Brendan

by Morgan Llywelyn

  I made him tell it twice. ‘Afterwards he went to the guesting house for a much deserved rest, and I retired to my cell.’

  “What is heaven, Sister Íta?”

  “Heaven is a memory, Braon-Finn.”

  Was she right? Is heaven not an aspiration, but a memory?

  Is the Garden a lost reality? Is it still out there somewhere?

  The Isles of the Blest. Paradise.

  Alone in his cell, Brendán spread the wings of his soul.

  And flew.

  There would be one last voyage.

  Clon Fert was inland; the boat would have to be built on the coast. Brendán carefully selected the monks he wished to take with him, then set out for Ard Fert.

  I was the abbot of Clon Fert; so I would live and so I would die. I named Brother Sechnall, the oldest and wisest of the monks, to hold authority in my absence. If I failed to return the abbacy would be his.

  No one had ever built a boat to sail to Paradise before. When Brendán reached Altraighe-Caille and told his old friends, the fisherman, what he proposed to do, they were intrigued. Endless questions. What seas would they cross? What might the weather be like? How large a crew, what provisions, what reinforcements for the hull, what size the sail—the only thing on which everyone agreed was they would need at least two sails.

  In the early, heady excitement of Mernoc’s discovery, Fionn-barr had been certain that Brendán would want to sail to Paradise and had been eager to go with him. Reality had set in on his return from Clon Fert to Ard Fert. He reminded himself that he was older than Brendán, who was old enough. But thanks to Colmán’s regimen Brendán was as fit as the former warrior.

  Fionn-barr felt every one of his years. They added up to a weary body with definite limits.

  “When you set sail I shall be with you in spirit,” he told Brendán, “but my son can go with you in the flesh.”

  ‘Mernoc, son of Fionn-Barr, joined our crew,’ Brendán wrote, ‘and we commenced building a craft to take us to Paradise.’

  Currachs and coracles and dugout canoes each had their purpose, but Brendán’s voyage by its very nature required innovative design.

  From long experience of the sea I created a picture in my mind of the boat I wanted. It must be as supple as an eel, to withstand the battering of the waves, and as graceful as a swan, to be pleasing in the sight of God.

  Many days were spent beside the bay in deep discussion. The fishermen worked with the monks until a design was agreed upon. The boat would be long and narrow, with prow and stern curved upwards like those of a currach. Brendán was adamant that oak and ash be used for the frame.

  Oak was the king of trees and I was born of a kingly line. Ash was the tree of health and we would need all possible health. We were none of us young.

  Fionn-barr, the abbot of Ard Fert, knew people who knew people. In due course, wagonloads of timber arrived on the shores of Tra Lí.

  The boat was constructed upside down. Two sturdy gunwales were carved from the heartwood of oak, then turned over so the frame—a latticework of thin laths of flexible white ash, lashed together with leather thongs—could be affixed. The frame would be covered by three layers of tightly stretched oxhide with two chambers between. These air chambers would help prevent the boat from being holed and keep its occupants further away from the icy sea.

  Sewing oxhides together for a sea voyage of unknown duration presented difficulties. As Brendán well knew, long exposure to salt water rotted leather thongs. A woman of the Altraighe suggested spinning heavy thread from flax. Monks from Ard Fert were recruited to the task. They were rewarded with torn and bleeding hands, but managed to create a material of amazing strength.

  I shuttled back and forth between the shore where the hull was growing at the hands of the fishermen and the monastery where the monks laboured to make rope and sails. My urgency communicated itself to everyone. “Why are you in such a hurry?” Fionn-barr wanted to know.

  Even if he was an abbot, I could not tell him.

  For much of my life I had been following someone else’s dream for me. I was desperate to pursue my own dream.

  While the men stitched the hides onto the frame, the women boiled countless pots of wool grease to create a waterproof seal for the leather. Then the entire vessel, inside and out, was thickly coated.

  “How’s that going to smell in warm weather?” Tarlách said.

  Liber advised, “Don’t think about it.”

  Topmast, foremast, and oars were carved from ash, and benches fitted to accommodate six oarsmen to a side. When the two square sails were fully employed there should be little need for oarsmen, but eight men would be required to handle the ropes controlling the sails.

  “She’ll fly,” Dianách observed with a trace of jealousy in his voice.

  A small shelter was devised in the stern so the brothers could take turns sleeping. Deer hides were sewn together to make a cover for lashing across the prow, to help keep out water in a high sea.

  Compared to the boats I had sailed on my previous voyages, the new craft was luxurious indeed.

  At sea the monks would wear their customary hooded robes, but with sheaths on their belts so every man could carry a knife. Their Psalters were securely tucked into book satchels. Provisions included dried deer meat and smoked fish, the roots of sea holly to prevent scurvy, bags of grain and edible seeds, butter and beeswax candles and extra rope and plenty of hides for mending the boat.

  Planning for the unexpected is impossible; we planned for the predictable. It was amazing how much we were able to fit into the boat. I was reminded of the miracle of loaves and fishes.

  What miracles might we see on our way to Paradise?

  ‘Late in the summer,’ Brendán wrote, ‘we finally set sail.’

  I was an old man being allotted enough years to fulfil God’s purpose.

  Only an old man would dare undertake such a voyage; the young have too much to live for.

  ‘The weather was kind at first; God gave us a chance to accustom ourselves to the boat. In bad weather we would have to shorten sail and prepare for constant bailing, but while we cruised pleasantly along under a radiant sun our spirits were high.’

  Once the monks were out of sight of land their excited chatter dwindled to a murmur, then faded into silence.

  The subtle silence which contains the singing of all things.

  Brendán was relying on Mernoc to guide them to the islands marking the gateway to Paradise. Fionn-barr’s son had given a detailed description of the islands. They were far out in the Western Sea, he said, but he was certain he could find them again.

  Brendán and his crew sailed along the coast for several days and saw a number of islands, but none that answered to Mernoc’s description.

  Only then did I begin to question Mernoc’s story. Perhaps I had been too eager to believe him for my own reasons.

  If he was on an ordinary fishing trip when he found them, why had he gone out so far in the first place? The Altraighe were coastal fishermen.

  One question led to another in my mind. What had caused the long estrangement between himself and his father? I did not really know Mernoc; what if he was inclined to lie in order to aggrandise himself? Such storytelling was not unknown among the Gael.

  Might our expedition be based upon some wild tale of Mernoc’s, and his father’s desperate but understandable eagerness to believe him?

  But what about the fragrant cloak?

  Brendán would not confront Mernoc in the presence of the monks. The only man who could answer those questions was Fionn-barr, at Ard Fert.

  Brendán debated with himself about turning back but decided against it. God had brought them this far, for whatever reason. Faith would take them the rest of the way.

  It was a lot to ask of faith, even mine. Yet part of me longed to have one last great adventure. And a larger part of me cherished a dream I could not forsake.

  ‘Having committed to the voyage, we sailed on,’ Brend�
�n wrote in his journal.

  He made a point of talking to Mernoc as often as he could, trying to sound out the man. Fionn-barr’s son was almost as fair-haired as his father and had a narrow face with a pointed chin. It might have been an honest face.

  “Tell me again about the islands you found,” Brendán urged.

  “There were three of them close together, covered with flowers. When I went ashore, at first I thought they were Paradise. Only later did I observe that they formed a formation like the head of a spear, with the tip to the west. At sunset the spear pointed along a broad golden road leading over the sea.”

  The story sounded plausible enough; anyone living on the west coast of Ireland had seen the golden path of the sunset many times.

  The human yearning to believe is very strong.

  Aboard the boat Brendán had a larger crew than ever before; a diverse lot of personalities. They came from various backgrounds; from chieftainly families and slaves taken in war; from farmers and fishermen and artisans. All had one thing in common. They were Irish and liked to talk.

  While they were counting out the portions of food for the day, Fursu said wistfully, “I wish we had brought some soft fruits. My mother picked them for me when I was a little boy and I ate them by the handful. I don’t know why I stopped.”

  Liber replied, “Children think the way of life they know is the only way. Then as they grow up, they rebel against it like the chick rebels against the egg. They try to crack the old way apart and make everything new. But I can tell you this, young man: when you’re my age, you will long to return to the life you rejected in your youth.”

  “I don’t want to go back that far. Just to the day when Ruan fell overboard, so I could do things differently.”

  “Regret is no good, lad.”

  “It serves a purpose,” said Fursu. “It’s God’s way of punishing us.”

  Cerball noticed Brendán leaning on the gunwale of the boat, gazing down at the water. The other monks were engaged in conversation but Brendán was alone. Brendán seemed to prefer being alone, which was puzzling.

  Solám asked Gowrán, “Do you suppose Brother Abbot is lonely?”

  Gowrán looked towards the man in question. “Brendán, lonely? I don’t think so. He’s not a lonely person by nature, only a solitary one. I’m like that. The only time I’m lonely is when I’m in a crowd. That’s when I feel separate from others.”

  Solám later confided to Moenniu, “Brother Abbot is lonely but he won’t admit it.”

  “How can one be lonely who always has God at his elbow?” the other monk inquired.

  After an interminable time at sea, when we had almost given up all hope, Iasconius appeared again. Aedgal was the first to observe the great barnacled back rising out of the water. We heard a strange, unearthly song echo through the sea. Soon the giant fish was joined by others; his whole family, it seemed. They disported themselves around the boat, diving down and rising up, splashing the waves with their immense tails as if they were truly glad to see us.

  Next a great flock of seabirds arrived. Some came down to the water to feed; others circled above Iasconius and his kin, calling to us in raucous voices that were also songs.

  “Look!” cried Anfudán. “There are gulls among them. We must be nearing land.”

  At these words Iasconius half lifted his huge bulk out of the water. I could see his tiny round eye, almost hidden below a drooping brow. The eye looked at me with amusement.

  How inconsequential I felt beneath that gaze. From that moment and for the rest of my life, I became as humble as God wanted me to be.

  When Crosán said, “Look, he wants us to follow him,” I thought he was making one of his jokes.

  It was true. Iasconius swam ahead of us like a pilot boat, leaving a wake we could follow. The wind was minimal but my crew took up their oars with renewed energy and we set off after our friend. His clan and their retinue of birds joined us in the procession.

  Man and boat and fish and bird and wind and wave.

  As a child I had pestered Bishop Erc with endless questions. The one which upset him most had been this: “You say man is made in God’s image. There are countless men, like blades of grass, and every blade of grass is unique to itself. So is God countless? And various?”

  Now I knew the answer. Yes.

  Yet there is only one.

  Eventually all things merge into One.

  Chapter 26

  The large boat continued to sail along the Irish coast. When they could not find Mernoc’s gateway they did not know which direction to take. “We shall put our trust in God,” Brendán decided, “and head outwards. Perhaps that’s what he wanted all along.”

  Grumbling broke out among the crew. It began with Tarlách. “Fionn-barr’s son has failed us and possibly put our lives at risk. We should throw him overboard and let him swim home.”

  Brendán said, “If you made an honest mistake would you want to be thrown overboard?”

  “How do we know it was an honest mistake?”

  “How do we know it wasn’t?”

  During this exchange Mernoc pulled his hood over his head and sat as low as he could on the rowing bench.

  Brendán sat down beside him. “I’m not going to ask if you really saw the gateway, Mernoc. Your father believed you and I believed you; that’s why we’re here, and why we shall go on. Believing is as important as what one believes in. Faith itself has weight and value.”

  Mernoc peered out from under his hood. “I don’t understand, Brother Brendán.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. That’s why you’re here: to learn.”

  At Brendán’s behest, the monks sang. Rich monastic voices ringing towards the heavens, praising the Lord and imploring him to have mercy on them. When the wind was right, their music carried a long way.

  They could not spend all their time singing. They were afloat on the Western Sea, the reputedly endless expanse that marked the rim of the world. The weather was rarely benign and often brutal. Great waves towered over the gunwales and drenched the monks with icy salt water. They bailed almost as much as they rowed.

  When Brendán announced they would make their first landfall on an unfamiliar strand and take on fresh water, the monks were relieved.

  After our great journey I heard it claimed that we had fasted for forty days before we set sail. We were monks, not fools; we could not have managed the boat after forty continual days of fasting.

  I also heard it claimed that our voyage lasted for seven years. That too was impossible, though I could not be sure of its exact duration. On the sea one loses a sense of time. We were aware of day and night but had no bells to ring the canonical hours. When the sky was clear at night I consulted the map of the stars, and sometimes discovered we had been sailing in an immense circle for many days. We put ashore in a number of places where nothing of interest happened, so no incident stamped itself on my brain.

  All I know is that we were away for a very long time.

  ‘Our final destination was the earthly paradise of which the Bible tells,’ Brendán wrote in his journal, ‘where the trees are heavy with fruit and the sun always shines. We kept that image in our hearts through all our vicissitudes.’

  Except for Solám and Fursu, we were not young men, and we were sorely tested. The long voyage had its effect on each of us. Plump Moenniu grew lean and sinewy. Anfudán learned to be less hasty, more restrained. Cerball replaced dangerous bravado with thoughtful caution.

  And when weariness blurred the Navigator’s vision, Fursu read the map of the stars for me.

  ‘Towards the end of our journey the weather was savage. Bitter cold, fluctuating winds, mist and drizzle and rain; often all at once.’

  Had any of my crew implored me to turn around and head for home I would have tried. To the everlasting credit of the brothers, they kept their nerve.

  ‘When we were joined by the clan of Iasconius, we took it as a sign that deliverance was close at hand. Instead of t
he perfume of Paradise, however, we soon encountered an immense bank of fog.’

  We could sense the bodies of the great fishes near us in the water. Their haunting music gave us comfort.

  The wind had fallen off. The sodden sails hung limply. Brendán had the unsettling feeling that life ran in a circle and he had returned to a familiar moment in time. He looked towards the prow, half expecting to see Préachán there.

  A hand tugged at Brendán’s sleeve. “Do you know what this fog is, Brother Abbot?”

  “I do not, Brother Gowrán.”

  “I believe it encircles the land we have been seeking all this weary while.”

  Gowrán believed. His faith had shape and weight.

  “Take up your oars,” Brendán called to the monks, “and row as you have never rowed before!”

  With Gowrán, I chose to believe that Paradise lay ahead of us. My companions were good men in spite of their human weaknesses. They deserved Paradise. Whether I deserved it or not was another question. As we glided forward into the gloom, I had hope. Hope that the one dream I cherished in the depths of my heart would be waiting for me on that blessed shore.

  Iasconius did not desert them. More of his clan joined the party, circling the boat until Brendán feared they might collide with one of the gentle giants in the fog. At his command, the rowers rested their oars.

  “What do we do now?” Fursu wondered.

  “Let’s go on,” said Dianách. Colmán agreed.

  “Wait,” Brendán told them. “Have you not yet learned patience? If we have to sit here all day, we shall not endanger our friends.”

  They waited.

  One of the swimmers—a creature much smaller than Iasconius—leapt out of the water right beside the boat, clearly visible to the astonished monks. Up and up he went, his gleaming body painting a graceful arc on the air.