The Culann Chronicles, Book 2, Picts' Plight

by Duncan MacDonald

  Everyone except the still figures of Bryan and the inert sailor watched as the Pict slowly built up the fire. He held strips of seaweed near the flame drying it. Perhaps because most were still in shock from their ordeal, but they became mesmerised by the show put on by the young Pict. After drying a number of pieces of seaweed he judged the flames robust enough and carefully placed dried weed on the fire. White smoke billowed upward. The lad fed the flames with the dry seaweed. “I need more fuel,” he said.

  “Let’s put Brother Bryan and the sailor closer to the fire,” suggested Culann as he dragged the two forms closer to the warmth.

  Culann and a couple of the sailors together with Fergus scouted the area and brought a substantial amount of seaweed to the fire.

  Suddenly the Pict placed a few pieces of wet seaweed on the flames. The fire died down somewhat but started issuing thick black smoke.

  “What’s that for?” asked Culann.

  “It’s a signal for my friend. We signal each other at Poolewe with black and white smoke when we need help. If he sees it he will know where to find us.”

  For the rest of the afternoon their signal fire emitted alternate black and white smoke. No one came.

  Brother Bryan stirred just before darkness came. He tried to stand but collapsed in pain holding his leg. Culann and Fergus drew his habit back to check. His left foot was pointed almost backward. “I think his leg is broken,” whispered Culann. When they tried to turn his foot back in line with the right one Bryan gave a terrible scream and lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  The night was long and cold for everyone. They all huddled together under the ledge next to the low burning fire. Brother Bryan kept most people awake by moaning intermittently during the night. When dawn finally broke Fergus discovered the sailor who had not regained consciousness and had lain next to him all night, was very, very, cold.

  Culann who had watched Fea take the pulse of patients in the Lios mór infirmary, checked for any faint beat at his neck or wrist. There was nothing. “I think he has died,” said the monk sombrely.

  That left the Poolewe Pict, Brother Bryan with a broken leg, Fergus, Culann whose cut on the head had stopped bleeding and two sailors – six – with no boat, no food, no water and the only weapons, Fergus’ long sword and Culann’s gladius.

  “We need to move and try and find some farmers or water and something to eat,” said Culann to Fergus. But can’t carry Brother Bryan like this. I’ll stay behind with him.”

  “We could make him a sled,” suggested Fergus.

  “How would we do that? There is no timber. It all went down with the curach.”

  “I made a sled for the big deer. I think I could make one from the bushes higher up the hill,” said Fergus.

  Culann brightened at the suggestion. “Ok my friend, let’s go looking.” The two moved out and up the hill. The Pict had started his smoke signal again. The sailors scoured the shoreline for bits of the boat, particularly any twine, which would come in handy.

  Half way up the hill Culann and Fergus came upon a clump of weather-beaten bushes; their branches bent over from the continual wind. “This may have to do,” said Fergus stepping into the midst to attack the largest branches. Together they hacked a considerable number and with Culann holding an armful, they made their way back to camp. Fergus grabbed a branch one at a time, stripping the leaves and unwanted branches from the core as they walked.

  As they approached the camp, pandemonium broke out. As they finally slipped down to the overhanging ledge they were greeted by the joyous scene of the Poolewe Pict embracing his missing colleague who together with one of the missing sailors had followed the smoke signals to safety. They had both had grabbed onto a piece of timber as the curach broke up and been swept far down the bay.

  Culann decided the sailors were better at lashing the pieces of wood together to make a sled under Fergus’ direction. So he sadly hoisted the deceased sailor over his shoulder and climbed back up to a flat piece of land he noticed earlier. He carefully laid the sailor on the hard ground. He had no tools to dig a grave and the ground was too hard anyway. So he aligned the sailor facing east and gathered some of the many surrounding rocks and carefully placed them over the sailor’s body.

  He stood when finished and said a prayer he remembered from Iona over the deceased sailor. As he turned he saw the remaining sailors had gathered, standing silently watching the simple eulogy. One had fashioned a cross from two sticks. But the grass he used to bind it refused to work. Culann took off his belt and gave it to the sailor. A grateful murmuring broke out from their ranks as the cross was expertly tied together and placed reverently on top of the cairn of stones.

  “We tried a sled Culann, but it won’t work with Brother Bryan,” explained Fergus. “The ground is too rough. So we have fashioned a stretcher instead. We just need two men to carry it,”

  “I’ll carry it” said Culann. “The others can take turns at the back.”

  And so the little group moved off heading east along the coastline of the large bay; Fergus taking the point, followed by the two Poolewe Picts, Culann and one of the sailors carrying Brother Bryan’s stretcher and the remaining sailors bringing up the rear. They collected the odd piece of wooden debris including two oars that had been washed up on shore.

  It was around midday when Culann called a halt. “This is no good. It will take us weeks to wind our way through all these bays and headlands.” He turned to the sailors, “Do any of you know where we are?”

  The sailors conferred and then one stepped forward. “That island over there to the west, with the large escarpment in the distance is Eigg. The mountains you see behind it must be the larger island of Rum.” He turned and pointed south-west, “See the land way down on the horizon, where the coastline curves right around, we think that must be the Point of Ardnamurchan.”

  “Why, the monastery of Ardslignish should be just behind it,” exclaimed Culann.

  “That is so,” confirmed the sailor.

  “Well then why don’t we build a boat and sail direct to Ardslignish and get help?” asked Culann.

  “We don’t have the materials to build a boat. No wooden spars, no cowhide for covering, nothing,” replied the sailor despondently.

  “Why don’t we build a raft then?” asked Fergus. We have a couple of oars. They are too long just to paddle but we could cut them down.”

  “There are some larger trees up on that ridge. We could add them to the wooden stretcher we made for Brother Bryan,” suggested Culann.

  “But we can’t all fit on one tiny raft,” protested one of the sailors.

  “No of course not,” said Fergus. “But two men could. We could paddle across and bring help back.”

  “Not me,” cried one of the sailors as the others shook their heads. “Across open-ocean on a flimsy raft - no way!”

  “I will,” said Fergus. “I once paddled almost down the east coast of this island, and back again. What say you Culann?”

  Culann smiled, remembering their epic voyage from Lindisfarne to Whitby and his journey back again with Fergus is a tiny one man coracle. “Why not Fergus, it’s better than staying here and starving to death.”

  Decision made, Fergus and Culann quickly climbed the nearby ridge, selected four trees which were taller than Culann with trunks a bit thicker than a man’s arm and hacked them down. Then, with the help of the sailors lashed them one to either side of the wooden stretcher and two in the middle. It’s not pretty” said one of the sailors, but it should carry you both. Lucky Fergus is not very heavy.”

  The raft bounced high on the water as they launched it into a small surf. However it floated noticeably lower when the two adventurers climbed aboard. “I suggest you secure yourselves to the raft by trying yourself to the raft,” suggested a sailor. “Otherwise you will be washed overboard with the first big wave. Just here at the top of your legs, your groin, that way you can bend your knees. It’s easier to row like that.”

 
“At least I won’t have to spend all day bailing,” grinned Culann remembering the last boating experience with Fergus.

  “Don’t you want to wait until morning to start?” asked one of the Pict lads.

  “No, the sooner we start the sooner we finish. What say you Fergus?”

  “Let’s go,” said Fergus grimly.

  The sailors all helped to push them into deep water. Fergus in front as usual started paddling on the right side and Culann fell into the rhythm on the left. Everyone, including Brother Bryan, who was lying quietly on a grassy bank, watched the little craft disappear at times down a swell, but then reappear again, until a rain squall hid it from view.

  Back to top

  Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω

  8.2 – Unsuccessful Search

  Fea’s hand went to her mouth as she starred at the small wooden cross on top of the grave. “That looks like Culann’s belt,” she whispered. Tamara took her by the shoulders and tried to turn her away as Brother Baile began removing stones so they could try to identify the remains.

  Fea shook away the restraining hand and stared resolutely at the head of the corpse as it slowly came into view. “I have seen many dead bodies,” she said calmly “I will see this one,” moving closer.

  As the last stone was removed they all starred at the dark haired face that came into view, eyes closed, no visible marks or wounds with an almost peaceful expression.

  “It’s not Culann,” sighed Fea as she sank to her knees in prayer.

  * * * * *

  After replacing the stones on the cairn, the little party moved down to the water’s edge to await the curach being sailed round the headland to meet them. They discovered the remains of the fire that had been built under the large ledge.

  “This is where they stayed all right,” observed Sreng stirring the now cold ashes with his foot. “This fire is only a day or so old.” Then nodding to the footprints in patches of sand “They walked off that-a-way along the shore. With the boat we should be able to overtake them today or tomorrow.

  It was not long after that the curach came into view and pulled into the small rock strewn cove. Everyone climbed on board and the sailors pushed off, rowing resolutely along the shoreline in an easterly direction.

  Mid afternoon found the curach making good headway along the coastline, still heading east. It was helped by a strong current moving clockwise around the great bay.

  “Shouldn’t we start looking for a place to anchor and spend the night? The light is fading fast,” suggested Brother Baile.

  “Good idea,” yelled Sreng who was peering intently from the bow of the boat. “Why don’t we camp next to those chaps jumping up and down, waving on that small beach?”

  “Bless my soul,” cried Brother Baile, “I believe we’ve found them. Pull in lads, pull in.”

  It was difficult to determine who were happier; what was left of the Iona curach crew or their rescuers from Lios mór. As the boat grounded on the slip of sand everyone climbed, clambered and leaped ashore to be embraced by those formally demoralised crew members. Even Brother Bryan waved bravely from his grass ledge, tears streaming down his face.

  But the celebrations were cut short by Sister Fea “Where is Culann? Where is Fergus?”

  The Iona crew went quiet. Many looked down at their feet and shuffled uncomfortably. Finally the two Poolewe Picts who had been busy greeting their colleague Sreng, turned and addressed Sisters’ Fea and Tamara, who were standing together on the edge of the crowd. “Brother Culann and Fergus set out on a raft to row to the monastery beyond that point.” He indicated the Point of Ardnamurchan, but it was no longer visible. It was hidden by sea mist and failing light.

  “Why would they do something stupid like that?” asked Fea to no one in particular.

  “Ah lassie, don’t fret. They did it to save us. We have no food, no supplies and it would take perhaps weeks to walk all the way around these bays to get help,” explained one of the sailors. “We all thought the brave lads most likely would not succeed, but was the only chance we had.”

  “When did they leave?” asked Brother Baile.

  “Oh not so long ago, about midday I think,” said one of the Poolewe Picts.

  “Well don’t just stand here,” said Fea. “Let’s get back in the curach and find them.”

  Brothers Baile and Nuada both shook their heads. “It’s getting dark lassie. We could not see them if we sailed right by them. We will have to wait until first light tomorrow.”

  Fea covered her face so no one could see her bitter disappointment. Then suddenly “Where is Brother Bryan? Is he with you?”

  “Over here dear Sister,” called Bryan softly. “I’m sorry I can’t stand to greet you. I have a slight problem with my leg.”

  Fea and Tamara hurried over to the grassy bank where Bryan lay, propping himself up on one arm. They gently drew back the stained habit that covered his legs. Years of practice of not showing any emotion which may upset her patients, allowed Fea to remain calm when they saw Bryan’s twisted leg. Tamara did draw in her breath, but made no other sound.

  Fea gently felt around the swollen discoloured leg. Bryan winced a couple of times but bravely said nothing during the examination.

  Fea smiled to show confidence to her patient. “I’m afraid your leg is broken Brother Bryan, below the knee. Normally we would get you to drink some of Brother Hesus’ wondrous whiskey, (‘whiskey’ as spelt in Ireland or ‘whisky’ as spelt in Scotland - but as we are dealing with Irish monks we’ll spell it ‘whiskey’) which greatly eases the pain, but alas we have none. However we have some strong lads who can help hold you still while we straiten you leg.” Fea pulled out her eating knife hidden in her skirt and cut a thin strip from her hem. Knotting it double she handed it to Brother Bryan. “If you bite in this knot when we start dear Brother, it may help.”

  There was no doubt now who was in charge as Fea turned to Brother Baile and said quietly “I need four strong lads to hold down the good monk while I straighten his leg. I also need two straight pieces of wood as long as the monk’s leg.”

  Baile nodded and chose the four toughest sailors. “I think the best wood is the top halves our brave lads cut off their oars to make them more manageable on their raft.

  Fea and Tamara both rolled up their sleeves and knelt down beside Brother Bryan. “If you are ready dear Bother we will start now.” Bryan squeezed his eyes shut and with the knotted gag in his mouth started saying The Lord’s Prayer. A muffled ‘crack’ was heard as Fea nodded to Tamara and they straightened the leg. Bryan’s whole body jerked and the resulting spasm was contained by the four sailors. Fea then laid the two pieces of wood on either side of the leg and bound leg and splints together with material she had cut from her skirts.

  “That’s the best we can do until we get him back to Lios mór,” Fea announced quietly as she stood and brushed her hands on her cloak.

  * * * * *

  Even before first light Fea was pacing up and down the little beach, impatient to leave. She supervised the moving of Bryan into the curach. Although he was laid on the bottom she arranged for some spare cloaks to be placed as makeshift bedding to lessen the shock of waves on the curach’s hide sides. Bryan smiled weakly and closed his eyes.

  Visibility was good as everyone settled into the curach. It was cramped but the sailors had sufficient room to man their oars. Everyone strained their eyes to catch any sign of a raft bearing two men.

  They rowed all day against a strong current. By late afternoon Point of Ardnamurchan, was well in sight. Once past the point they were able to take advantage of the prevailing wind and hoisted the sail. After discussions between Baile, Marcus and the helmsman, who knew these waters well, they decided to press on down into Loch Sunart and Ardslignish.

  And so the isolated monastery of Ardslignish, whose monks were lucky to receive visitors twice a year, welcomed their third boatload of guests in less than a month.

  Sister Fea sought out Abbot Morann an
d asked him where the monk Culann and the Pict Fergus, who sailed here on a raft, were. Abbot Morann looked perplexed “I know Brother Culann very well. He was last here on Christmas Day. I haven’t seen him since and no one has ever come here on a raft.”

  Fea had this now familiar sinking feeling. Where could they be?

  * * * * *

  Brother Bryan was in pain. Ardslignish had no infirmary, so he was laid on a bunk with the other monks. He was determined not to keep other monks awake with his groans, so he kept his mouth firmly clamped shut on the same knotted piece of cloth Fea had given him earlier. Moreover Celtic monks were encouraged to endure bodily and mental tribulations in order to show their devotion to their God.

  When morning came Fea sought out Abbot Moran, who was conferring with Brothers Baile and Marcus. “Come closer dear Sister,” said Abbot Moran “I can see you are concerned.”

  “Yes, I am worried about Brother Culann and Fergus, replied Fea. “Brother Culann saved my life many years ago. I feel I must do more to find him before we return to Lios mór.”

  “Well Brother Marcus was just requesting we return him to his monastery on Eigg. Brother Baile suggested we use the Lios mór curach to sail back around the Point of Ardnamurchan, on to Eigg then follow the coastline back to where you discovered the Iona people. He can arrange for the Lios mór sailors to follow the far coastline all the way back to our monastery and search for the two intrepid rowers. They must be stranded somewhere along that shore,” advised Abbot Moran.

  “Oh that would be wonderful,” replied Fea gratefully.

  “Do you wish to join us in our search Sister Fea?” asked Brother Baile, who was aware of the special bond between Fea and Culann.

  “I think not, thank you,” said Fea “Sister Tamara and I should ‘minister to Brother Bryan. He is in great pain. We do not have any Comfrey [1] here. We need to return him to Lios mór where the plant we use to mend bones, is plentiful. How long will it take to return Brother Marcus to Eigg and return here?”