“We must remain consecrated to our Lord,” he said. “Though we possess the flesh of a man and woman, he has given us a higher calling. By this will he perfect our love, as we give it to him, and offer even that love on the altar of our service to him. Likewise is this a sacred place, this beloved island, and we must honor it with purity.”
He drew the robe gently back up around her shoulders, then took her in his arms.
She was weeping, both for loss and gain. What a great man had been given her to love, a man who loved God more than he would let himself love a woman. Her heart was sore, yet it could only love him more because he was the man he had proved himself to be.
He held her close for several moments of silence, then gently released her and stepped away. It was the only time in all her life that she would feel his arms around her.
But the eternal moment would remain with her in memory for the rest of her days.
Twenty-Two
The arrival of Christianity to the mainland did not eliminate its tribal and territorial factions. This was an era when religious beliefs precipitated more conflict than they prevented. Dalriada was growing, and the Picts, in both northern and southern Alba, presented the greatest and most practical obstacle to that expansion. Dalriada was not a kingdom whose permanent place would be won with icons or prayers, but rather with swords.
By now Columba’s authority was recognized throughout all Caledonia. When Conaill died at Dunadd, Columba claimed to have been visited by an angel and declared that Aedan, Conaill’s cousin, was to be the new king.
Aedan was brought to Iona to be enthroned as king of Dalriada. It was the first occasion for the slab of sacred stone from Pictland to be used for a ceremonial purpose.
Columba instructed his distant kinsman to step up onto the stone that his men had cut in the Highlands and transported to Iona, which was about a foot thick, and measured some two and a half by three and a half feet.
Aedan did so. Columba told him of the stone’s history, that he and his men had brought it from a legendary site of the burial of ancient Pict kings, and that by taking his oath upon it, he was entering into a line, not only of Dalriadic succession, but also of the lineage of the kingship of all Caledonia.
Then the abbot instructed Aedan to kneel upon the stone.
“Believe me, O Aedan,” said Columba in words of consecration to the new king, “none of thy enemies shall be able to resist thee. Wherefore direct thou thy children to commend to their children, their grandchildren, and their posterity, not to let the sceptre pass out of their hands through evil counsels. For at whatever time they turn against the Lord their God, the hearts of men shall likewise be turned away from them, and their foes shall be greatly strengthened.”
This injunction laid upon him, Columba rested his hands upon Aedan’s head and blessed him.
Aedan stepped off the stone, now king of Dalriada.
Twenty-Three
King Aedan of the Scots was even more ambitious for power and land than his predecessors. He waited six years after his ordination as king, then in 580 took up the sword against the Picts, both in the north and the south. He himself lost two of his own sons at the hands of the Picts. King Brudei of the Picts was killed in 584.
Aedan ruled for thirty-four years. As the seventh century after Christ opened, he had successfully brought much of Pictland under the domination of Scottish Dalriada. The Scots, it appeared, would be a dominant force on the northern mainland.
Columba spent most of his latter years at the monastery on Iona. The tiny isle had now become the religious center of the Celtic world. Every one who knew Columba loved him, and his influence had spread throughout Erin, Dalriada, and Pictland. He was not only a spiritual giant, but also a king maker, diplomat, and statesman who wielded perhaps more authority than any single man throughout the various Celtic kingdoms.
But Columba was aging. The year was 593. He was seventy-two and tired—tired of the strain between political and spiritual forces, drained of his worldly ambitions, and ready for the coming eternal phase of his life. He had, in fact, been praying that God would call him toward his heavenly journey.
A day of particularly great joy came in the first week of June.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, alone in his cell, “I have been thirty years in Alba. I am ready for you to take me. I rejoice that perhaps the day will be soon.”
A vision of angels arose before his mind’s eye. His heart leapt—they had been sent to lead his soul out of its fleshly imprisonment! He saw them standing on a rock beyond the narrow sound between Iona and the Ross of Mull.
But why could they approach no nearer? Why did they stand motionless and not come for him?
Suddenly a great sadness came over the man of God as divine revelation came to explain the vision.
They were unable to cross the sound and carry him away because of the many and fervent prayers on his behalf from churches throughout the land. In answer to the entreaties of his people, God would grant him another four years of life. At the end of that time he would be taken.
The end came, as foretold, in 597, exactly four years later.
Knowing that his time was drawing nigh, in the second week of April, Columba called for the man and woman who were his two dearest companions yet remaining on Iona, Diormait, his servant and Diorbhall-ita, his friend.
He requested them to summon two others to Iona to be with him in his final days—his cousin, Baithen, whom Columba had already designated as his successor, himself now sixty-four and the presiding abbot at the daughter monastery of Maigh Lunga on Tiree, and their Caledonian convert Fintenn macAedh, Diorbhall-ita’s cousin and now a mighty Christian man of thirty-seven, who had himself established a Columban monastery at Kailli-an-Inde in the Caledonian midlands among the southern Picts.
Diormait carried out Columba’s instruction, while Diorbhall-ita sought the solitude of the island’s rocky shores to be alone with her thoughts and prayers. She had loved her mentor and spiritual father, her friend and brother, for thirty-three years. Now she feared he was about to leave her. Her heart was ready to break over it.
By the next afternoon messengers were on their way to both Maigh Lunga and Kailli-an-Inde.
Fintenn arrived on the tenth of May. He went immediately to Columba’s quarters where the venerable man was resting.
The Caledonian had not seen his spiritual father for more than five years and was immediately shocked at the change so visible upon his features. Columba had been such a vital individual, powerful of voice and frame, and even more formidable of spiritual and mental constitution, perhaps the greatest man of his generation. Now he lay tired, pale, even his wonderful gray eyes losing their luster and sparkle. The earthly spirit was indeed ebbing out of the great man’s weary body.
Fintenn could not prevent tears from welling up in his eyes. He walked to the bed, knelt down, embraced the thin form, then laid his head on Columba’s chest and broke into manly weeping.
“Ah, dear one, weep not for me,” said Columba quietly. “Do not grieve that my time has come. Rather rejoice with me.”
As he spoke, Columba placed a thin white hand on the younger man’s head and patted it, affectionately remembering the first day he had seen him as a lad at his father’s side only moments after stepping ashore at Inbhir-Nis.
Fintenn glanced up, his cheeks glistening and wet from the Celtic outpouring of his emotion. The glowing smile that met his gaze was sufficient momentarily to melt away his grief.
He stood and returned Columba’s smile.
“It is good to see you again, my friend,” he said.
“And you,” replied Columba. “How goes the work at Kailli-an-Inde?”
“Well . . . very well.”
“And your sister?”
“Also well,” replied Fintenn.
“The fire of her Celtic blood is cooling at last?”
“I doubt it will ever cool,” chuckled Fintenn. “But the fire is now directed toward the warfare
of the spirit. Anghrad and Domhnall have three children now, and are spreading the faith among the people of the islands. The spiritual seeds you planted in our family continue to bear much fruit.”
They continued to speak of many things. No one ever heard what Columba said to him, and though he was a man of prolific writing, neither did the Caledonian priest later record a single one of the words which passed between them. The truths of that day, Fintenn said, could be stored only one place—in the quiet depths of his own heart.
Twenty-Four
The following morning, after a great downpour of rain, the sun came out over the island in glorious fashion. Columba asked Diormait and Fintenn to place him in a cart that he might go out. The sun had drawn him, and it was unseasonably warm.
“And find Diorbhall-ita,” he added, “that she might accompany us.”
They did so. With the stately woman of grace walking beside them, the two men carried him to the distant side of Iona, where some of the priests were at work. The workers laid down their implements and gathered round the cart. Columba took each of their hands and blessed them one by one, thanking each for his hard work on behalf of the monastery.
He turned his face toward the east. Still seated as he was in the cart, he spoke a prayer of blessing over the island and its inhabitants. He was then carried back to the monastery by his two attendants. Diorbhall-ita hung several steps behind. She was softly weeping.
Not many days later, on the Sabbath Saturday, having regained his strength, Columba and his servant Diormait were walking with Diorbhall-ita. Columba turned to his servant. “Leave us a moment, will you, my friend,” he said. Diormait did so.
When Columba and Diorbhall-ita were alone, Columba spoke. “I have a secret to tell you, dear one,” he said, “but only if you promise not to reveal it to anyone before my death.”
“I promise,” agreed Diorbhall-ita, though with some inner reluctance.
“This day in the Scriptures is called a Sabbath, which means rest,” Columba went on. “And this day is indeed a Sabbath to me. For the Lord has revealed that this shall be the last day of the labors of my present life, and that tonight, at midnight, as the Sabbath passes, I shall depart.”
“Oh, dear Colum, please do not say it!”
“I am sorry to make you sad, dear one. But you mustn’t grieve. You cannot imagine how happy it makes me. My only sorrow is that Baithen has still not arrived. I would so like to see my old friend one final time.”
They returned toward the monastery.
Coming toward them, they observed Fintenn and Baithen, who had just moments before stepped off his boat from across the sound.
In spite of Columba’s rejoicing, Diorbhall-ita’s heart sank still lower, knowing what secret she held in her heart. She turned and walked away while Columba hurried forward to meet his old friend. The two monks who had been pilgrims together in crossing to Iona thirty-four years earlier embraced with tears of joy. Baithen, though aging, still carried the strength and vigor of manhood, while Columba seemed shrunken and bowed with old age. Diormait joined them again.
The four sat down together and fell to talking. They spent some minutes in quiet conversation. Presently they observed Diorbhall-ita walking alone on the hill overlooking the monastery. Columba rose and nodded to his friends.
They departed, and Columba slowly ascended the hill toward her.
Diorbhall-ita saw his approach and waited. They stood for some time together, gazing about. It was a gorgeous warm day of early June.
“Such a day makes it almost possible to forget the bitter cold of winter,” said Diorbhall-ita at length.
Columba nodded, knowing he was enjoying this view of his beloved isle for the last time.
“Has what I said brought you grief, dear one?” asked Columba at length.
“Of course. How can it not?” she replied. “You know how I love you.”
Columba nodded. He continued to gaze about, then sighed deeply.
“I shall miss you, Iona,” he said at length. “And I shall miss you, my dear Diorbhall-ita. The Lord has used you in many ways to make my life rich. I thank God for you.”
“And I you, dear Colum.”
“He has blessed us indeed to have allowed us to share life together as we have.”
It was silent a few moments, then Columba stooped down to the ground and picked up a rock. It was no larger than a walnut. For a moment he held it in his hand. Then he raised both arms into the air, his right hand clutching the pebble, and, as if in final benediction, blessed the monastery and its work:
“Small and plain though this place be,” he said, “yet it shall be held in great honor for the work that has proceeded from it, not only among the Scots kings and their people, but also by the rulers and people of foreign lands. Even the saints of other churches shall regard this isle with uncommon reverence.”
He lowered his hands, looked at the rock in his palm, then to the woman who had been his faithful friend. He smiled, then let the stone drop to the ground.
A gust of wind kicked up. In the distance across the sea, approaching storm clouds could be seen.
They began to walk from the place. Diorbhall-ita paused, bent down, and retrieved the stone. She carried it with her as they returned to the abbey, and there put it among her few possessions.
They descended the hill and parted, Columba to his own room in the monastery. Already the sky was darkening and the gusts increasing.
Columba lay down and rested until Sabbath evening’s vespers. Thereafter he returned again to his cell. Once more he lay down on his bed of bare flagstone. There he remained the rest of the evening, his head, as was his custom, resting on a pillow of stone.
Knowing what approached, Diorbhall-ita refused to leave him. She longed to tell the saint’s dearest friends what he had confided. But her tongue was constrained to silence.
Thus she alone spent the last hours in his presence.
Twenty-Five
The hour of the same evening grew late.
Columba dozed off once or twice. The Sabbath was nearly done.
As he slept, Diorbhall-ita sat beside his bed, gently stroking arm and head in loving ministration. Her thoughts were on that Mary of like calling as had once been her own, who had also been cleansed and forgiven the stain of that deepest of human defilements.
What, she wondered, had been in Mary of Magdala’s heart toward Jesus of Nazareth? Did she dare believe that Mary of Galilee might have loved her Lord in a womanly way as well as a worshipful way? Had she doubly ministered to him both as a disciple and a woman, keeping it within her own heart?
How blessed she was, thought Diorbhall-ita to herself, to be allowed a similar privilege.
She looked down at the sleeping face, now wrinkled with age, feeling no less love for him now than when it had first blossomed within her so long ago. What might the Lord have felt toward Mary, she wondered.
If only he would open his heart to her before he went, Diorbhall-ita thought. If only he would tell her whether, in all these years, he had loved her in the way she had quietly treasured her love for him.
Slowly she bent forward to the bedside and kissed the wrinkled cheek.
The kiss roused Columba to wakefulness, though he did not know what it was that had awakened him. He looked up. There sat Diorbhall-ita, such a smile on her face as he thought he had never seen.
The candle flickering on the table could not light the whole room. But it was sufficient to send light into each of their eyes. Now Columba sought her eyes with his own. What he said with them was enough to make her happy the rest of her days.
He reached out his hand, still gazing into her face, and took hers. For several long seconds he held it tight. In that moment she knew that he had loved her, and had always loved her.
“My dear, dear Colum,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you!”
Several more moments of silence followed.
“I want to give you my final instructions,
” said Columba at length. “Write them down, my faithful Diorbhall-ita, that you may convey my words to the brethren.”
He paused. She sought paper and materials to do as requested.
“These, O my children,” Columba began, “are the last words I address to you—that you be at peace, and show sincere charity among yourselves. If you thus follow the example of the holy fathers, God, the Comforter of the good, will be your Helper, and I, abiding with him, will intercede for you. And he will not only give you sufficient to supply the wants of this present life, but will also bestow on you the good and eternal rewards which are laid up in heaven for those who keep his commandments.”
Columba fell silent.
By and by the monastery bell tolled midnight, sounding across the sea-surrounded isle, that the Sabbath was past and that the Sunday of June 9 had begun. The tempest that had blown in from across the sea now raged over Iona.
Columba rose from his bed, anxious to get to the church for the midnight mass. He left his quarters. In spite of his weakness, he broke into a run. Diorbhall-ita hastened after him in alarm.
Columba entered the church alone, hurried quickly forward, and fell at the altar on his knees in prayer.
Moments later Diorbhall-ita entered. A sudden flash of lightning was followed by a great crash in the sky overhead. To her eyes the whole interior of the chapel was filled with bright light. It seemed to radiate from her kneeling master. The monks began to enter almost immediately and witnessed the same great radiance. With them came Columba’s servant.
As quickly as it had come, the light vanished.
Diormait rushed forward into the darkness, heedless of the great storm outside that suddenly seemed to consume the island. Columba had disappeared from his vision.
“Father,” cried Diormait, “Father . . . where are you!”
Feeling his way in the darkness, as the others approached from behind with candles in their hands, the faithful servant found the aged saint lying beside the altar. Diormait stooped down, gently slipped his hands under him, and raised him a little, supporting his head on his chest.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 53