And so I really lost her. My waking mind understood but my dreaming mind did not. My dreaming mind remembered God and made love to Íta.
In spite of the restrictions on monastic communities, their populations increased. Many people decided it was easier to take holy orders than to live up to the Church’s demands in a secular society.
In time and inevitably, Brendán’s admirers discovered where he was going. They followed him by boat and by land. In time and inevitably, his private oratory on Diadche rang with their prayers. A few even built tiny clocháns near the grotto to use during the summer months.
As Préachán matured he still spent every night in Brendán’s cell with his head tucked under his wing. When the bell rang to arouse the faithful for the first prayers of the day, the raven hopped onto Brendán and launched a mock assault with beak and talons. He never drew blood.
The raven would let no one touch him but Brendán; not even Brige. If she tried to put her hand on him he shied away. She was hurt by his refusal to accept her. Brendán said comfortingly, “Ravens are a law unto themselves, Brige. The rest of God’s creatures love you dearly; allow this one to be faithful to me.”
A number of women and children in the parish—and not a few men—began to “set something aside” for the big black bird. Préachán followed the same route day after day and thanked each of his contributors with a resonant croak.
Préachán would eat anything. Bread, wild fruits such as sloes and brambles, birds’ eggs, fish guts—it was all the same to him. If he could get it in his beak he swallowed it. When he was given more than he wanted he carried the excess back to my cell and stuffed it into the recesses where I stored my belongings. Once he replaced my bag of flints with a rotting crab.
The only manmade structure Préachán would enter was Brendán’s cell, though he would wait outside the door of the church while his friend was inside. When Brendán went out on the bay Préachán perched on the prow of his boat. His presence infuriated the gulls; they swooped as close as they dared and screamed insults at him, then fled in alarm if he looked at them.
Bishop Molua had misgivings about Préachán. “Crows are vermin,” he told Brendán. “You shouldn’t keep one.”
“He’s not a crow and I’m not keeping him,” Brendán replied. “Préachán’s free to fly away whenever he wants, but he chooses to stay with me. I’m flattered; ravens tend to avoid humans.”
The bishop tried a different approach. “Did you know that the pagan goddess of war is a raven?”
“Surely you’re not superstitious, Molua.”
The bishop bridled. “Of course not. I was only trying to explain the importance of symbols.”
“So a bird is a bad symbol? What about a deer? Or a fish? The early Christians used a fish as the symbol for Christ.”
“I…” Molua hesitated. Dimly he recalled Bishop Erc warning him not to debate with Brendán. “The point is…” He hesitated again. Rushed heedlessly forward. “We have to be mindful of tradition!”
“Tradition must be respected,” Brendán agreed. “Our forebears attributed magical powers to birds, so we should too. Among the Druids there is a class called diviners, who claim they can foretell the future by reading the entrails of owls. The diviners are invariably right in one respect.” His eyes danced. “The owls whose entrails they read have no future.”
Bishop Molua changed the subject.
Brendán’s name began to be known beyond the borders of Altraighe-Caille. Visitors to the ecclesiastical centre were impressed by the intelligence and piety of the young priest—and intrigued by the raven, his constant companion. When they returned to their homes they told their friends about him.
And their friends told their friends, in the way of the Irish. A good story could not be hoarded.
Autumn and winter and spring again. And change in the air.
Fionn-barr—Fair Top—was a devout Christian who had created a singular retreat in the wilderness to the east of the Ciarrí Luachra. On a tiny, grassy island in the midst of a tranquil lake he had built a stone hut for himself. The shore of the lake was a natural garden of ferns and moss. Beyond was a lush valley studded with massive boulders split from the cliffs that rose on all sides. Shielded from the vagaries of the weather, the location was a veritable paradise.
Such extravagant beauty seemed curiously at odds with the ascetic life that Fionn-barr lived. The local tribes speculated endlessly about him. In the absence of fact, imagination triumphed. People began claiming the hermit could perform miracles.
A local chieftain who visited him late one winter declared, “If with my two eyes I could see some wonder performed by your God, then I might believe in him.” The two men were standing on the cold ground beneath a leafless hazel tree. No sooner did the chieftain finish speaking than fully ripe hazel nuts showered down upon him. He was converted the same day.
Or so the story was told.
When Fionn-barr heard of the priest in Altraighe-Caille who built an oratory on the side of a wild and lonely mountain, he recognised a kindred spirit. But it was more than that. According to his informants, Brendán, like himself, could trace his bloodline to Niall of the Nine Hostages. Although he rarely left his island, Fionn-barr set out to meet his kinsman.
His arrival in Tearmónn Eirc was unremarkable. Aside from his unusual silvery-white hair he was just another pilgrim, travel-stained and weary, seeking shelter. When he gave his name and the reason for his visit, however, Bishop Molua could hardly contain his delight. If Brendán was acquiring a small reputation among Christians, Fionn-barr of Gougán Barra was already famous.
“You need not climb Diadche to meet Brendán,” the bishop told the visitor. “He’s often up there with his band of followers, but he’s here today, probably in his clochán. I’ll send for him.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. I prefer to go to him, just tell me which is his cell.”
“Easily identified, Brendán’s cell. It’s the one with the raven.”
Préachán was standing lookout atop the beehive hut. When he saw Fionn-barr approach he gave a loud croak. A moment later Brendán peered out of the low doorway. “A visitor, you say? Why, there he is!
“You’re very welcome,” he told Fionn-barr, “but do I know you? Never mind, come inside. It will be warmer in here with the two of us.”
“You actually do own a raven,” Fionn-barr marvelled as he sat down crosslegged on the earthen floor.
“No, I share my life with one,” said Brendán. “Préachán belongs to himself.”
They began their conversation with Niall of the Nine Hostages, establishing the familial links so important to the Gael. Brendán was touched that a distant kinsman had made such an effort to meet him.
“It was an impulse,” said Fionn-barr.
Brendán grinned. “You’ve come a long way on an impulse, then. That’s the sort of thing I do.”
“What else do you do?”
“Pray. Fish. Study Holy Scripture.”
“You must do more than that. Bishop Molua tells me you’ve acquired a devoted band of followers. Do you hope to found an order?”
“Oh no,” Brendán assured him. “I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else, I’m only beginning to find my own way.”
Fionn-barr persisted. “Perhaps you should think about it.”
“I have thought about it once or twice, but I know my limitations. Tell me, Fionn-barr: what pathway led you to Gougán Barra?”
His visitor tried to rest his back against the wall, which curved as it rose to meet the low ceiling. “My father was a master smith called Amargein, a name which has been passed down through the generations in our family. I inherited his silver hair but not his silver tongue. After his conversion to Christianity he told his family wonderful stories about Jesus Christ.”
“I heard the same stories as a small child,” said Brendán. Íta. Íta.
“Ever since I was a small child I wanted to be a priest,” Fionn-barr
continued. “As soon as I reached manhood I was ordained, and shortly afterward I married a woman who shared my love of God.” He shifted uncomfortably against the wall. “She died giving birth to our son,” he added in a low voice.
The two men sat listening to the click of the raven’s claws as he walked around on top of the cell.
At last Brendán asked—shyly—“Was it very good? Being married?”
Fionn-barr stared at the rectangle of grey light in the doorway. “Very good,” he said.
“Ah.”
Fionn-barr turned to look at the other man. Look into and through him, see the hidden pain. “Have you never…”
“No.”
“Not even…”
“No.”
The bird above them gave a derisive cry.
Chapter 16
The peninsula northwest of Gaul was called Armorica, the Land Facing the Sea. Over countless millennia, sediment from the seabed had been folded and pressed and folded again to form a chain of granite mountains running roughly east to west. During still more millennia, flooding overlaid the granite with ridges of quartzite and shale deposits. By the sixth century after Christ, erosion had abraded the former uplands, creating a countryside of broad, gently rolling plateaux that sloped to the sea. The infinitely varied coastline was deeply indented by river valleys. A variety of soils nourished a wide variety of plant life. Armorica was, if one had the ability to recognise it, beautiful.
The hand of God did this, Malo thought to himself. Out of old rocks, he made a miracle.
“How many people know a miracle when they see one?” he wondered aloud.
The only other ears in his immediate vicinity belonged to the mule upon which he rode. The ears were very large but not interested in philosophical speculation. The mule vastly preferred to hear oats being poured into a leather bucket. The animal had long yellow teeth commensurate with its considerable age, and a deadly kick unaffected by the years. As long as he sat on the mule’s back Malo was as safe as if surrounded by armed guards.
He was proud of his mule. The creature had come to him years ago and in a rather odd way. Malo’s tribe made its living by scooping salt from sand beaches after high tide. They dried the valuable commodity in brick kilns, then packed it into baskets which they carried to market by oxcart. The salt was purchased by seafarers who sold it on in distant ports—making a much larger profit than they would ever admit.
The Armorican phrase for a liar was: “as poor as a ship’s captain”.
Gathering the salt was backbreaking work, mind-numbingly monotonous. Malo’s father had done it before him, and that man’s father before him, and so backwards into the fog of unknowable time. It was simply the way things were. Life offered no alternatives.
In spite of this, in his youth Malo had dreamed. A wiry young man whose thick brown hair and bushy eyebrows were permanently grey with salt, he would suddenly stop in the middle of his work, lick the persistent rime of salt from his chapped lips, and wander among his hazy thoughts, searching for something fresh and bright.
Something else. Anything else.
One winter afternoon he had been loading baskets of salt into an oxcart when a brown mule came up the road. A man wearing a heavy cloak and a lugubrious expression sat astride the animal, wedged in place by a mountain of impedimenta. Mules were an uncommon sight in Armorica. Malo was astonished that the beast was able to carry so many burdens with apparent ease. Abandoning his task, he ran to the road to talk to the rider.
After a few false starts they found a common language in the Gaulish tongue. Neither spoke it fluently, but with the addition of extravagant gestures they understood each other.
The stranger identified himself as a priest from Rome. He had undertaken a journey modelled on that of an earlier holy man, but became disillusioned. Now he was anxious to return to his homeland. “The wide world is cold and grey,” he complained, “and the people have no culture.” With Malo’s help he wearily dismounted. As he stood rubbing his backside he asked, “Does this road lead to the sea?”
The Armorican nodded. An affirmative nod was part of the universal language.
“Do you know any captains of ships?”
Malo nodded again. Warily, this time.
The priest gave a relieved sigh. “Good. I have no desire to ride this beast all the way back to Rome. Could you arrange passage for me on an Armorican vessel?”
Rocking back on his heels, Malo assumed a doubtful expression. “This is not the best season for sailing,” he said.
“I do not mind a rough voyage,” replied the priest. “I have been riding a mule, remember.”
“How much can you pay for your passage?”
The priest’s face fell. “I have only a little silver left. I am accustomed to the best inns and they are run by robbers.”
“If I help you, how much will you pay me?”
The priest turned his hands palm up and appeared embarrassed.
Malo stood where he was and looked at the mule.
The mule looked back.
The priest followed the direction of Malo’s gaze. “Would you like to buy this beast?” he asked eagerly.
“I do not deal in animals. I sell salt.”
“This mule could carry a lot of salt. Mules are much more useful than oxen.”
Maintaining his dubious expression, Malo slowly examined the mule—a creature he knew almost nothing about—while clucking his tongue with disapproval as if he were an experienced mule dealer and had never seen such a bad example.
The animal was well fed and muscular and its hooves were neatly trimmed. Malo did not remark on these virtues aloud, however.
When the mule cocked a hind leg he quickly stepped back.
“Vicious brute,” he remarked.
“On the contrary, this mule has been my guardian angel,” the priest asserted. “Do you know about angels?”
Malo shook his head.
“Are you a Christian?”
Malo shook his head again.
A broad smile transformed the priest’s face. “Then in exchange for your assistance I shall give you a mule…and save your soul. The gift of faith is worth more than all the mules in the world. It can fill you with enough joy for a lifetime.”
“Joy,” echoed Malo, as if he did not know the word.
The priest sensed a possible breakthrough in negotiations. “The animal cannot be used for breeding,” he explained, hoping to clench the deal by a demonstration of honesty, “because the child of a mare and an ass is sterile. But this mule is very young and can provide you with sturdy transportation for many years to come.”
“And the ‘faith’ you offer. How long will that last?”
“Until the end of time,” the priest assured Malo.
In his journal Brendán wrote, ‘A kinsman of mine, Fionn-barr, son of Amargein, had given his son into fosterage following the death of his wife. He then retired from the world and built a hermitage at Gougán Barra. The first time he visited me I was deeply impressed by the man and we began to correspond. Eventually I invited him to Altraighe-Caille for a longer time, with the intention of asking him to become my spiritual confidante.’
On this occasion Fionn-barr spent a summer in Altraighe-Caille. He barely recalled a time when he had so enjoyed the company of others; had talked, and sung, and laughed. When he laughed out loud at some remark of Brendán’s, he felt his long-frozen joy begin to thaw.
The majesty of the sea moved him to tears. “It must be inspiring to live here,” he said to Brendán. “I have loved the woods and marshes, but this….” At a loss for adequate words, he made a gesture that encompassed the bay and the ocean beyond. “This,” he said simply.
“This,” Brendán echoed.
He took his guest to pray in the oratory on Diadche. Afterward they climbed to the summit side by side. With the beauty of God’s creation spread out below them, at last Brendán confessed the secret he had whispered only to Préachán in the privacy of his cell.
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“What is my penance?” he asked Fionn-Barr. He braced himself to receive a severe scourging at the very least; a permanent bed of nettles; perhaps even anathema.
“How long have you suffered this on your conscience?”
“Fifteen years,” was the embarrassed answer.
Fionn-barr said, “Then I give you fifteen years of suffering as your penance, and declare that you have served your term.”
If only it were that easy. Confessing eased my conscience; forgiveness soothed my spirit. But nothing granted forgetfulness.
I know now what I only suspected then. The real punishment for sin is memory. Death is the blessing that wipes it away.
A storm roared out of the sea on the night after Fionn-barr departed for Gougán Barra. As the wind gathered strength, proving its malign intentions, Brendán prayed for the safety of his kinsman. It was too late to run after Fionn-barr and bring him back to the shelter of the lios.
When the full force of the storm hit Tearmónn Eirc, debris slammed with incredible force against earthen ramparts. Had the walls been less thick they might have been battered down. Those who had access to clocháns—including Brendán and Préachán—were safe enough; the beehive huts were designed to withstand weather. Elsewhere people huddled together with their eyes shut tight, enduring like dumb beasts.
At first light Brendán joined the work party Bishop Molua was organising. The ramparts of the lios had mitigated the worst of it for the ecclesiastical centre, but the dwellings of the Altraighe along the coast were devastated and most of the boats destroyed.
In the aftermath of the storm a brilliant sun shone. The sky had never been so blue; the earth never washed so clean. The air was crisp and invigorating. People worked frantically to replace what was lost.
Days would pass before Brendán dare take a moment for himself. His boat had been badly damaged but not totally destroyed by the storm surge. It would take time to repair, however. Without a boat, the only way to reach the oratory on Diadche was by taking the landward route along the north shore of the peninsula, followed by a difficult climb up the east side of the mountain.
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