I was reading the Canticle of the Three Youths, to which I applied myself intently, and my diligence was rewarded, for it seemed as if I had only just lit the candles when the bell sounded compline. Laying the book carefully aside, I left the cell and joined the brothers on the way to the chapel. I looked for Dugal among them, but the night was dark and I did not see him. Nor did I see him afterwards.
Prayers were offered for the coming journey, and it put me in mind to make petition myself. So, after the service I sought out Ruadh, our secnab, and requested the night vigil. As second to Abbot Fraoch, it was Ruadh’s responsibility to appoint the readers and vigilants each day.
Crossing the yard, I proceeded to a small hut set a little apart from the abbot’s lodge. There, I paused at the entrance to the cell and, pulling the oxhide covering aside, I tapped on the door. A moment later, Ruadh bade me enter. I pushed open the narrow door and stepped into a room aglow with candlelight. The air smelled of beeswax and honey. Ruadh was sitting in his chair with his bare toes almost touching the turf fire on the hearthstone at his feet. As I came to stand before him, he put aside the scroll he was reading and stood.
“Sit with me, Aidan,” he said, indicating a three-legged stool. “I will not keep you long from your rest.”
Ruadh was, as I say, secnab of our community, second only to Abbot Fraoch in the monastic hierarchy. He was also my confessor and guide—my anamcara, my soul friend, responsible for my spiritual health and progress.
I drew the stool to the fire’s edge and held my hands to it, waiting for him to speak. The room, like most of the others, was a bare stone cell with a single small windhole in one wall, and a straw sleeping pallet on the floor. Ruadh’s bulga, his leather book satchel, hung on its strap from a peg above the pallet, and a basin of water sat at the foot of the bed. Candles stood in iron candletrees, and on stones on the floor. The only other adornment in the room was a stone shelf which held a small wooden cross.
Many and many were the times we had sat together in this simple hut, deep in conversation over a point of theology, or unsnarling one of the numerous tangles in my wayward soul’s knotted skein. I realized that this might be the last time I would sit with my soul friend. Instantly, a deep melancholy overcame me and I felt another pain of parting—oh, and there were many more partings to come.
“Well, Aidan,” Ruadh said, glancing up from the fire after a moment, “you have achieved your heart’s desire. How does it feel?”
“Sure, I am delighted,” I replied; my sudden lack of enthusiasm declared otherwise, however.
“Truly?” Ruadh wondered. “It seems to me you express your joy in a most dour manner, Aidan.”
“I am well pleased,” I insisted. “It has been my only thought since I first learned of the bishop’s plan, as you well know.”
“And now that you have won your will, you begin to see another side to the thing,” he suggested.
“I have had time to consider the matter in greater detail,” I said, “and I find the abbot’s decision has not made me so happy as I expected.”
“Did you imagine it would bring you happiness? Is that why you wanted it so badly?”
“No, Confessor,” I protested quickly. “It is just that I am beginning to understand how much I am leaving behind when I go.”
“It is to be expected.” He nodded sympathetically. “Indeed, I have heard it said that in order to go anywhere, one must leave the place where he is and arrive somewhere else.” He pursed his lips and stroked his chin. “Although I am no authority in such matters, I am persuaded that this may be true.”
My heart lightened somewhat at his gentle wit. “As always, your wisdom is unassailable, Confessor.”
“Remember, Aidan,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “never doubt in the darkness that which you believed in the light. Also, this: unless the pilgrim carry with him the thing he seeks, he will not find it when he arrives.”
“I will remember.”
He leaned back in his chair once more. “Now then, what preparations will you make?”
I had not given a thought to any specific preparations. “It occurs to me,” I began slowly, “that a fast would be appropriate—a trédinus, I believe, would prepare me for—”
Ruadh stopped me. “A three-day fast is truly commendable,” he agreed quickly. “But as we are even now observing Lent, rather than adding fast to fast, might I suggest another discipline? A spiritual fast, if you like.”
“Yes?”
“Make peace with those you are leaving behind,” he said. “If anyone has hurt you, or if there is anyone you hold grievance against—now is the time to set matters right.”
I opened my mouth to object that I bore no one any ill, but Ruadh continued: “Hear me, my son, it is not a thing to be dismissed lightly. I would have you regard this as a matter worthy of your highest consideration.”
“If you insist, Confessor,” I replied, somewhat confused by his vehemence. “Still, I think a fast would be most beneficial. I could do both.”
“You are not thinking, Aidan,” he said. “Think! There is a time to fast, and a time to feast. The journey you will make is most arduous. Hardship and privation are the least dangers you will face.”
“Certainly, Secnab, I am well aware of the dangers.”
“Are you?” he asked. “I wonder.”
I said nothing.
Ruadh leaned towards me across the fire. “Now is the time to gather strength for the journey, son. Eat well, drink well, sleep and take your ease while you may—store up your vigour against the day when it will be required.”
“If you think it best, Confessor,” I said, “then I will do it.”
As if he had not heard me, Ruadh said, “Soon you will leave this place—perhaps forever, it must be said. Therefore, you must go with a free and easy heart. When you leave, leave with peace in your soul so that you may face whatever dangers come upon you with courage and fortitude undiminished, secure in the knowledge that you hold no enmity for any man, and no man holds enmity for you.”
“As you will, Confessor,” I replied.
“Ah! You have not heard a single word. Do not do it for me, son—I am not the one going to Byzantium.” He regarded me with mild impatience. “Well, think about what I have said.” He took up his scroll once again, signalling an end to our conversation.
“Trust that I will do as you advise,” I replied, rising to my feet.
“Peace be with you, Aidan.”
I stepped to the door. “God keep you this night, Secnab,” I said. Suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, I yawned and decided not to request the night vigil after all.
Turning his head to look at me, Ruadh said, “Rest while you may, Aidan, for the night is coming when no man can rest.”
I walked out into the darkness and raised my eyes to a sky bright-dusted with stars. The wind had died away and the world lay hushed and still. On a night such as this, any talk of danger and hardship was surely exaggerated. I returned to my cell and lay down on my pallet to sleep.
4
The next day was Passion Day, and no work is done—save that strictly necessary for the maintenance of the abbey and its inhabitants. Most of us renewed our tonsure, so to be clean-shaven for the Sabbath, or Resurrection Day.
The tonsure of the Célé Dé is distinctive; the front of the head is shaved from ear to ear, save for a thin line that forms a circlet, called the corona—symbol of the crown we hope one day to receive from our Lord’s hand. This must be refreshed from time to time, of course, as the hair grows back in short, prickly bristles. Renewing the tonsure is a service we perform often for one another. Thus, we are all accomplished barbers.
As the day was warm, Dugal and I took it in turn to sit on a milking stool in the yard while the other performed the rite of the razor. Our brothers were likewise occupied, and we filled the yard with pleasant, if idle, chatter. I was just drying my new-shaven head with a cloth when Cellach summoned me.
“They are ca
lling for you,” he said, and I heard the weary resignation in his voice.
“Forgive me, master, I thought we were finished.”
“So did I,” he sighed. “But there will be no peace until they are happy. Go to them, son. See what you can do.”
Well, our part of the book was completed. Nevertheless, Libir and Brocmal, still labouring over their long-finished leaves, insisted on reviewing all the work one last time. They beseeched Master Cellach with such zeal that he gave in just to silence them, and I was obliged to help.
I arrived to find that the two scribes had carefully laid out all the leaves, placing two or three on each empty table in the scriptorium. Then, beginning at the top, they moved from table to table, inspecting the leaves, heads down, noses almost touching the vellum, sharp eyes scanning the texts and pictures for invisible flaws. I followed, hands behind back, gazing at the wonderful work and stifling little cries of delight. Truly, it is a blessed book!
Not far into their inspection, however, the two demanding scribes found a blemish. “Aidan!” Brocmal cried, turning on me so fiercely that my first thought was that the mistake, whatever it was, had been mine. “Ink is needed!”
“This can be saved,” Libir intoned solemnly, his face nearly pressed to the table. “A line or two…See? Here…and here.”
“Christ be thanked,” Brocmal agreed with exaggerated relief, bending over the suspect leaf. “I will prepare a pen.” He turned and, seeing me looking on, shouted, “What is this, Aidan? The bishop arrives at any moment. We need ink! Why are you standing there like a post?”
“You did not say what colour is required.”
“Red, of course!” he snapped.
“And blue,” added Libir.
“Blue and red,” Brocmal commanded. “Away with you, sluggard!”
We worked through most of the day this way, for having repaired one fault, they soon found others requiring instant attention—though I saw none of the supposed errors they so cheerfully discerned. We removed ourselves from the daily round, and from the midday table as well, in order to mend the damage.
It was just after none, and I was standing at the mixing table, pounding red lead and ochre in a mortar, when the bell sounded. Laying aside my tools, I quickly pulled on my mantle, gathered my cloak, and hurried into the scriptorium. “The bishop has arrived!” Brocmal announced, although Libir and I were already racing to the door. Out into the yard we joined the throng making for the gate.
Ranging ourselves in ranks to the right and left of the gate, we began singing a hymn to welcome our guests. Bishop Cadoc led the party, striding forth boldly for all he was a very old man. Yet, his step was strong and his eye keen as the eagle on the cambutta in his hand. This sacred symbol, fashioned in yellow gold atop his bishop’s staff, gleamed with a holy light in the midday sun, scattering the shadows as he passed.
There were many monks with him—thirty altogether. I watched each one as he passed through the gate, and wondered which among them were The Chosen. I wondered also who carried the book. For, though I saw more than one bulga dangling from shoulder straps, I did not see any which I thought grand enough for the Book of Colum Cille.
Abbot Fraoch met our visitors inside the gate and welcomed the bishop with a kiss. He hailed the company warmly, saying, “Greetings, brothers! In the name of our Blessed Lord and Saviour, Jesu, we welcome you to Cenannus na Ríg. May God grant you peace and joy while you are with us. Rest now and take your ease while we extend to you every comfort we possess.”
To this the bishop replied, “You are kind, Brother Fraoch, but we are fellow labourers in fields of the Lord. Thus, we expect to receive nothing which you would deny yourselves.” Casting his gaze around him, he spread wide his arms. “The peace of our Lord be with you, my dear children,” he called in a fine strong voice.
We answered: “And with your spirit also!”
“As many as have come to you, that many more would have gladly accompanied me,” the bishop continued. “I bring greetings from your brothers at Hy and Lindisfarne.” He paused, smiling with pleasure. “I also bring a treasure.”
Then, passing his staff of office to his secnab, Bishop Cadoc gestured for one of the monks to step forward. As the monk came near, he drew the strap of his bulga over his head and offered it to his superior. Cadoc received it, pulled the peg, lifted the flap and withdrew the book to cries of amazement and wonder all around.
Oh, it was magnificent! Even at a distance, I thought it a marvel; for the cumtach was not leather—not even the dyed calfskin used for very special books. The cover of Colum Cille’s book was sheet silver worked into fantastic figures: spirals, keys, and triscs. At each corner of the cover was a knotwork panel, and in the centre of each panel a different gem had been mounted. These surrounded a knotwork cross, beset with rubies. In the play of sunlight the silver cumtach seemed a living thing, dancing, dazzling, moving with the rhythm of the King of Glory’s creation.
Abbot Fraoch took the book into his hands, raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he held it above his head and turned this way and that so everyone could catch a glimpse. Two years in preparation, the Book of Colum Cille was a treasure rare and fine—a gift worthy of an emperor. My heart swelled with pride at the sight.
Replacing the book in its humble bag once more, the abbot and bishop walked together arm in arm up the hill to the oratory where they held close conversation until vespers. Many of the monks among us, having formerly lived in either Hy or Lindisfarne, enjoyed close friendships with many of our brother visitors; some were kinsmen. They fell on one another’s necks and gripped each other’s arms in greeting. Everyone began talking at once. After a while Brother Paulinus, our porter, shouted for the visitors to accompany him, whereupon he conducted them to the guest lodge.
Brocmal, Libir, and I returned to the scriptorium where we worked until supper when the two scribes, failing to discover any other jot to alter, pronounced the work completed at last.
“It is finished,” Libir said. “We have done our part. Lord Jesu have mercy.”
“Pray God it meets with the bishop’s approval.” Brocmal finally allowed himself a satisfied grin as his gaze played over all the finished leaves on the tables. “Truly, it meets with my approval.”
“You are very bards of vellum,” I told them. “Though my part was small, I am proud to have been of service to you.”
Both monks regarded me curiously, and I thought they might mention my contribution in their rejoicing at the completion of their labours, but they turned away, saying nothing. We then joined our brothers for the beginning of the Easter celebration—but not before securing the precious leaves.
Bishop Cadoc, as honoured guest, read the Beati and prayed. I listened with utmost attention, trying to determine what manner of man he might be for, though I had seen him once before, I was little more than a boy at the time and remembered almost nothing of that occasion.
Cadoc, like my old teacher Cybi, was a Briton. It was said that as a boy he had studied at Bangor-ys-Coed under the renowned Elffod, and as a young man he had travelled all throughout Gaul, teaching and preaching, before returning to Britain to lead the community at Candida Casa where he often held discourse with the most learned Eruigena. The excellent Sedulius—or Saidhuil, as he was known to us—had once written a poem in commemoration of a fine debate held between them.
Looking at the little bishop, it seemed to me appropriate that illustrious men should seek to celebrate his friendship. Small of stature and well filled with years, he nevertheless possessed the grace and dignity of a king, and exuded the health of a man still in the flush of youth. If, despite his vigour, any uncertainty still lingered, Cadoc had only to speak and doubt would vanish, for his voice was a powerful instrument, rich and full and loud, and prone to burst into song at any moment. This trait, as I have it, he shared with his kinsmen; trueborn Cymry loved nothing better than hearing their own voices soaring in song. Now, I had never heard a trumpet before, but if any
one had told me that it sounded like the Bishop of Hy singing a hymn I would have believed it.
After the meal, Brocmal, Libir and myself were presented to Cadoc. The abbot called us to his lodge where he and the bishop were sitting together with their secnabs, enjoying a cup of Easter mead. Now that the feast was begun, such luxuries were allowed.
“Welcome, brothers. Come in and sit with us.” The abbot motioned us to places on the floor between their chairs. Three additional cups had been poured in anticipation of our arrival, and when the abbot had distributed these, he said, his broken voice a thin whisper, “I have been telling Bishop Cadoc about our contribution to the book. He is most desirous of seeing what you have achieved.”
The bishop then asked us to describe our work. Brocmal began a lengthy account of the undertaking and how the labours had been divided among the various members of the scriptorium; Libir added observations from time to time, and Bishop Cadoc asked many questions of them both. I listened, awaiting my turn to speak, but it did not come.
It is a sign of my prideful spirit, no doubt, that I began to feel slighted—and I was not the only one. Master Cellach, under whose skillful and painstaking direction the great labour was accomplished, never received a mention, nor did any of the other scribes—and there were many. Listening to Brocmal and Libir’s account, one would have thought they had produced the entire book between the two of them alone. My own hand had copied out no less than thirty-eight separate passages, filling more than twenty leaves. And I was but one of a score of scribes working in three scriptoria on three separate islands. Indeed, the men who raised the cows that produced the calves that gave their skins to make the vellum, were certainly no less important in their way than the scribes who decorated those skins with such splendid art. Then again, I reflected, there were no herdsmen going to Byzantium.
Well, it was a small thing—an oversight, perhaps. But I could not help feeling in it the sting of an insult. Pride, I suppose, will be my ruin. But Brocmal and Libir, I reckoned, were reaping their reward at the expense of all the others who would never be recognized. I determined to remedy this injustice if I could. I must bide my time, however, and await the best opportunity.
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