Brendan

by Morgan Llywelyn

  We entered a harbour town like other harbour towns we had visited: naked children chirping like crickets, tiny houses leaning against one another to keep from falling down, beggars leaning against the walls for the same reason, mangy dogs and buzzing flies and meat crawling with maggots in the marketplace. Yellow-eyed goats who bleated at us and dark-eyed natives who darted suspicious glances in our direction. Yet there was one difference: beyond the town stretched a barren wilderness.

  The others spent their time in the town. An impulse led me into the desert.

  Where I found an oasis.

  She fed me exotic fruit and bade me spit the seeds into the palm of her hand. She said she would plant them.

  I ached; burned; reached for the woman. Who was not Íta.

  I wonder if those seeds became trees. Do they still stand, reaching towards heaven?

  After one of his voyages Brendán wrote to Íta,

  Somewhere off the coast, a swirl of silver clouds across a sapphire sky made me catch my breath. Such a small thing, a fleeting beauty that changed even as I watched, yet it is scribed upon my mind forever.

  In her letter, Íta replied,

  The peak is the smallest part of a mountain. The stars are tiny pinpricks of light. Yet we know our mountains by their peaks, and without the stars the night would be a vast emptiness.

  As cautious as ever in this one particular matter, Brendán always used the excuse of another voyage to write to Íta, which limited the number of letters they exchanged. He was painfully aware that nothing prevented him from visiting Cill Íde. Yet he did not make the short journey. Nor did she invite him.

  ‘In the Year of Our Lord 523,’ Brendán recorded in his journal, ‘Pope Hormisdas died, and was succeeded as the bishop of Rome by Pope John. Two years later we in Ireland suffered a more personal loss. Brigid of Cill Dara died in the seventieth year of her life. She was laid to rest in the abbey she founded. At the insistence of her noble clan, her body was put into a casket made of gold and silver, studded with jewels, and placed under a suspended crown at the right side of the high altar.

  ‘Among other notable deaths that year was the untimely death of Pope John, who was succeeded by Pope Felix the Fourth. Achieving the papacy was no guarantee of long life.’

  Brendán often discussed death and dying with his brother monks. It was a subject of enduring interest. Most of them had experienced death in their immediate families, sometimes through violence. Brendán’s most personal experience of dying had been the gentle fading away of Bishop Erc.

  “Life is divided between light and shadow,” he told his companions. “Even as the new blade of grass is springing upward it is growing towards death. Another will take its place on the earth. So it was ordered by the Creator. Should things be otherwise? Would one deny death to the old and keep the new from life?”

  Eber laughed mirthlessly. “Wait until you’re facing death yourself, Brother Brendán—or holding someone you love in your arms while they convulse and their bowels open. The stink alone is enough to teach you a different lesson.”

  The sea was always the enemy. Voyage after voyage, Ruan endured its proximity with clenched teeth. If they walked far enough inland to enable him to sleep at night without hearing the voice of the sea, he offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  When Brendán enthused, “Listen to the music of the waves! Is it not wonderful?” Ruan refused to lie. “I prefer silence. I think I might be happier deaf.”

  Brendán reproached him. “Hearing and eyesight are gifts from God, Ruan, sensory organs of the Divine. Be grateful for them and use them to their fullest for his sake.”

  Ruan shrugged. And smiled.

  The smile had become habitual. The other monks thought he was a naturally happy man. He handled the rudder with the competence he employed in any endeavour but he took no pleasure from it.

  The one assignment Ruan would have enjoyed—caring for the raven—was Brendán’s alone. In pagan territories, Préachán was invaluable. The raven was a potent symbol to many tribes. Some feared the huge bird, others revered him, but either way, his affinity with Brendán provided the man and his companions with an invisible aura that kept them safe. There was no repetition of the incident that had almost killed the raven.

  Brendán’s most recent letter elicited an unexpected comment from Íta. “You mentioned your desire to visit both Rome and Athens. I commend your intentions, but suggest you study the language of the Greeks first. You will need more than a raven to win their respect.”

  A suggestion from Íta was a commandment to Brendán. The study of Greek was still limited in Ireland; as yet only Clon Ard was actually teaching the language.

  I told myself it was childish to avoid Ninnidh after so many years. Besides, he might not be at Clon Ard any more. And even if he was, Ruan seemed to like him, so he couldn’t be all bad.

  When Brendán first saw Clon Ard he wished he had come sooner. The abbey of the High Meadow was everything he had wanted Ard Fert to be. Although it followed the same general design, the extensively carved stonework lifted Finnian’s foundation into another realm entirely.

  As Brendán approached the main doorway a priest emerged. Seeing a new arrival in monk’s garb, the priest stepped forward with both hands outstretched. “Welcome in the Name of God, Brother.”

  Obviously Ninnidh didn’t recognise me. I recognised him in spite of the changes time had wrought. I recalled him as a large man, but he was much smaller than my adult self. He had the pasty complexion of a person who rarely sees the sun. His thin lips were an unhealthy, fevered red, and no longer wet.

  When I took his hands in mine I detected constant tiny tremors running from wrist to fingertip.

  “Do you remember me?” Brendán asked.

  Ninnidh peered at him nearsightedly, chewing on his lower lip as an animal chews on a wound. “Brendán!”

  “The same,” Brendán replied tonelessly. Waiting to see what came next.

  Ninnidh stretched upward to sweep one arm around Brendán’s shoulders. “It really is wonderful to see you here! I feared we might never meet again.”

  Brendán could hardly conceal his astonishment. “You wanted to meet me again?”

  “I did of course. I always liked you, Brother Brendán, and I could never understand why you didn’t like me. I’ve been hoping for a chance to rectify the situation before I died.”

  Brendán was speechless.

  Before he could think of an appropriate response, Ninnidh had led him into the abbey and began introducing him to the monks. “This is Brother Brendán, an old and dear companion of mine; we studied together at Tearmónn Eirc. Of course he’s better known now as Brendán the Navigator. You all have heard of his splendid missionary work.”

  A crowd formed around Brendán, asking the familiar questions. “Where did you go?” “Who did you meet?” “Were you ever in danger?” “How far has the Word of God spread in your opinion?”

  And, “Were you ever frightened?”

  At that moment I was only frightened of Ninnidh, who stood off to one side watching me with an expression on his face like that of a wolf watching a lamb. Or so I thought.

  ‘The abbot of Clon Ard accepted me as a student to learn the language of the Greeks, and live with the brothers for the duration of my stay. I had to make adjustments, as one does when entering a new family. The rule was different at Clon Ard and so was the spirit of the abbey. At that time it was the largest monastic school in Ireland and beginning to attract students from as far away as Alba and the land of the Britons. I was thankful that my travels had enabled me to feel comfortable among strangers.’

  Comfortable except for the presence of Ninnidh.

  Brendán planned to spend twelve months at Clon Ard, combining intense study with a strict monastic regimen. The language of the Athenians was difficult; it had nothing in common with Latin, even its alphabet. After the first couple of weeks he said to another monk, “I can understand why my friend Ruan gave up on
learning Greek.”

  Ninnidh overheard the remark and thrust himself into the conversation. “I’ve always wondered why Ruan didn’t return to us. We missed him, he was very gifted. Did he enter another monastery?”

  “He was one of the first monks at Ard Fert,” Brendán replied coolly. “Now he handles the rudder on my voyages.”

  Ninnidh gave a wistful sigh. “How I wish I were stronger. I would pray to be allowed to sail with you.”

  Brendán waited until he had an opportunity to speak to Ninnidh alone. “We’ve never liked each other, so stop pretending a friendship that doesn’t exist,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Are you so desperate to impress the others that you need the glow from my lamp?”

  Ninnidh looked hurt. “I always wanted you to like me, Brendán.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You used to stare past me as if I were a pimple on your nose.”

  “I was afraid to approach you.”

  “Afraid of me?” Brendán almost laughed, but something in the other man’s voice stopped him. “I was only a child, how could you be afraid of me?”

  “Not of you, but of what you represented. It was my dearest dream to follow in Bishop Erc’s footsteps and carry his crosier someday. Then you came along and all his attention went to you. The bishop thought you were an angel from heaven.”

  “He didn’t,” Brendán protested. “And I wasn’t.”

  Ninnidh gave a wry smile. “Perhaps not, but that’s the impression I had. I knew the bishop very well; if I attempted to befriend you he would have suspected my motives.”

  “Yet you did everything else to get closer to him.”

  “Was I that obvious? I was only trying to keep him mindful that we were related by blood. Our fathers’ fathers were brothers, but they went to war over some stolen cattle and never feasted together again. Nor did their families ever trust one another. When I was accepted at Tearmónn Eirc I took it as a sign that I might be allowed to heal the breach. But…” Ninnidh closed his eyes. Gave a weary shake of his head.

  His hands were trembling badly.

  I had misunderstood both the man and his motives. Children see the surface. The ability to see what lies beneath the surface comes—if it comes at all—much later.

  When Ninnidh offered to tutor Brendán, the younger man accepted. “I have been privileged to visit both Rome and Athens on behalf of our abbot,” Ninnidh said, “which has given me a linguistic opportunity few men enjoy.”

  It was in keeping with his character that he had wormed his way into a position of influence with the abbot. I had started to think I might like Ninnidh, but for a brief time I hated him again. My feelings didn’t bother him because he didn’t know about them, they only slowed down my ability to learn.

  “Bishop Erc taught us the wrong Latin,” Ninnidh told Brendán. “Church Latin with an Irish accent was inadequate preparation for the effusion of language I encountered in Rome. There are many versions of Latin, from the stiff formal diction used by ecclesiastical scholars down to the profane cries of the fish sellers in the marketplace. Whatever its source, the hard consonants and abrupt vowels grated on my ears at first. It was like having stones thrown against my head.

  “Ah, Brendán, how I longed for the vivid speech of our native tongue; for phrases that caper around a subject without touching it, yet convey a world of meaning. As you know, every tribe has its own version of Irish and every class of society adds its own flavour.

  “With time I realised the same was true in Rome. The only real difference was that the better educated had a wide range of vocabulary which the lower classes lacked. Thus the poor were impoverished in more ways than one.

  “Besides, Latin is not without its charms. What it lacks in nuance it makes up for in precision. By using Latin it is possible to be absolutely clear—something which does not always happen in Irish.

  “Patrick’s imperfect understanding of the language was what caused him so much trouble in writing his ‘Confession.’ One could see that he was desperately trying to make himself understood but his Latin often failed him. By the time I have finished with you, Brendán, your Latin will be good enough for you to converse with a senator, and you should be able to read a page of Greek text as well.”

  It was no idle boast. Ninnidh made me work harder than I had ever worked in my life.

  God bless him.

  In his journal Brendán wrote, ‘At Clon Ard a priest called Ninnidh, whom I knew from Tearmónn Eirc, offered to be my tutor. In spite of poor health he was of great help to me. Three times a day I prayed on my knees for Ninnidh’s complete recovery. When he pronounced me able for Rome and Athens, I returned to Ard Fert to gather a crew.’

  Ruan was the first man he asked.

  His friend responded warily. “We’ve never sailed so far before. Could we not travel overland instead?”

  “Have you done much travelling on foot, Ruan? I can tell you from experience that sailing is better. The sea is wide open. There are no borders, no boundaries, no tribelands. Just…” Brendán struggled for a word. “Just outward.” His face lit with a glow his friend knew well.

  Ruan shrugged. “I’ll get ready,” he said.

  They set sail on a bright spring morning: nine strong monks and a crippled raven. Their boat was well provisioned for the first leg of the journey. A large crowd gathered on the shore to bid them farewell. The bishop of Altraighe-Caille blessed the boat and placed a vial of holy water in the prow. The abbot of Ard Fert blessed the monks and Préachán as well, exchanging a wink with Brendán.

  Brige hugged her brother before he climbed into the boat. “Be safe,” she whispered in his ear.

  Fursu, the newest monk and youngest member of the crew, scrambled aboard with stars in his eyes. “I’ve followed your advice, Navigator,” he told Brendán.

  There was not a cloud in the sky. A gentle wind was enough to propel the boat with no effort on the part of the rowers. They talked among themselves and enjoyed the changing scenery of the coastline.

  Préachán, attached to his perch with soft leather thongs for safety’s sake, made occasional comments.

  There is pleasure and there is joy. They are not the same and one does not necessarily bestow the other, but as we began our journey I felt both. I could hear the sun singing.

  Young Fursu was wildly excited. He had to be warned repeatedly about digging his oars into the water too hard. The others laughed: the warm, understanding laughter of comrades.

  There was never a merrier crew. Those who think religious orders consist of sombre folk are mistaken. Living with a constant awareness of God lightens the heart. I was no longer a boy, or even a young man, but my spirit had not aged. I was still struck with wonder by the sudden gift of being alive.

  As the boat neared the harbour below the mouth of the River Lee, Brendán told his crew, “The wind’s rising fast, so we’ll seek shelter there for the night. In the morning we can visit the community Brother Abbot established before he came to Ard Fert.”

  The monks prepared to alter their course slightly. Ruan had promised he would give Fursu a turn at the rudder, and this seemed a good time to teach him the rudiments of steering. He stood up and beckoned the young man to take his place.

  Brendán was busy with the sail and did not see what happened next. There was a shout and an alarmed squawk from Préachán; no one could say which came first.

  When Brendán turned towards the stern he saw Fursu standing there alone. “He…” The young man gesticulated wildly. “I…he!”

  The nearest monks jumped to their feet and peered down into the water. Brendán hurried to joined them. For a moment they saw Ruan’s head above the waves. Then he was gone.

  Cerball flung off his robe and leaped into the sea. No one asked if he could swim, though it was unlikely. The other monks watched, sick with fear, as he flailed the waves, rolled into a ball and disappeared, resurfaced gasping for air, dived down again.

  Came up alone.

  Brend
án threw Cerball a rope, but he would not get back in the boat. He held on to the lifeline long enough to draw several deep breaths and gather his strength, then returned to the search.

  “Pray!” Brendán exhorted his crew.

  The wind strengthened. The waves grew larger. Just when Brendán was afraid he had lost both of them, Cerball reappeared with one arm crooked around Ruan’s neck.

  Several monks almost fell overboard themselves in their anxiety to haul the two men into the boat.

  Fursu kept sobbing, “We were only changing places. Ruan stepped aside for me and the boat rocked just then and…and…and…we were only changing places!”

  They laid Ruan in the bottom of the boat. His swarthy skin was bluish white; there was a little foam at the corners of his mouth. His heavy eyelids were at half mast. Brendán crouched beside the body of his friend and leaned close to his face, trying to peer through the dead eyes into the dying brain.

  When he pressed his ear to his friend’s chest he did not hear the drumbeat of life.

  In the Celtic Church, the place of dying is called the Place of Resurrection. It marks the transition point between worlds and is a holy site, the gateway where mortal life gives way to immortality.

  Which was Ruan’s gateway—the sea, or the boat?

  The sorrowing monks prayed over their lost brother before putting into the harbour for the night. There would be no visiting in the morning. Brendán announced they were turning back to take Ruan home for burial. He would be the first in the crypt at Ard Fert.

  While the others slept, Brendán kept watch. For such a dark lad, Ruan had such a bright smile.

  When they sailed into the bay of Tra Lí their boat was observed from afar. A crowd met them at the shore. A crowd that fell silent as the dead man was respectfully carried from the boat. Dubán, an old man now, was summoned together with his wife, and Brendán told them of their son’s death as gently as he could. His words could scarcely be heard over Fursu’s disconsolate sobbing.