Brendan

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Brendán’s eyes twinkled. “There’s a man called Gowrán you should meet. He might donate a sliver.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah…not exactly. I was making a joke,” Brendán wryly admitted. “Do pieces of the Cross still exist?”

  “I don’t know; I’m not even sure it matters. Have you ever had a vision, Brendán?”

  The young man hesitated. This was private territory. “Have you?”

  “I have not. I long with all my soul for a personal communication from Our Lord, but I’m afraid it will never happen here. We are too preoccupied with the tangible. Personally, I think the saddest story in Holy Scripture is that of Doubting Thomas.”

  “I agree,” said Brendán. “Perhaps…”

  The words rose up in me again, out of that wellspring.

  “Perhaps the act of believing is almost as important as what one believes in. Faith itself has weight and value, Brother Jarlath. The human yearning to believe is very strong. There can be no explanation for it but the existence of God. Because our dreaming souls remember God, our waking minds desperately try to believe in something. The important thing is this: we have to believe first. That’s what makes miracles possible.”

  Jarlath was impressed. “How did one so young acquire such wisdom?”

  Brendán looked down at his toes: dirty toes with broken nails and thick pads of callus where the sandals had rubbed. “Thoughts come to me during my travels,” he said modestly.

  “I regret I’ve never gone on a pilgrimage.”

  “A pilgrimage takes place in the mind and heart,” said Brendán. “Walking stimulates me, but if you really want to, you could close your eyes and go on a pilgrimage without leaving this room.”

  The older man looked dubious. “The abbot would never countenance such behaviour.”

  How often has Bishop Erc reproved me when my mind appeared to wander?

  “Then why not found a monastery yourself, Brother Jarlath? You have great knowledge and an exemplary reputation. Devout men would flock to you.”

  “A monastery requires land and I have none.”

  With a sudden broad smile, Brendán announced, “God has shown me the perfect site for you!”

  “Is this another joke, like the splinter?”

  “It isn’t a joke. You asked if I ever had a vision. I have, but I realise it wasn’t intended for me. I’m just the vehicle to take you there.”

  Jarlath studied his eager face. There was a light in those eyes. Brendán believed.

  At Tuam, the Mound of Two Shoulders, Jarlath prepared to build his monastery. He had permission from his abbot and the support of the bishop of the diocese. The local chieftain, a recent convert, had given him the land. The monastery was to be called Clon Fuis, the Exuberant Meadow. A name inspired by the profusion of wildflowers.

  Brendán helped set the cornerstone.

  “Stay here and take holy vows,” Jarlath urged him. “This was your vision also; you said the wheel broke in two pieces. Clon Fuis will be yours as much as mine; we can build it together.”

  I was tempted. I could imagine staying with that good man in that holy place and welcoming brothers who also sought visions. But Erc had cursed me with a sense of responsibility that I could not throw off, no matter how much I wanted to. It was a greater nuisance than a conscience.

  Brendán said, “I have to go back to Bishop Erc first. I couldn’t take such a step without this permission.”

  “We could send him a letter. I’m sure he would give you his blessing.”

  “Letters aren’t always enough,” Brendán said sadly.

  This time I did not follow a circuitous route. Although I had been travelling for a long time, the distance between Tuam and Slane was relatively short. The most important part of the pilgrimage took place inside the head.

  While hurrying towards Meath I composed a number of speeches for the bishop. Seeking for arguments he would have to accept. Except there weren’t any. There’s no easy way to tell a person what they don’t want to hear.

  As he climbed the Hill of Slane, Brendán decided the best approach was to be blunt and get it over with.

  He was not given the opportunity. The doors which had opened for him were closing.

  Chapter 14

  “The bishop’s not here,” said Brige. Her hands were twisting together like small animals wrestling. “He left for Tearmónn Eirc ten days ago. I didn’t want him to go, but you know how he is,” she added plaintively.

  Brendán leaned his staff against the doorframe and stooped to unfasten his sandals. His tired feet ached. “I know how he is. Why didn’t you want him to go?”

  The young woman fought back tears. “He’s very ill, Brendán—though he won’t admit it—but he insisted on making the journey. He went for you. To be with you.”

  Brendán straightened abruptly. “I haven’t been anywhere near there. A pilgrimage means going somewhere you’ve never been before. Erc knows that.”

  “He loves you like a son—though he wouldn’t admit that either—and after you left it was like when Eithne died. He slowly shrank down into himself. Finally he even stopped thinking clearly. He was convinced you were on your way home—meaning Tearmónn Eirc—and he insisted he’d promised to meet you there. We could see how ill he was; we all tried to dissuade him but it was like talking to a stump. He summoned his charioteer and off they went.” The tears dammed by her eyelids spilled over; flooded down her cheeks. “Oh Brendán, I don’t think I’ll ever see him alive again!”

  I had never ridden a horse in my life, but I borrowed the fastest one in the parish and set off for Tearmónn Eirc. By the time Sliabh Mis rose before me, every bone in my body hated the unfortunate horse. The poor creature’s abused mouth must have hated me just as much. But I had learned to ride.

  During Brendán’s pilgrimage, Rome finally had appointed a new bishop to Altraighe-Caille. Molua was a fussy, middle-aged widower and disinclined to marry again; a conscientious Christian who did everything he was asked to do and never less—but never more; a man of small dreams who considered the bishopric of an obscure diocese to be the achievement of a lifetime.

  When Bishop Molua heard that a man on a horse was approaching, he rushed out to meet him. “Are you Brendán?” he shouted before the rider even drew rein.

  “I am.”

  The bishop threw his hands in the air. “Our prayers have been answered!” he exulted. His expression sobered. “The bishop of Slane is dying, Brendán, and he’s been calling for you. We feared you might not arrive in time. It’s a miracle you did.”

  “A miracle,” echoed Brendán. His lips felt numb.

  “I’ll take you to him at once. Follow me.”

  They came to a high earthen bank, passed through an unguarded gateway, entered a space delineated by roof and walls and peopled with shadows. When the shadows spoke to Brendán their words bounced off his ears. He was only aware of the figure on the bed.

  Erc had always been lean, but now there was not enough meat on his bones to make hills of the blanket that covered him. His exposed face was ghastly. The skin was thin enough to reveal the skull beneath and had turned an improbable greenish-yellow, while the area around the eyes was the colour of a deep bruise. From across the room Brendán could smell the odour of decay. Some vital part of the man was dying.

  Brendán dropped to his knees beside the bed. “I’ve come home,” he said.

  Erc opened his eyes. “I knew you would,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I have come too…” A pause. A wheeze of breath. “…to ordain you.” He reached out with a hand resembling a bundle of twigs tied together. Brendán took it in his own hand.

  Erc closed his eyes.

  Brendán looked towards Bishop Molua. “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know…I can’t say…we do have a healer here, though.” He signalled to an elderly woman with bags of herbs and nostrums tied to her girdle.

  She bent over the sickbed, watching the man’s breath
ing, then lowered her head to listen to his chest. When she straightened up again she told Brendán, “He appears to be sleeping. He’s been waiting a long time for you; now he can relax. And so can you,” she added kindly.

  Brendán became aware of the other people in the room.

  They reminded me of carrion crows waiting at the edge of a battlefield.

  Suddenly the young man narrowed his eyes to slits.

  Rome had appropriated the right to appoint bishops, but in the Celtic Church the rules of hierarchical succession followed the secular system established under Brehon Law. When a bishop—or abbot—died, the most suitable member of his family took his place.

  As soon as I saw Ninnidh I knew why he had come. The avid expression on his unguarded face gave him away. Clon Ard wasn’t that far from Slane. The bishop’s cousin would have known about his illness before I did.

  Ninnidh assumed Erc would agree with what seemed obvious to him: since the bishop had no living brothers and no sons, his well-educated cousin was the most suitable person to be the next bishop of Slane. Ninnidh was not surprised by Brendán’s arrival at Tearmónn Eirc, but neither was he concerned. The bishop’s godson was not related to Erc by blood; therefore he was negligible.

  When he saw Brendán looking at him, Ninnidh responded with the blank stare of disinterest.

  I interpreted his expression as contempt. The iron of resolution took hold of me then.

  A dog may chase a man on a galloping horse, but if he catches them he still won’t be able to ride the horse.

  Brendán leaned over the bed and whispered into Erc’s ear, “I’ll be here when you feel better. And you will feel better. You promised to ordain me for the priesthood so I can follow in your footsteps.” He repeated the last phrase deliberately. “So I can follow in your footsteps.”

  A faint smile creased the ghastly face.

  Brendán spent the night in his old cell, where he did not sleep but sat staring into the enemy Dark. Thinking.

  A monk could not serve as a priest but a priest could become a monk, and some did. Accepting ordination would not of itself deny me the right to enter a monastery, and the ordination would give a dying man comfort. It seemed a small sacrifice.

  It was not small.

  Better than anyone, I knew the strength of Erc’s will. He might have been asleep but on some level he had heard—and understood—my whispered words. His smile showed that he had interpreted “so I can follow in your footsteps” exactly as I meant him to. If Brige was right and the bishop loved me like a son, once I was ordained he would never confirm Ninnidh as his successor at Slane.

  I was disappointed to discover how petty I was; how mean-spirited. Christian virtue wasn’t as well rooted in me as I had thought.

  As punishment for my failings, I had tricked myself into the one thing I didn’t want.

  At sunset the bishop asked for a little warm milk.

  On the following day he ate some bread and a bit of fish.

  By the end of the week he was sitting up in bed and making plans for Brendán’s ordination. Erc still looked dreadful. Because of his thinness the damaged shoulder protruded more than ever, like the peak of a mountain above a rockslide, and his colour was still bad. But his voice was stronger and his mind was clear.

  Ninnidh had fully expected to return to Slane with the bishop’s body and carrying the bishop’s crosier. Erc’s recovery was as inexplicable to him as it was to everyone else. Yet he had to appear as happy as everyone else was—with the possible, and puzzling, exception of Brendán.

  When he thought no one was watching, the bishop’s godson looked as if he had been punched in the stomach.

  Ninnidh, who had grown up amid a crowd of rowdy siblings, did not like children; they were too loud, too demanding; they pummelled and pulled and tugged and were relentlessly selfish. Selfishness was all right in its place, Ninnidh felt, but he preferred it to serve him.

  In Tearmónn Eirc his distaste for children had been transferred to Brendán and Brige. He had expected the ecclesiastical center to be the sanctuary its name implied, a scholarly retreat peopled by adults. When the youngsters arrived he had ignored them to the best of his ability.

  Now Brendán was no longer a youngster. And it was obvious he was in pain.

  Ninnidh’s curiosity was aroused.

  Erc continued to gain in strength, ferociously willing himself to health. The first time he was able to stand up—shaky, trembling, leaning heavily on Brendán’s broad shoulder—his eyes were bleary and his skin sagged away from his bones like melting wax.

  Three days later he dispatched runners throughout the diocese of Altraighe to announce the upcoming ordination of Brendán, son of Finnlugh.

  The ordination took place at sunrise in the sod-walled church. It was crowded to bursting point by the time Bishop Molua entered, followed by the bishop of Slane. Erc was robed in the gold-embroidered vestments he customarily reserved for Easter.

  He had brought them from Slane; he was that sure of me.

  Erc was able to walk into the church, very slowly, but he immediately sat down on a stool which had been placed for him below the altar.

  Brendán was the last to enter. He wore only a plain tunic of bleached linen, belted with a new rope. Without looking left or right he paced solemnly forward and knelt at the feet of Bishop Erc.

  The words from the Gospel: “Everyone that hath forsaken father or mother or sister or lands for my Name’s sake shall receive a hundredfold in the present, and shall possess everlasting life.”

  The vows. The anointing oil.

  And the bloom of joy that brought a touch of colour to Bishop Erc’s cheeks for the first time in months.

  Ninnidh, who was watching closely, detected no joy on the face of the newly-ordained priest, either at that moment or during the celebration that followed.

  Bishop Erc had been granted a brief respite from his illness—many called it a miracle—but after the ordination he was exhausted. Bishop Molua made him comfortable in his house in Tearmónn Eirc and assured him he could stay as long as he wanted.

  Ninnidh waited for several days before confronting him. “I am deeply sorry about your illness, cousin,” he said—pointedly calling attention to their relationship—“but under the circumstances, do you not think it would be wise to name your successor at Slane?”

  “No.”

  Ninnidh’s carefully arranged smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

  “No means no, Ninnidh. I shall rest here until I am stronger, then I intend to take Brendán to Slane and prepare him to succeed me as bishop when the time comes.”

  Ninnidh’s jaw dropped. “But he’s only a boy!”

  “Coming close to death gives a person clearer vision,” Erc said. “I see now that you are not as observant as you should be. Brendán has been a grown man for several years.”

  “Are you sure it’s what he wants?” Ninnidh struggled not to sound desperate. “He seems so unhappy…”

  “Did he tell you he is unhappy?”

  “No, but…”

  “Then do not make assumptions, Ninnidh. That is another of your failings; you make assumptions. Go now. I need to rest.”

  “I’ll go,” Ninnidh said through gritted teeth. “Just don’t expect me to come running back when you need me.”

  That same day he left for Clon Ard.

  The bishop of Slane suffered through a cold wet summer while fluid gathered in his lungs and his heart rattled behind his ribs. He delayed discussing the bishopric with Brendán. Not because he feared his godson would refuse—he was confidant Brendán would accept—but because he felt the appointment and its subsequent announcement should be made at Slane.

  Day by day Erc insisted he was feeling better. Day by day his strength drained from him. At last he was forced to admit to himself that he would never return to Slane; he could not survive the journey. He could not even summon the energy to give Brendán the intense preparation such a young man would require to succe
ed him.

  Fortunately Erc had trained other priests, older and more experienced men, any one of whom was qualified to become bishop of Slane. But not his godson, not the one upon whom he had set his heart.

  When the wild geese flew south in the autumn they took Bishop Erc’s soul with them.

  On the day he died I felt nothing at first. Numbness in the face of the impossible. Erc simply could not be dead. The man who above all others had shaped my life—how could he be gone?

  There had been times when I resented the bishop, a few times when I almost hated him. He had been a boulder in my road, keeping me from reaching destinations of my own choosing. But after his death I began to fill with grief like water in a barrel; a grief so cold and deep it drowned all other emotions.

  Once I had thought God was my actual father. Then I learned of Finnlugh but never saw him, had no way of knowing him. Yet Erc had always been there. The father life chose for me.

  After he was gone I knew I loved him.

  Everything was done as Bishop Erc would have wished. Runners were sent to inform the larger Christian community of his departure for heaven. A funeral Mass was said in the church he had helped build with his own hands. A large number attended the service. Some had travelled a considerable distance—including Ruan, who came all the way from Clon Ard.

  Ninnidh was conspicuous by his absence.

  The congregation sang “Gloria in excelsis Deo,” and “Audite Omnes,” a hymn composed in honour of Patrick. The earthen walls absorbed the music. As long as they remained standing they would resonate in memory of Erc, son of Daig.

  When the ceremony was over Brendán went down to the bay alone.

  I would not grieve for Bishop Erc beside the High Grave; that was not his place. Instead I sought the little harbour at the foot of Diadche and wept for him as I knelt on the damp earth.

  It was said of Erc that as a brehon he had always judged rightly. I prayed he would receive the same just judgement now.