The Well of the North Wind

by Steven, Kenneth;

  Suddenly she swung Fian round so he faced her; spun him round so again he lost his balance and sat down awkwardly on the sand. He felt like a five-year-old child as he tried to hold her gaze.

  All at once he seemed to waken from his inner cocoon and think straight, and he was back in his mind at the Well of the North Wind. ‘I have been careful!’ he said, and now he heard his heart’s thud, and felt the blood rise in his face. ‘It was Mara that . . .’

  And then he stopped himself; he said no more. He could not betray her.

  She looked at him and down at the sand between them. She took his two hands in her own and he did not try to take them back. ‘I understand, Fian,’ she said, and when he dared to gaze at her again her face was glassy. But she did not turn away. And it was strange how he felt strong as she held his hands. Something he had never known before that went through him and somehow made him strong too. He felt her strength.

  ‘But you must know that she will die one day!’ The words almost choked out of her, in grief and anger and pain.

  ‘Maybe she can be healed.’ The words burst out of him.

  ‘No!’ Sharp and taut, like the jerk of a rope. That was what he thought and she commanded stillness. She waited and the same power pulsed and pulsed through his hands. It was a strength that frightened him.

  ‘There must be no false hope. You might offer that, you might even believe it. But Mara knows herself what will be, sooner or later. A long time ago she came to a place where she understood. And you must not take that away, with your promises and your prayers. If you will be a friend to her, if you will love her, you will not do that. Do you understand?’

  The words almost shouted at him, but because of what was in her own heart. He knew that later, in the hours when he raked over every word.

  ‘Yes, I understand and I promise,’ he said, and his voice was soft and still he held her gaze. As the power came beat after beat through her hands.

  Did she hold him then a moment before she got up and was gone? He could not remember, but at some point his hands were his own again and he had slumped to one side and realized that the water was lapping against his thigh. He looked up and there was no sign of her; it might have been that he had sat here always on his own and had done nothing more than imagine her presence. Yet he knew what had been all the same. He did not doubt that. And in the morning’s blue wind there was the tanging of the bell, calling and calling them.

  *

  Fian found himself returning to the Well of the North Wind. Or at least he tried to find it. Before, he had just followed Mara and it had seemed easy, as though it was a straight path. There was a moment now he almost gave up in disgust and began tramping his way back. He tried to keep to higher ground, away from the deep slumps of bog, but he failed in that too. Once he had to climb out onto a rise on all fours and he felt cold and his pride hurt. He sat down at the top of the rise and had to admit that he was lost. Well, he would find his way back all right if he left while there was still plenty of light, but he felt he might have gone on wandering for many hours. All at once he smiled to himself at the foolishness of it; he smiled and he laughed. How long was it since last he had laughed? The truth was he couldn’t remember, and now it felt good. Then he picked himself up because he was feeling the cold, and he decided he would give it one last try. If he failed he would admit defeat and turn back, no matter his hurt pride.

  He fought again to keep high and quite suddenly he was out of the mire and into a tiny glen that led through beside high rocks to a view of the far sea. And he knew that he had been here that day with Mara, and he remembered the way from here. In a few minutes he found the place.

  Before he sat down he crouched and looked at the pool of black water in the well. He would have passed it by had she not brought him here first and told him; it was no more than another bit of wetness in the moor. But he found his hand reaching out to cup some water and drink it. He swallowed a mouthful. It was warm; that was the first surprise. Not like the brisk flowing of river water in winter; this was still, held by the tight clasp of the grass and the heather. But clear and pure; he felt it deep inside. He wanted more. And he thought how the black surface was transformed to crystal clearness when he brought it up.

  He sat a while and did nothing but watch. But for a few winter-pink clouds the sky was all but clear over the island, though a storm was coming in black chariots from the west. It was almost akin to an enormous flock of birds, or perhaps ten thousand flocks that flew together. And on the underside of these great black clouds were flutterings of lightning. At once he thought of the books of Daniel and Revelation; it was a manifestation of judgement that drove over the sea towards him. And for a moment, for a second, that was a thought that came to him. This was the judgement.

  *

  ‘Colum wants you to come to speak with him. Tonight.’

  Neil had come up the stairs that morning to find him. Fian had turned around to look at him, the edge of a smile on his face, for Neil was the greatest among them for tricks. It was hard to know when he was deadly serious and when fooling, and Fian had fallen into too many of his traps. But there was no cruelty in him; he was kindness itself to little Cuillin, would stop and talk to him at the garden, make sure he was never forgotten.

  ‘As sure as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow, Colum wants to see you tonight. The day will come when no one believes a thing I say . . .’

  He was already on his way down the staircase and Fian called after him: ‘We would not have you any different, Neil. Do not despair of us . . .’

  He was rather excited that Colum wanted to see him. He thought of what it could be as he went back to his page. They did not see Colum so much now; often he retreated to his cell and did not want to be disturbed. Better not bring the bear from hibernation: that was how Cuan had put it one day when the bear had been all claws with him. But they saw well enough how he wrestled with growing old. He fought against his weaknesses and they wept for him. He wanted to admit nothing and be the master he once had been. The man inside had the spirit still of a bear; it was just that on the outside the bear was failing. Yet somehow the older he became the more they loved him. Rare was it that a word was spoken against him, and woe betide any man who spoke ill of him without due thought.

  And so Fian went with a light heart. He remembered the first time he met Colum and how everything in him shook. Perhaps there was something of the leader in him that liked that, that had not wanted to dispel it completely when he had chased Fian off to find Ruach. He had come away half-sick with fear, his head a bewilderment of new names and places.

  ‘So tell me how the book is progressing!’

  The grey-blue eyes flashed at him, listening intently and excited. Every third breath or so he drew in more air as though he was always searching a bit more now, yet he followed every word. And Fian poured out what he had done, not as a pupil who needs the praise of a teacher, but as one lover of words to another. Not boastful, only glad for what had been found, like one who had searched for gold in a river.

  ‘Fian, there is somewhere I want you to go.’

  As he spoke the words Colum got up and turned away, moved about in the shadows. They were well enough used to it; tired he might be, but he could never stay still for long. It was as though he thought better on his feet.

  ‘It is a listening place. This is a doing place, unless you are like Ruach and hide away among green stones. But there are times for listening, too, and that is what I want you to do now. It is another island, but a very different kind of place.’

  They looked at each other in the light now; the one man standing and the other seated. Fian was trying to think about his words; this was not what he had expected. He did not know if it was a gift or a punishment. Nor did he rightly know what questions to ask. There was silence for a moment and the eyes searched each other.

  ‘I am . . . I am in the middle of so much,’ Fian said. ‘When can I come back? How long must I stay away? I don’t unders
tand why it should be now!’

  ‘Sometimes it is good to let the well fill with water,’ said Colum, and at once Fian thought of the well he had come to know, and he saw Mara’s face and he tasted again the deep purity of that water.

  Fian dared to answer, though he knew well that he must be careful. ‘There is water, though, and in abundance. I am working as I have never done before and I am loath to leave.’ His voice was soft.

  ‘Beware when there seems to be so much water to draw!’ said Colum, and he sat once more and leaned close to Fian. There was the big breath, and the grey-blue eyes flickered in the light. Fian tried to read them, to know what was behind them. He had to tread carefully or the bear would be there and the saint no more.

  ‘Then is it never possible to be content with what one has? Does one always have to be wary, whether there is too little or too much? You told me there would be days here when I wanted to be away, when I had had enough and could stomach no more. I have struggled and yet now I have found. I do not want to leave when I am finding.’

  For a second he thought the bear was going to rise and pounce. Then the big breath and the eyes searched and thought and then returned. ‘I am not asking you, Fian,’ he said, and the voice was calm but sure. Fian moved where he sat and made as though to speak again.

  ‘And one more thing,’ Colum said. ‘I want there to be no goodbyes.’

  *

  Even before dawn the boat, and a cold the like of which he had never known. Perhaps because of the wind on the water, and the pain of it on his face, making his eyes run with water. And those tears seemed to freeze on his cheeks and on the bones above his cheeks, and he bent his head and closed his eyes for he could hardly bear the soreness.

  It would be a beautiful morning and he could see none of it. He did not understand and in the one moment when he had courage enough to lift his head he saw the tower and his heart flamed with the thought of the book. He thought of it now as his book, and he could not bear the idea of another hand working on its words. And yet that must have been the way of it with the three who came before. Strange to think he still did not know what had become of them and had never asked. Perhaps the truth was that he did not want or need to know.

  He half curled in the bottom of the boat to be out of the flensing of the wind. He knew nothing: where he was going, how far away it might be, how long he was to be there. And yet he did know it was hardly unusual. Men like Larach would have wanted nothing less. Was it that he had been spoiled too long? Was that what it was?

  His companion in the boat, the man who now took him away, said not a word. He was the master of the vessel and nothing more. His eyes took in the water, the rocks, the sky. Twice Fian thought of asking him where they were going, and twice he shut his mouth once more.

  All at once he did look up and he saw away over to one side a stony beach. It was at once familiar yet it took a moment to know why. He was seeing it the wrong way round. But the great rock that lay behind and something about the line of the shore; he was sure he recognized both. Then he knew and would almost have smiled had the wind not come again and the tears begun to flow from his eyes so he had to hide his head once more. Of course, it was Colum’s beach, the place where once he had landed. And the place where Ruach hid to search for his beloved green stones.

  It was a tiny comfort to see the place. And yet now as they went further and further away from the island, he realized how he had come to love it. Larach had said something about that, about returning to the island after all the hardship they had known in the empty, barren landfalls of the north. It was only when you could come back and know just how precious it always had been.

  Now he saw the island for the last time. They were turning round a headland to the south and in a moment it would be swallowed and lost. His eyes smarted and he felt a fool, but he could not help it. He thought of them waking in the dwelling and finding him gone; he heard in his head their puzzled questions. What Neil would say of the work-hungry scribe. He saw them all and he loved them.

  Even now, on this perfect winter morning, there was a swell to the water and a faint sickness rose within him. They were turning round the headland and riding the waves. He crouched down in the boat once more and knew he was no good sailor. Larach and his companions would have thrown him overboard for his uselessness. And he felt that now; he felt helpless and hopeless. The only good in him was left behind in the tower on the island, and that was the truth.

  *

  He woke when the boat thudded against rocks. He did not want even to raise his head for he had felt so sick the last hours. He had curled to sleep in the bottom of the boat and now he dragged himself up and reached out a hand for the bundle of things he had brought with him. The man shoved him roughly onto the shore.

  ‘Tell Goloch I will be back for you when I am told!’

  Fian could barely remember his own name let alone the complexity of such a message. He nodded and turned away, and sank down pathetically among the stones. His eyes ranged over them and he saw that they were all the same – thin flakes of stone the like of which he had never seen before. The sky and the sea and the rocks swam together and he was sick. By the time he looked up again the boat had long since vanished.

  There was a rough stone staircase leading up from the landing place, and it was built of the same thin, grey slices of stone he had seen on the shore. He felt well enough to stand tall and look about him. It was the greyest place he had seen in all his life. A hump-backed rock; that was effectively what it was, and up above him he now saw three or four shelters that were made out of the grey stone. From where he stood they might have been the humps of mythical creatures. He saw their doorways and slits of windows. Fian was so weak he could only climb the staircase bit by bit. He had to lean and rest sometimes, and then he looked back over the sea, at the island hills and their shoulders of snow. They were so bright with sun he could hardly look at them, but the place to which he had been brought was shrouded in shadow. He thought with bitter irony that this was what purgatory must be like.

  By the time he reached the dwellings he was hungry. There was no one there. They stood in silence, ghostly and empty. They had been built under the ridge of what he assumed was an island; they might be in near permanent shadow, but at least they were protected from the wind. Fian crouched and waited, and in the end he lay down and went to sleep.

  When he woke again, after what might have been one hour or ten, he found himself inside one of the stone shelters. He had a woollen blanket over him and when he sat up he saw that there was a cup beside him and a little stack of fragments of oatcake. He ate hungrily and drank. The water was good, partly because he had drunk nothing now for a long time – yet it was more than that. With a stab he thought of the water of the Well of the North Wind and its clarity and purity, the way it reached to the very roots when one drank. And then a face appeared in the doorway. It was that of a young boy. He had a great tumble of thick ginger curls and freckled cheeks. The blue eyes glittered over Fian, friendly and alive.

  ‘My name is Goloch,’ he said. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  Fian nodded and reached for the cup to ask for more water.

  ‘Most people who come here are sick when they arrive. It’s the last bit of the crossing; you might as well be on the back of a horse, even on a calm day like this. But there’s no one else here at the moment. From tomorrow I’ll leave you in silence because that was what I was told to do, but I’ll always be here if you need me. Later I can show you the island if you want. But sleep a while and I’ll bring you more water.’

  The boy had gone before Fian could say thank you. The kindness touched him nonetheless, perhaps all the more because of the way he had had to leave that morning, because of his sickness and the grey stone. When the boy came back and reached in with the cup, he thanked him from the heart.

  Later they crossed the island. Goloch was ten paces ahead of him, talking all the time and telling him about the landing place, the great wh
irlpool to the south, the ones who had first come from Ireland and who lived west of here, where he himself had come from, and a whole host of other things ranging from sea monsters to the making of oatcakes.

  Fian wondered if monks came here prepared for silence or chose rather to flee into it, but he was glad of Goloch’s company all the same. For his part the boy was not the least interested in Fian’s provenance, and Fian was glad enough to do little more than listen. He let some of the talk wash over him, nodding when he thought it appropriate, and he realized that it was a very long time since he had heard anyone talk so much. Perhaps on a wet day when there had been yet another argument about angels in the dwelling, and several of the young scribes had come and joined in too. But most often Fian had fled then, back to the quiet dark of the tower.

  There was nowhere beautiful on the island, but then perhaps that was why it had been chosen. There were no trees; almost nothing green at all. It was most certainly a desert place, the sort of escape that Larach and his kind yearned for. That he could understand well enough, but it was when they came back bragging about the austerity and how many days they had managed to endure . . .

  But why had Colum sent him now? It was true enough he had been nowhere else for long enough, but then he was not fully one of them. He was on the fringes of their world and content to be so, neither completely believing nor fully doubting, bound to them and yet not. He wondered if that was the reason, to break him in like a wild horse through solitude and hunger and greyness. To let God shatter at last the safe walls he had built up around himself.

  Now, that day, he fed Goloch sprats of questions and half listened to the answers. The boy made a fire and something warm out of oatmeal that Fian hoped he would never have to eat again. The sky turned a deep blue and Fian thought of the songs and the music there could have been around such a fire. How many times had he slipped away from such gatherings?