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Chapter 8 - In Search of Culann
The nuns filed back into the Lios mór infirmary after Terce (mid-morning prayer, around 9 am). Sister Fea checked the bandages on the young Pict, Sreng, who was sitting on the edge of his bunk talking to his sister Sinead. “You seem to be healing quite well young man,” smiled Fea. “Another few days and you will able to leave our infirmary.”
Sinead clapped her hands in joy. “See Sreng, I told you my prayers to the Christian God would help you get better,” beamed Sinead happily. Her brother gave a lop-sided grin but said nothing.
Sister Tamara joined them along with Sister Máia. “Things are very quiet Fea. We don’t have any other patients today. The sun is out; first time for days and the beastly wind has dropped. Why don’t we walk up Barr Mór (the highest hill on Lismore at 127 metres or 417 feet). You need to get out into the fresh air. . . . Why, what is the matter Fea – you’ve gone all pale.”
Fea suddenly put both hands on her heart, her knees went weak and she all but collapsed onto the bunk next to Sreng. “Terrible, . . . something . . . terrible has happened,” she stammered.
“What do you mean? What has happened?” cried Tamara as the other sisters gathered around in consternation. Fea now buried her head in her hands.”It’s Culann. Something dreadful has happened to Culann.” She began to cry silently, shoulders shaking.
Tamara put her arms around her friend to comfort her “There, there, not to worry. How do you know something has happened to Culann? He’s up north with Brother Bryan, Fergus and the Picts they saved. He’ll be all right. You’ve been working too hard. Please take a rest. We all need you to be well. Let’s go out into the sunlight.”
Fea allowed herself to be helped outside into the pale rays of the winter sun. Sinead frowned at her brother who still sat on his bunk and motioned for him to follow her and the sisters outdoors. The little group sat together just outside the infirmary building.
“Now tell me Fea, how do you know something’s happened to Culann,” asked Tamara, her arm still around Fea’s shoulders.
“I can’t explain it, really. I just had a sudden feeling Culann was calling out to me. Then it all went black. Something has happened. I know it,” said Fea quietly. The nuns looked at each another. Sister Máia shrugged; poor thing, she’s had a vision.
“How do know Culann is not back at Iona?” asked Tamara. “After all it was an Iona curach that took them.”
“No,” whispered Fea “I checked with the weekly Iona boat that came in yesterday. They haven’t heard anything. It should have been back a couple of weeks ago.”
Suddenly Sreng spoke up “I know the waters up north. I am fisherman. We sailed down from Poolewe to Eigg and Muck a couple of times. I even visited the monastery on Rum once.”
“What, you sailed down past Eilean a' Cheò?” asked a startled Sinead. “Mother would have your hide if she knew that. You know that island is full of pirates.”
Sreng smiled “We sailed at night. Nobody saw us. If I can get a curach I could go and look for them.”
“You are not healed yet,” said Sinead.
“Oh I think he is just about as well as he will ever get with that wounded shoulder,” mused Fea looking keenly at her patient. “Do you really want to go back to your home at Poolewe? Your sister says she wants to stay here and become a novice nun.”
“Of course I want to go back. Sinead can stay here and become a nun, but I have all my friends at Poolewe. It’s my home.”
Sinead said nothing but cast her eyes down. Fea sat up straight, energised again. “I think I should talk to Abbot Jowan. It may be best to allow young Sreng to return home. But I think we should send someone from the infirmary with him in case he has a relapse.”
“Oh no you don’t,” interjected Tamara “I know what you are planning. You want to go along. Well if you go, I go. I won’t let you go alone.”
Fea smiled at Tamara. “Very well then, let’s go and talk to Abbot Jowan.”
* * * * *
And so it came to pass that Abbot Jowan was persuaded to let Sisters’ Fea and Tamara join a special curach crew to take the Pict Sreng back to his homeland. Plus Jowan also had some epistles’ (letters) he wanted delivered to his colleagues at the monasteries on Rum and Eigg. However he insisted one of his monks called Baile (sweet spoken Baile) who had been to those islands before, accompany them. Furthermore he issued instructions that they were not to stay away longer than two weeks. He needed to have his Sister in charge of the infirmary, Fea, back running things by then.
The very next day saw a six oared curach pull out of the harbour of Lios mór and head north east up the Sound of Mull carrying excited passengers Fea, Tamara, Baile and Sreng The weather although overcast with occasional showers, did not hinder them. The wind coming from the south west was of no help so the sailors had to row all day. It was decided to call into the monastery of Ardslignish for the first long night.
Of course the monks at Ardslignish were delighted to have company. However a somber note was struck on learning that their guests of Christmas Eve were missing. Their departure was delayed as word quickly passed to the village in the next bay that two nuns skilled in medicine had arrived. Fea and Tamara spent several hours tending to minor cuts and abrasions before the curach cast off again around midday.
The curach rowed out past Ardnamurchan Point into the wider ocean and headed north to Eigg. The wind was helpful now coming from the south west and they were able to hoist their sail. The small island of Muck passed by on their port (left) side. Navigation was by sight only as heavy clouds obscured the sun. By late afternoon the imposing features of Eigg loomed ahead. The helmsman steered their craft to an inlet at the south eastern side of the small island.
A stone beehive hut was just visible halfway up the green low rising hillside. The entire southern side of the island was dominated by a vertical sided stone crag the locals called An Sgurr. The sailors secured their craft above the high water mark and accompanied their passengers to the wooden structure which Brother Baile advised was the main monastery building. Several wooden huts and sheds surrounded the main building.
They were met by four monks who had been working a small garden plot. Once again the local monks were delighted to have visitors. Theirs - by choice - was an extremely lonely life.
Over a very frugal evening meal, the head monk Nuada (this monastery was considered too small to support an Abbot), related the story of their founding father, Saint Donnán of Eigg.
“Saint Donnán was an Irish monk who bought Christianity to many places in the western highlands. It is said that he went to Iona to ask Saint Columba to be his ‘Annam Cara’ (his soul friend). It transpired that Columba graciously refused as he saw ‘the red cloak of martyrdom’ [1] around Donnán, and told him he was destined for sainthood.
[1] To be killed while doing God’s work. Columba had the ‘white cloak of martyrdom’ around himself - i.e. to leave one’s homeland never to return. Although Columba did in fact return briefly to Eire (Ireland).
“Donnán came to Eigg and founded a small muinntir (A monastic community. From Old Irish muinter {family, community, or attendants}). However the pagan Pictish Queen of Moidart [2] who believed she owned the island, became increasingly jealous of Donnán. She thought that the people here became so fond of him that she fell out of favour. [2] Moidart lies to the west of what is now called Fort William and is very remote.
“So the Queen hired some brigands to kill Donnán. They arrived at the church on Eigg on 17th April 617, Easter Sunday (as calculated by the Celtic Church), just as Donnán was conducting his Easter sermon. He asked the brigands to leave him alone until he had finished his service and then they could do as they wished. At the conclusion of the service Donnán and fifty one of his monks were killed. And so Columba’s prediction proved correct.” Brother Nuada paused but the room was ever so quiet. Everyone was spellbound by his story.
“Where is Moidart?” asked Fea, stirring at last.
“Why, it is opposite us on the mainland. But the Lord must have been angry because the plague swept through it. Nobody lives there anymore. It is a wilderness. . . . At least I thought so, until I saw the smoke last week,” replied Nuada quietly, almost to himself.
“What smoke?” asked Sreng quickly. He had learnt a little Gaelic while at Lios mór.
“Oh, a couple of days ago,” replied Nuada. “There hasn’t been any today. It was probably a bush fire started by lightning.”
“Not during mid-winter,” stated Sreng. “Everything’s too wet. Tell me, what colour was the smoke?”
“Well come to think of it that’s what made me really notice it. The smoke kept changing from black to white, then black again. I haven’t seen that before.”
“I have!’ shouted Sreng jumping to his feet. “That’s a Poolewe signal smoke. We do that when we have made a big catch and need help to bring it home. They must be from Poolewe.”
“Oh goodness,” cried Fea “could that be Culann? But no it couldn’t be. They left before Christmas. It’s now end of January. They would be long gone by now.”
“Ah, Sister Fea, said Brother Baile “they are not going, but most likely coming back. Let’s not get our hopes up too much, but it could be them. We will have to wait till morning.”
Not unexpectedly Fea didn’t sleep a wink that long, long night. It has to be Culann, it has to be.
* * * * *
Lauds (morning prayer, at daybreak) seemed later than usual for everyone. Daylight came eventually, but no sunshine. Fast moving cloud covered most of the sky. However the mainland was clearly visible from the Eigg monastery, much to everyone’s delight.
Brother Nuada indicated a rocky outcrop on the mainland due east of where they were standing. “The smoke seemed to be coming behind that point,” he advised. “If you wish I can send one of my monks, Marcus, to guide you. He spends much of his time in our coracle fishing and I know he has been there a couple of times over the years. It’s not very good country. All rocks and trees.”
“We accept your kind offer Brother,” said Baile. “We may need Marcus’ expert local knowledge.”
The Lios mór sailors readied the curach on the beach. Into the light bobbing crafty stepped Brother Baile, Sisters Fea and Tamara, the young Pict Sreng and lastly Brother Marcus.
They were off; the sailors bending their backs at the oars against the gusting wind as they rowed across the water toward the rocky outcrop .There was no sign of smoke.
Although to Fea it seemed to take forever, soon the little craft pulled into a small cove on the north side the headland. The beach was made of small stones, not sand. Stunted undergrowth grew between large rocks which reached down to the waterline. The hills above the cove looked bare of trees.
Fea and Tamara hitched their skirts as they waded through the shallow water to the shore. Brother Baile gathered the little group on the edge of the stony beach and gave his instructions. “I suggest we spread out and walk to the top of yonder hill. Keep the person on your left and right in view at all times. We don’t want anyone getting lost. Brother Marcus says this is wild country and I believe he is correct. Everyone be very careful. Remember we are looking for anything that may indicate people were here recently. This is rough country; do you girls wish to stay with the curach?”
“Definitely not!” stated Fea and Tamara with feeling. “We can climb as well as you men.”
Baile looked at Marcus who shrugged and smiled. All right then, spread out. Let’s go.” One of the sailors stayed with their boat.
It took the climbers the best part of an hour to reach the bare summit of the rock hill. They gathered together again and looked down on more rock strewn country to the next bay. The wind gusts were quite strong on the summit and most shielded their eyes
“Look,” pointed Sister Tamara “there is a tiny beach down there. It’s tucked in behind the rocks on the left.”
“Hmmm, so it is,” mused Brother Baile “we could climb down there. It’s easier going downhill even though we are on the windward side.” Then addressing the remaining sailors he asked them to return to the curach and sail it round the point to the small beach and meet them there.
The small group split, sailors going back and the rest heading south, downhill. Just past half way down they had to detour around a clump of stunted trees, branches bent almost horizontal from the prevailing south west winds.
Wait . . . wait,” called Sreng. “Here’s something.” Everyone rushed over to where the young Pict was standing, holding a handful of tree leaves in his hand. “
“What is the matter?” asked Brother Marcus. “That is just leaves from the tree. The wind probably blew them off.”
“No,” replied Sreng excited now “these have been stripped from one of the branches. Someone has used a knife or a sword. See the cut marks.” The others gathered round. “Are you sure?” queried Brother Baile dubiously.
“I’m a Pict warrior. I know a sword cut when I see it. And look, here in this bush, someone has hacked out a couple of branches. This is new. It’s been done in the last couple of days. See the sap oozing out of the branch stump.”
“Bess my soul, I believe the lad is right,” said Brother Marcus. Fea and Tamara hugged each other in glee. “Where can they be?” asked Fea breathlessly.
Sreng searched the immediate area. “Over here,” he said pointing “there’s more leaves here, and here. They must have stripped the leaves as they walked along this hill.” He began running. The other struggled to keep up as the young Pict ran along the brow of the hill, going inland.
“Wait, stop, you’re forgetting the wind,” yelled Marcus.
“What do you mean” called Sreng pausing and looking back at the others.
“The wind has blown the leaves up the hill. The person who stripped the branches most likely went downhill,” suggested Brother Marcus. “Look, there is a small clearing down near the beach. Let’s look there.”
Sreng shrugged, turned and ran down toward the beach. The other followed in a long straggly line. As Fea and Tamara finally reached the clearing they almost bumped into the men standing in a line peering at the far end of the clearing. “Well we know now what they wanted the wood for,” said a solemn Baile. Tamara put her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. Fea went white and her knees buckled. At the far end of the clearing was a cairn of small rocks with a cross made of two sticks tied together with a monk’s belt, stuck on top; a new grave.
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8.1 - Repercussions
The shock of being swamped in bitterly cold water snapped Fergus out of his long reverie. Men, equipment, bits of boat were tossed unceremoniously together in a freezing green hell. Fergus, because of his years of experience swimming daily between Lindisfarne and the mainland to deliver the milk, coped better being suddenly immersed in cold water than anyone on the curach. He surfaced, and immediately saw the danger from the large black rocks ahead. Some of the crew were still struggling underwater but Culann and Brother Bryan were thrashing and coughing beside him. Fergus instinctively grabbed the monks by their habits and with his legs pumping powerfully swam toward a gap in the cliffs. A wave slammed them sideways against one of the rocks with Brother Bryan taking most of the shock. Fergus quickly recovered and still holding the now limp brethren, caught the next surge and all three were deposited amid seaweed, sand and rope from the curach between two rocks. Fergus dragged both monks above the wave line, turned and dived back into the roiling sea.
On average, ocean winter temperatures on the west coast of Scotland are higher than those on the east coast due to the warming influence of the North Atlantic Drift. In summer this situation is reversed as waters in the shallower North Sea warm up more quickly, and so summer temperatures on the east coast are higher than on the west coast.
The curach had been totally smashed on the rocks and piec
es of debris, wooden struts, animal hide, part of the mast all roiled in the turbulent currents. Men surfaced, gasped for air before being sucked under again. Fergus grabbed one of the sailors and guided him to land. Again and again the young Pict plunged back into the maelstrom, seemingly impervious to the numbing cold seawater while guiding drowning men to the rock strewn shore.
Eventually he collapsed utterly exhausted on a mollusc encrusted ledge. The violent storm that had destroyed their boat had moved further up the coast. The sea still smashed relentlessly against the shoreline but the rain eased and finally ceased.
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Fergus,. . . Fergus, . . . Fergus. It was Culann shaking his shoulder, waking him up. “Fergus, thank God you’re Ok. Come up over here. One of the Poolewe Picts is starting a fire. We can get warm.” Fergus staggered upward toward the small group sheltering under an overhanging rock.
The Poolewe Pict was busy striking flints together endeavouring to start a fire with kindling he had gathered. Brother Bryan was lying on his side not moving as was one of the sailors. Two other sailors sat, head in hands, shivering. Fergus noticed blood was streaming down the side of Culann’s head from a cut over his eye.
The small clump of brushwood burst into flame. The Pict carefully added pieces of driftwood he had discovered under the rocks.
“I need seaweed, lots of seaweed,” said the Pict still carefully tending his fire. “What for?” queried Culann “The seaweed is all wet.”
“My friend is missing.”
Culann counted heads; yes the second Pict was missing, along with four of the sailors.
“I will send him a signal so he knows where we are,” said the Pict.
Culann shook his head. The Pict and the four sailors must surely be drowned. However he dutifully made his way down to the waterline and gathered several handfuls of wet slimy seaweed. The Pict lad separated it into two heaps. One he laid next to the fire. The other he left outside the sheltering rock.
The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight Page 10