Columba’s kinsman Baithen, watching the proceedings from one side, and observing the tender expression in his cousin’s eyes, smiled and sighed softly.
“God, how you must love that dear man,” he murmured to himself, “to have endowed him with so many gifts.”
Great was the rejoicing, both in that house and in the entire village. Even more came to believe that day. Dozens were thereafter baptized in the waters of the Ness.
Fifteen
With reports circulating of healings and miracles at Columba’s hand, at length King Brudei sent word to his guest to come to his hall that he might make more thorough inquiry. He had heard the abbot preach and give oratory. Now he would question him.
His druidic tutor and counselor in all matters metaphysical and transcendental objected. The king denied his counsel.
“I beg you, then,” urged Broichan, “allow me to be present.”
“For what purpose?” asked Brudei.
“That I might prevent the Scotian cleric from seducing you or gaining mastery over you with some bedeviling sorcerer’s spell.”
“How would you prevent it, my learned druid?” asked the king. A hint of sarcasm laced his tone.
“By placing an incantation upon him.”
“Your magic is not as strong as this man’s, and I would learn why. I will be on my guard,” he assured the druid. “But no less am I determined to get to the bottom of the man’s strange power. Away with you, Broichan.”
Columba was shown in. The king saw something in his eyes which momentarily unnerved him. He had never been looked at with such an expression. He was used to seeing men look upon him with fear. But he had never seen another mortal man look upon him with . . . compassion.
No, it could not be that. There must be some other explanation—perhaps it was one of the man’s spells!
Brudei recovered himself and began the interrogation. Comgall, the Irish Pict, sat beside them.
“Whenever I have heard your words, you speak of four deities,” the king began, addressing Columba while Comgall translated. “You speak of God, you speak of Lord, you speak of a Ghost, and you speak of a man you call Christ. I want to know which of these is the deity who gives you such power, and what is his name.”
“They are all one,” replied Columba directly, in the king’s own tongue.
“They are the same?” asked Brudei, puzzled.
Columba nodded.
“We have many gods,” the king went on, “who rule over different regions of the sky and the earth and the sea.”
“The so-called gods of your druids are no gods at all, Honorable King. They are not capable of giving you eternal life. In truth there is only one God.”
“Why then do you speak as if he too were many separate beings?”
“He has shown himself to mortal men in different ways. But he is one and the same God.”
“As in the sun, the moon, the crane, and the oak?”
“Perhaps something like that indeed. He knows that the aspect of his nature which shows itself in a mighty ocean storm or in the thunder which rages and the lightning which flashes down from the sky must seem a dreadful and powerful thing to the small creatures upon his earth. So he sent part of himself as a man to live among us, a man who was God himself, a man who was like us, not fearsome like the thunder and lightning. He was a man who could tell us what God was like, because we could not see him for ourselves.”
“Are you that man?”
“No, that man was God’s Son, the Christ.”
“What is your God’s name?”
“He is called Jehovah, or the Lord.”
“Who is this man he sent?”
“He is the man named Jesus.”
“Where did he live?”
“Jesus was a Jew, born in a place called Palestine. Do you know of it, King Brudei?”
The king shook his head.
“It is to the east and south, in a warm and temperate land inhabited by a people called Hebrews.”
“Then what is Criosd you speak of?”
“The Christ,” repeated Columba. “Jesus, who was born almost six hundred years ago, is called the Christ. It means the anointed one, the one sent from God. His birth was foretold among the Hebrew tribes for centuries, as one who would come to live on earth, sent from God, to save his people from the death of their sins, and bring them into eternal life.”
“You speak of eternal life. What is this life?”
“To live forever, Honorable King.”
“I know of the Happy Isles, and the fruit and swords and robes and animals and maidens which Niam of the Golden Hair promised to Ossian. I find nothing new in what you say.”
“But have you spoken with any man who has been there and returned?”
The king did not answer.
“The Prophet whom we honor died and then came back to tell where he had been,” said Columba to Comgall in his own tongue. He must be certain he did not misspeak this central truth.
“Bah!” exclaimed the king the moment the words had fallen from Comgall’s lips. He had finally heard enough to make him laugh this new religion to scorn. Coming back from the dead! He would sooner listen to Broichan’s incantations and chants!
“Judge my words by what your own eyes have seen, Honorable Brudei,” said Columba. “If the God Jehovah whom I serve, and Jesus Christ whom he sent—if they are not more powerful than deities of your druid priests, then how did the white stone float on the water? I ask you, Honorable King, has your Broichan performed the like before your eyes?”
The king remained silent.
“And when your tutor called upon his gods—which were nothing but evil spirits—to raise a hurricane against me, and I called upon my Lord Christ and his angels, and embarked in my small boat and set off into the wind, and sailed straight against it, and then the force of the gale immediately changed its direction . . . I ask you again, Honorable King, have your druids performed the like before your eyes in all your days?”
Still the king did not reply. In truth, he had been sorely moved by Columba’s deeds.
“And further, I ask you to recall the incident of the boy who was sick, whom they say had died, and who, but moments after I called upon the power of my Lord God and his Christ, rose and left his bed.”
Brudei recalled it well enough.
“These are only small signs and wonders, Honorable King,” Columba continued. “This and more will my God do for all who believe in his Christ, who is the man Jesus, his anointed one.”
Brudei glanced into Columba’s face with an expression of new question at what he could possibly mean.
“Eternal life, Honorable King,” said Columba, “—that which you asked about earlier—Jesus promised to all who believed in the God who is Jehovah, and who became his own followers.”
“Where is this place where you say man lives forever?” the king asked.
“It is not on this earth,” replied Columba. “Jesus spoke of a different kind of life. Though their bodies grow old and die, the spirits of his followers will live forever with him and with God Jehovah.”
Brudei did not reply immediately. The room became silent. He had heard of such things. But none of his own druids could say where the Happy Isles were. He was a practical man. He had never seriously imagined when he ran a sword through the heart of one of his enemies, that the spirit of such was still alive, floating up over the scene.
“How can I believe what you say?” asked Brudei at length. “Have you been there? Have you seen the spirits of the dead?”
“They cannot be seen while we yet live on the earth.”
“How then do you know it is true?”
“Because Jesus told us of it. He came from there and returned, to demonstrate that death had no power over him.”
“This man you call Jesus yet lives?”
Columba nodded.
“Show him to me and I will believe!”
“He no longer inhabits the earth, Honorable King. But
he lives as surely as you and I sit here together.”
“You talk in circles!” exclaimed the king.
“The eternal life brought to man by God’s Christ is not an earthly living forever, but an eternal life in heaven with Jehovah. He calls on us to believe without seeing. To believe by faith.”
“Where is this heaven?”
“No man can see it, Honorable King. It is the place Jesus told us God dwells, and where his followers will live forever.”
“How can a man believe what he cannot see?”
“You believe in many things you cannot see, Honorable King. Do you believe in the power of the wind?”
Brudei thought a moment, then nodded.
“But no man can see the wind,” Columba went on. “It blows where it pleases. You hear it, but you cannot tell where it comes from. We only see its power. In the same way, though we cannot see Jesus or eternal life, we see their power.”
The king pondered his words. This holy man was not only powerful, he was shrewd of tongue.
“You say the man called Jesus returned from death, and also came back to earth from this place you call heaven. How do you know?”
“He was seen by his friends and followers . . . by many.”
“Perhaps it was a ghost.”
“They felt him, touched him, spoke with him. He ate and walked with them. They put their hands in the hole in his side where his body was pierced dead with a spear and gushed blood and water. And they recorded the events for all to read of ever after. I have myself read these accounts many times.”
“And this man, you say, came back from death . . . fully alive?”
Columba nodded. The king was very thoughtful. He had never heard the likes before.
“If only I could touch the hole in his side myself.”
“One of his own followers, before he made his appearance, uttered your very words. Jesus later told him that they were greatly blessed who did not see, and yet still believed. Such is your opportunity, Honorable King, and mine—to believe in Christ, though we have not seen him. Such is called faith.”
“How, then, if you have not seen this man, and if he is nowhere on this earth to be found . . . how do you know of him?”
“Because his followers—men and women who knew him, who were taught by him and who saw him die with their own eyes and witnessed him arise from the tomb three days after—they have written down the events of his life and have recorded his teachings. Many who have come after—men such as myself—have likewise recorded these events and sayings and teachings. Thus it is from these witnesses that we know of Jesus’ life. We know the words he spoke. In them we find the eternal life he came to offer all those who would follow him.”
“I would rejoice to hear of these words and events, that I might know more of this man Jesus and his God.”
“So you shall, Honorable King,” said Columba, “and all your people with you. With your permission, each morning as long as my companions and I are among you, I shall read the words of the gospel story which tell about the man Jesus, and tell of his deeds and his teachings, of the exploits and signs which flowed from his hands—how he ruled over the wind and waves, how he turned water to wine, how he walked on the very waters of the sea, and how he rose up out of the grave after he had been in the tomb three days.”
“I give my permission, and will make it known among the people.”
“You will be among the listeners?”
“I shall,” replied the king.
The king hesitated a moment, then reached behind him to unclasp the great double-linked chain which he wore around his neck. He took it in one hand, then stretched it forward to Columba.
“This is my royal chain,” he said. “You see the emblem of the kingship on the clasp.”
Columba nodded.
“You are a holy man,” the king went on solemnly. “It is my desire that you have it.”
Columba took it from his hand. “I am deeply honored,” he said. “It shall be a symbol, not only of your kingship, but of understanding and brotherhood between our peoples.”
The readings of the Gospels commenced on the following morning. The king was indeed present. He scarcely took notice as he arrived of the tall young woman already seated near Columba’s feet, gazing upon him with radiant eyes. She was so greatly altered of countenance and demeanor that had he stared straight into her face, his eyes might not have known her.
The instant she rose at the end of the reading, however, he saw her form and unusual stature. Immediately he recognized her, and cast upon her an expression of such hatred as would make a warrior tremble. But Diorbhall-ita had grown beyond his power to hurt her.
“What is the tall one doing here?” he demanded of Columba. His voice was angry.
“She is one of my followers,” Columba replied.
“Now I know you speak absurdities!”
“The gospel comes to all freely and equally—kings and outcasts alike. All are sinners.”
“Bah . . . she is—”
“She is what, King?” interrupted Columba. “Do you know her? Her heart is now pure before God.”
“Pure,” the king spat back, “—ridiculous! Do you know what she is?”
“She is a sinner cleansed. I am a sinner cleansed. You too are a sinner, King.”
“Bah! Of course I know her, and I know she is anything but pure. She is my daughter, and I despise the very sight of her!”
Columba was silenced. Diorbhall-ita—the daughter of the king! He collected himself quickly, then smiled. Indeed, he thought to himself, she was now the daughter of two kings!
The king strode angrily away from him.
As a result of the readings, and also from Columba’s continued good deeds and miracles among them, many in the province believed and were baptized. Columba’s fame spread for miles as if carried throughout the region on the very winds he had spoken of to the king.
Among the most enthusiastic of the converts was the family of the king’s brother Aedh macBaldridh, with his wife, their five-year-old son, Fineach-tinnean, and four-year-old daughter, Anghrad. Now did Columba realize their ties of kinship with Diorbhall-ita, all of whom would grow to be important links in the history of their clan, to which many new spiritual chains were now added.
Sixteen
When it came time for Columba and his party to depart Inbhir-Nis, Diorbhall-ita became quiet and subdued. Little did Columba suspect what was in her heart.
How could she live without the man who had given her life? She could not go back to what she was. What was she to do? What life could she possibly have apart from him?
On the day before their departure, Diorbhall-ita came to him. She found him alone.
“I am afraid,” she said softly. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “Please do not leave me.”
“I must take the gospel to others, my child,” replied Columba. “The Lord will take care of you.”
“I cannot remain here. Take me with you, Colum.”
“Take you?” he repeated in surprise. “Ours is not a mission for a woman.”
“I can serve you. I will help you with your mission.”
“It is not possible.”
“I only know I must be with you.”
“There are hardships, dangers. You do not know what you ask.”
“They mean nothing to me. Let me go as—”
She hesitated and glanced away, her courage momentarily failing her.
“What is it, my child?”
“Please, Colum . . . let me serve you,” she said in a pleading voice. She cast such a look on the man of God as nearly melted his heart. “Let me serve you all my days. If I cannot go as one of your followers, then . . . then take me . . . as your wife.”
The word fell upon Columba’s ears with such quiet force that a silence hung in the air between them, as if waiting for its unsounding echos to die away.
After a moment, finally Columba spoke.
“Oh, dear one,” he replied tender
ly. “I cannot marry you.”
“I thought you loved me,” said Diorbhall-ita, gazing into his face with innocent, hopeful expectancy.
“I do, dear one . . . but with the love of Christ, not the love of a man.”
The momentary hopefulness fell. Her face shuddered slightly, as if she had been struck a physical blow. Stunned, she turned away. His painful words brought a fresh rush of tears. A knife of cold stone had been plunged into her heart.
She could not stay here with him. She must get away. She had made a fool of herself.
Quickly she began walking away.
Columba took several strides after her. He placed his hand on her shoulder.
Diorbhall-ita stopped. It was the first time he had touched her since her baptism. His fingers sent new tingles of hope through her. Slowly she turned. The eyes that had suffered much at the hands of men now swam in rivers of confusion that her new faith could bring such a new kind of pain. With the ache in her heart was the mortification of a woman’s embarrassment for what she had just done. How could she look into his face after what she had said! Yet his eyes sought hers.
“Oh, my dear, dear Diorbhall-ita,” said Columba softly, “I do love you. But I am a priest. I may not marry.”
“Why?” she said.
“I am consecrated to Christ.”
“What makes a priest different from other men?”
“We make ourselves different, by taking a vow.”
“What kind of vow?”
“To live unmarried, to touch no ale or wine, to live in simplicity.”
“Must you keep it?”
“I choose to keep it, dear one.”
“But you have given me life,” she pleaded. “I cannot endure without you. Let me come with you as your servant.”
“A woman, traveling with me in these regions? It is not possible, dear one. Our life is arduous. We will be going among people where there may be danger. I tremble to think what might happen to you.”
“Worse will happen to me here,” she said, turning away. She began to sob.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 51