I understood very well.
God shapes each of us to suit his plans.
We were pursued by a storm so ferocious that we had to run downwind to avoid capsizing. Ropes were dragged behind the boat to keep us from going too fast. We rigged a canopy of oxhides to provide a little protection, but the icy water hardened the leather to the strength of stone. Our weary heads ached from the noise of the storm drumming above us.
When the waves grew mountainous and threatened to swamp the boat, some of my crew beseeched, “We are terrified, Brother Abbot! Give us your faith!”
“I cannot give my faith to anyone,” I said. “I can only tell you that I have it. The choice to believe or not is yours.”
At last Aedgal sighted an island in the distance; the monks raised a weary cheer. “God is good!” cried Brother Gowrán.
My crew lifted their oars and made in all haste for the island. Unfortunately we grounded in the shallows before we could reach the shore. I ordered the monks out of the boat and instructed them to tie our trailing ropes to the sides of the vessel so we could drag it onto solid land. We all put our shoulders to the ropes. A few mighty heaves, and we were safe.
The dark, storm-wet earth was devoid of sand but studded with molluscs and bits of driftwood. It was a blessing to know we would not fall asleep in the boat, at the mercy of wind and wave. We could close our eyes secure in our stability. Only a man who has spent a long time at sea can appreciate how good it is to stop moving.
I stood in the prow to say Mass while the brothers knelt on the ground around the boat. Curtains of black rain marched forward, rank upon rank, and swept over us. The wind whipped the waves around the island into mountains, but I did not need to raise my voice. God could hear me.
At the conclusion of the Mass the storm abated.
In the ringing silence: God.
I knelt in the prow of the boat and bowed my head.
The giant is Iasconius. He pleases Me. Whatsoever harm is visited upon him will be visited upon those who harm him.
The cold and weary brothers took their sodden belongings ashore and began gathering wood for a fire so they could dry their clothes. The driftwood was too wet to burn. They had a little tinder and a lot of determination. Crouching around the few sparks they managed to strike, they blew them into life.
The first flame leaped upwards.
Brother Crosán, as was his wont, made a joke. The others laughed.
The earth heaved upwards.
The monks abandoned their things and ran to the boat, begging my protection. I stretched out my arms and helped them aboard. Brother Cerball was the last. After everyone else was safe, he climbed over the gunwale just as the island moved out from under us.
We were afloat again.
The monks moaned aloud.
“There is nothing to fear,” I assured them. “While you were busy kindling the fire I heard the voice of God.”
Liber, who was deathly pale from his quivering chin to the dome of his bald head, said, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“You have to listen to the silence.”
“There is nothing to hear in silence,” Eber protested.
“On the contrary,” I told the tallest of the monks, “in silence everything can be heard. It is noise which deafens.
“We were not on an island, my brothers, but a living creature. He is called Iasconius. These waters are his kingdom. He tolerated our invasion until we lit a fire on his back, but who among us would allow such behaviour from a visitor?”
“A living creature?” Moenniu was incredulous. “No fish was ever that large.”
“I did not say he was a fish. All I know is that his name is Iasconius and he will not harm us. Nor,” I added sternly, looking from face to face, “should we ever harm him.”
We sailed on.
Chapter 21
When Brendán and his crew returned to Ard Fert following his third voyage, they were welcomed by the new abbot, Fionn-barr of Gougán Barra. “I’m grateful for this opportunity,” he told Brendán. “I’ve sent for my son Mernoc to join me and act as steward for the poor. He and I have been estranged for years, but perhaps in a new place we can make a fresh start.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” said Brendán. “You’ve given me something of equal value, I assure you.” The freedom of the sea.
On land, however, Brendán’s freedom evaporated.
People were eager to hear the details of his voyage. Brendán tried to oblige, but the more he talked about his journeys the less real they became to him. Telling and re-telling seemed to squeeze the juice out of them, while his imagination kept trying to interject images he did not want to share. After a few days he directed his would-be audience to Sechnall. Sechnall had a gift for straightforward narration.
Brendán did send a letter to Íta, telling her where he had gone and assuring her of his safe return. When words were written down he had more control over them; thoughts could not tumble out of his mouth before they were fully formed.
Íta’s reply was gratifyingly prompt. “I read out parts of your letter in the refectory,” she wrote, “and it was much enjoyed.”
Which parts did she read aloud? And which did she leave out?
Brendán had difficulties slipping back into monastic life. Some of the brothers seemed vaguely uncomfortable with him. They sat a little distance from him in chapel and did not walk with him in the courtyard. They replied with genuine warmth when he spoke to them but did not initiate conversations. After a few weeks of this, Gowrán articulated the problem. “You were the abbot here, Brother Brendán. Now you’re not. The new abbot is well liked, but so are you.”
Put so simply, the problem was obvious. It was a matter of loyalty, which is subtly different from allegiance. The monks were confused about their personal loyalties and I could not blame them. Fortunately the solution was equally simple.
I was not ready to be planted like a tree. I wanted to visit Gaul, part of which was now under the rule of a Christian king, Clovis of the Franks. I wanted to meet the creative, questing Greeks and the pragmatic Romans; wanted to ask more questions and listen to more answers and discover truths for myself. I had seen just enough of the world to want more.
I had yet to learn that more is never enough.
When Brendán returned to the sea, he felt he was being born again; immersed in a watery element out of which he would emerge to a new dawn. But no matter where he sailed, he never went far inland. The boat was both his freedom and his umbilical cord. He changed his crew from journey to journey, giving different brothers an opportunity to travel with him. There were only two constants: Ruan and Préachán took part in every voyage.
Three constants. When we returned to Ireland I always sent a letter to Íta. At first they were little more than assurances of my safety. Any inadvertent emotion was carefully expunged. When I was satisfied, I committed the final draft of the letter to parchment and entrusted it to a runner—usually Dianách.
When he returned, I never asked any questions about Sister Íta. Unlike Brother Gowrán, Brother Dianách liked to talk. And his mouth ran as fast as his feet.
Brendán visited Cymru—known as Wales by the Romans—a mountainous kingdom west of Roman Britain. In Britain the native tribes had won a temporary victory over the Anglo-Saxons, but other Germanic invaders were crowding in—barbaric pagans who worshipped barbaric gods. The Christian missionaries now flocking into Britain had their work cut out for them.
The land of the Cymry was different. There had been a time when Irish raiders looted settlements all along the British coast and frequently took slaves, but the establishment of Christianity in Ireland had changed that. Brendán and his party were warmly welcomed.
The Irish monks could almost but not quite understand the language, which had similarities to their own. The Cymry were an intensely Celtic people and poetic to their souls, and Brendán longed to converse with them. Fortunately he met a British Christian who was able to transla
te for him.
Gildas had been to Ireland himself. Well-travelled and well-educated, he had lived through momentous times. He had witnessed the heroic—and disgraceful—events surrounding the final war between Briton and Saxon, and described the battle of Badon Hill as ‘almost the last slaughter wrought upon us by that scum of the earth, the Saxons.’
“We have not heard the last of the Saxons,” he warned Brendán darkly. “They are like weeds. Cut off one head and two pop up.”
Gildas was compiling a history of recent events. “Men in ages to come will learn much from observing the way this island has fallen into a hundred petty kingdoms with a hundred petty kings squabbling over bones,” he predicted.
Brendán told him, “When your manuscript is completed I would be grateful if you have a scribe make a copy for me.”
“You must do something for me in return,” the Briton replied. “Keep a journal of your travels and send me a copy.”
I promised I would. But it was one of those things you put on the long finger, always meaning to get around to it when you have time.
In Cymru, Brendán heard of the great winged dragons that slumbered in caves in the mountains, waiting to fight titanic battles of good and evil beyond the realm of mortal men. “Are they distant relatives of yours?” he asked Préachán teasingly.
The bird gave him a disdainful look and defecated on his sandal.
The more I travelled the more I wanted to travel; to see and hear and experience for myself. Sometimes I identified himself as a missionary, sometimes as a pilgrim. But always as a Christian.
And there was always a letter to Íta when he returned. More and more of himself went into those letters.
More and more of herself went into the replies.
‘Does God have a face like mine?’ Brendán wondered. ‘Is his skin as lined and weathered, are his muscles stiff in the mornings? I’m being fanciful, Íta, but sometimes I wonder.’
Íta was amused. The child she knew as Braon-finn was still inside the man called Brendán, and she was thankful. She replied, ‘God experiences everything you do—in his own way. I believe we are the sensory organs of the Divine. Love means being part of. Those who love you are always part of you.’
Those who love you.
Brendán made a journey to Armorica, west of Gaul, which had been recommended to him by Gildas. The newest member of his crew was Brother Fionán, who was barely sixteen, but strong for his age. Brendán gave the other monks specific orders to look out for him. “I’ve known his parents since I was a young lad,” he told them. “Keep him safe or I can never return to Altraighe-Caille.”
Armorica was another Celtic country that had been conquered by Caesar. Here Brendán had the same problem as with the Cymry—the natives spoke a language that was disturbingly familiar, but not quite comprehensible to an Irishman. They were hospitable people and great fishermen. Once Brendán found someone who could translate for him, he spent happy hours talking about boats and fishing. As he had done among the Cymry, he also built an oratory and encouraged the growth of several Christian communities.
“The best thing that happened to us in Armorica,’ Brendán wrote afterwards to Íta, ‘was meeting a pilgrim called Malo. He rode up and down the countryside on a long-eared horse, singing Psalms at the top of his voice. I have never seen a more joyful man, nor one happier in the service of the Lord. Malo reaffirmed my belief in my vocation.’
My letters changed as I was changing. I had begun revealing my emotions to Íta.
Some of my emotions.
After leaving Armorica, Brendán and his crew sailed along the coast for a time. When they came upon a huge rock like the top of a mountain rising from the sea, young Fionán caught Brendán. “See that, Brother Brendán? It reminds me of the drowned mountain off the coast of Altraighe-Caille. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful place for a monastery?”
Brendán shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted at the great rock that towered like God’s own fortress. “Perhaps it would be,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure my legs are young enough to make the climb.”
Despite his disclaimer, Brendán appeared indefatigable. After every voyage he returned to Ireland long enough to speak with Fionn-barr, to send a letter to Íta, and to gather enough men to build a church or an oratory or develop Christians where none had been before.
He explained to his followers, “Some hold that Christianity is immiscible, by its purity rendered incapable of mixing with any other religion. Patrick refuted this. He discovered that the most satisfactory—and lasting—way to convert pagans was by demonstrating the similarities between their beliefs and Christ’s teaching. He encouraged the two religions to flow together as two streams run into one river, and we shall do the same.”
In his journal Brendán wrote, ‘I always found Christ’s work to do. Foreign coastlines abounded in small islands waiting to hear the Word. Missionaries such as Patrick devoted their lives to one place, but our mission was dictated by the sea.’
My life was dictated by the sea.
‘At sea there are only two hours, light and dark, and only two seasons, summer and winter. It is easy to lose count of the years. It is also difficult to recall all the places we visited. I remember some of them by the names we gave them: the Island of Mice, the Coast of Blowing Sand, the Island of Fleas.
‘Wherever God sent our boat we went ashore. We never set sail again until we felt we had done some good.’
For a number of days we had been sailing through an ocean of fog and gloom. Our spirits were as heavy as the clouds louring over us. Then from afar we spied a crystal pillar rising straight up out of the sea. With great excitement my crewmen pointed it out to one another. Brother Cerball said, “It is a city made of glass.”
“Or perhaps it is the palace of a mighty king,” suggested Brother Aedgal.
“Truly, we are looking at the house of God,” Brother Gowrán proclaimed. He fell to his knees in the bottom of the boat and began to pray in a loud voice.
I prayed silently within myself. This was not what we had been searching for…or was it? There was only one way to find out.
Propelled by awe as much as wind, we set sail for the pillar.
The glittering edifice proved to be larger and further away than it first appeared. The winds were capricious. Eventually we lowered the sails and relied on our oars, but after rowing throughout the remaining daylight we still had not reached our destination. We shipped the oars and rested ourselves for the night. Frost glittered in the dark as if the light of day were trapped inside.
No one slept much. We took turns peering into the gloom to see if the pillar was still there. Some object was still there—an object that glimmered palely through the darkness. Every man had a different idea of what it might be.
I said nothing. By keeping my mouth closed I could avoid being mistaken.
The rising sun illumined a towering structure beyond human imagination. Brother Tarlách declared, “No human hand could have constructed this,” and for once I agreed with him. Only God could have conceived it.
Ten thousand jewels flamed with the solar fire. Our eyes were dazzled by polychrome light. The grandeur of creation left me speechless. Such an object could not exist in the middle of the cold ocean. Yet there it was. Such an object could not exist anywhere. Yet there it was.
At my command we raised our sails again and bent to the oars as well, until we fairly flew over the water. At last we were within hailing distance—if there had been anyone to answer our cry. Our shouts rang unanswered over the water, returning to us with a hollow echo.
A sense of emptiness swept over me. Vast sea, vast sky, one tiny boat, a few tiny men…and nothing else. Nothing else in God’s cosmos except what stood before us. Implacable. Impossible. Incredibly beautiful.
There was not a single pillar but a whole forest of them, rising in an immense crystalline cluster, shrouded by what appeared to be a delicately-patterned silver net that obscured the finer details of
the structure. For a time we simply rested on our oars and stared at it, filling ourselves with wonder.
Silence rang in our ears like chimes.
At last I gave the order to go forward. By shipping our oars and lowering the sails and their masts we were able to pass through one of the gaps in the net. We entered a shimmering space so cold we could hardly breathe.
Our exhalations made patterns upon the air. Almost like a swirl of stars.
Upon finally reaching the great pillars we tried to find a landing site, but there was none. The crystal dropped in a vertical wall to the sea. There were a few openings like archways which might have led to the interior, but we dare not enter in case we could not get the boat out again.
Instead we decided to sail around the object to determine its size. This circumnavigation took an entire day. Wherever the crystal came between us and the sun a dark twilight fell over us. Some of my crew were frightened. Others claimed to see marvels among the pillars, such as a jewel-studded chalice. They pleaded to go closer but I refused.
“If God wanted us to explore his sparkling city he would have provided a landing site,” I told them.
Reluctantly, we sailed on.
Chapter 22
There was a woman once. In a desert.
During one of our pilgrimages our boat was caught in a savage gale and blown far off course. As soon as we could, we landed and went ashore.
Brendan Page 21