of the Oak! You will have heard that one among us has received a healing dream. Here”—he indicated me with a wave of his hand—“he stands before you now. I bid you welcome him.”

  To my surprise a loud shout of acclaim suddenly erupted from the Learned Brothers looking on. I glanced around for Cormac and saw him standing in the front rank of the crowd and, behind him, Buinne, staring at me, his pallid face twisted into an expression of such intense and malignant hostility that I almost did not recognize him. The sight took me aback, and I looked away again.

  “My son,” said Datho when the crowd had silenced once more, “this is a sacred moment—neither day nor night, when all creation hangs between light and darkness. It is a time when decisions undertaken can bring manifold blessings. Therefore I urge you with the strong entreaty of a father to a beloved son to hallow this holy moment with the vow I shall give you.”

  Ollamh Datho took a step back from me. Holding his druid staff in his left hand, he raised his right hand and, in a resounding voice, began to chant. “Three kinds of light obtain: that of the sun and, hence, fire; that of the knowledge obtained from the instruction of wise teachers; and that which is possessed in the understanding of God, which illuminates the heart and is the true light of the soul.

  “Therefore, my son, seek the True Light in all your ways; search diligently and with tireless perseverance. Take the Light as your law, your love, and your guide, now and henceforth, forever. If you would do this, answer now upon your life.”

  He paused, and nodded to me, indicating that I should answer. I had not reckoned on having to make such a profession, but the vision was still strong in me and the answer came readily to my lips. “Upon my life, I make this vow,” I said, and in that moment—if only for that most fleeting moment—I meant it with all my heart.

  Oh, but the heart is desperately wicked above all things. For, my first thought was not of how I might become a dutiful student, but how I might use this chance to aid my longed-for escape. This, and the vow was still fresh in my mouth.

  “Then I commend you to the path you have chosen. May the blessings of the Living Light speed you on your journey so that you may remain in the Land of the Living all your days.”

  Datho turned and addressed the gathered crowd, saying, “Do you accept this man as a brother, and will you look to his welfare as you look to your own, aiding him in every way as he begins his journey?” He paused, turning to scan the druid throng. “How say you?”

  The assembly answered with one voice. “We accept him and welcome him as a brother.”

  He stepped before me once more and said, “Kneel and receive your sacred name.”

  I did as he commanded and knelt in the grass on the hillside. Then, in the light of the rising moon, the wise ollamh placed his hand upon my head. He struck the ground three times with his staff and cried, “Succat you were, but Succat is no more. From this day you are Corthirthiac: strong bulwark against the gale of contention. May your strength endure to the end which the Mighty Maker has ordained for you.

  “Rise, Corthirthiac,” he said, “and take your place among your brothers.”

  I rose and, seeing Cormac standing nearby, went to stand beside him. I crossed the short distance between us and saw Buinne staring at me. Our eyes met, only for the briefest instant, for as he realized I saw him, his features changed; the unvoiced snarl of hatred vanished, and his expression became coolly impassive. As I took my place beside Cormac, Buinne edged back into the crowd and disappeared.

&nbs
p; The ceremony continued. The two young boys who had also undergone initiation were added to the brotherhood; these, like myself, were given to Datho to begin their training. This ritual completed, it was then the turn of all who had completed one level of training to be recognized and advanced to higher ranks. There were many of these—including Cormac and, to my surprise, Buinne as well.

  The next day the druids held council to discuss matters of importance which had arisen during the interval since the last gathering. “Watch and learn,” Cormac whispered as the proceedings began. “Your questions will be answered.”

  Because Datho was one of the high-ranking bards empowered to speak in council, we were allowed to stand behind him and so had good places from which to see all that would take place. The council began with a long recitation in a tongue I did not understand, and then the filidh—an old man with a hump on his back—declared that the council was begun.

  “That is Gwyn Gryggyn,” Cormac told me, “called the Far-Seeing. He is Chief Bard of Mídhe.”

  “Gwyn?” I wondered. “That is a British name.”

  “And so he is.”

  “But—”

  “Listen.”

  The old man looked all around him and smiled at those he knew up front, including Datho, nodding and mouthing greetings to his acquaintances while waiting for the crowd to settle.

  When all was quiet, he said, “A year has passed, brothers, since it was decided to defer the question of the Ceile De. In the passing of the year, I trust we have all given the matter its due consideration. The time has come to determine how we will answer the charge that has been laid before us concerning the institution of the Cadair Glân.”

  The name was in my native tongue. Cadair Glân—it meant “Holy Chair.”