I listened to the talk around me while idly turning the spit and watching the sinking sun stain the blue-green water with molten gold. The fish sizzled and the sky faded to pale yellow, and I listened to the gulls chatter on the rock cliffs above as they gathered for the night.
When at last the mackerel was cooked, I raised the spit, peeled off a strip of flesh with my fingers, blew on it a little and tucked it into my mouth. Truly, I believed I had never tasted anything so good in all my life. I also realized I had not eaten anything since breaking fast early that morning.
Was it only this morning that we left? I wondered, turning the spit before the flames. Already, it seemed the Aidan who had set off with a heart full of woe was not the same Aidan eating fish from a spit and licking his fingers.
After our meal, Bishop Cadoc led prayers. A monk on pilgrimage is excused from the daily round; the journey itself is accounted a form of prayer. Even so, we did not neglect any opportunity to refresh ourselves in this way.
We sang psalms as the stars came out, our voices ringing from the rocks all around and out over the glimmering water. With the last notes soaring into the night, we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and slept on the shingle under the stars.
We awakened at first light to mist and low cloud. The wind had changed during the night, and now came out of the east in a low gusting breeze. The pilot and Máel stood at the water’s edge, wavelets lapping at their feet, scanning the sky and talking. Cadoc joined them, exchanged a word, and then called out: “Rise, brothers!” he called. “The day is before us!”
While Clynnog and Ciáran—either side of the coracle—guided the bishop, the rest of us broke camp and waded back to the ship. Once aboard, Fintán took the tiller and signalled Connal to raise the anchor. The others plied the long oars and began turning the ship.
“Let us help them,” suggested Dugal. “It will do us good to learn the seaman’s craft.”
He took up an oar and put it in my hands, then found one for himself. Dugal stood on one side of the ship, and I on the other. Clynnog showed me how to work the long-handled blade back and forth in the water. “More like sawing wood,” he told me, “and less like stirring porridge, Aidan. Long, easy strokes. Do not turn your wrists so.”
Slowly, the boat turned in the water and we began moving back out of the little cove and into the open sea once more. Once well beyond the rocks, Fintán called for the sail to be raised; the heavy fabric shook itself once, twice, caught the wind and filled. The ship slipped smoothly into deeper water, and we were away.
The pilot steered a course parallel to the land, moving south along the coast. The morning passed in a damp haze of mist and fog which clung to the cliffs and obscured the hills, leaving little to see.
We broke fast on barley bread and fish left over from the previous meal. I carried some back to Fintán at the stern, who put me to work holding the tiller while he ate. “We will make a seafarer of you yet, Aidan,” he chuckled. “Just hold fast and keep an eye on the sail.”
“Gwilym said we were to put in at Ty Gwyn,” I said.
“Aye,” answered the pilot, breaking bread. “Supplies.”
“Is it far?”
He chewed thoughtfully. “No great distance.”
Fintán seemed content with this answer and disinclined to improve on it, so I asked, “How far then?”
The pilot ate his bread as if contemplating the deep complexity of my question. Finally, he squinted up his eyes and said, “You will see.”
Fintán’s prediction proved faulty, however: I never did see the abbey called Ty Gwyn.
9
The wind sharpened, backing to the southeast and blowing steadily harder throughout the morning, churning the slate-grey water into stiff, jagged peaks that slammed against the prow and sides as if to drive us ashore. Consequently, our squint-eyed pilot was forced to put the ship further out, away from the coast, to avoid coming too near the land and being blown onto the rocks.
The sea swelled, lifting the ship high and holding it, before pitching it sideways into the next furrow. I found this rising-swaying-falling motion more than I could endure, and retreated to the back of the boat where I might grit my teeth and moan.
By midday, the wind had become a howling gale, piling the black waves high and spraying white foam over everything. I sat hunched in my nest among the grain sacks, clutching my stomach and desperately wishing I had not eaten the fish. Dugal, seeing my misery, fetched a stoup of water from the vat lashed to the mast. “Here, Aidan,” he cried. “Drink this. You will feel better.” He shouted above the wind and wave-roar, for even as far from land as we were, we could still hear the terrible thunder of the water tearing itself upon the rocks.
Placing the stoup in my hands, he watched me raise the wooden vessel to my lips, spilling most of the contents over myself due to the violent motion of the ship. The water tasted like iron on my tongue. I shivered at the taste; the shiver became a shudder and I felt my stomach churn inside me. I made it to the rail just in time to spew the ill-favoured fish back into the sea whence it came.
“Fret not, Aidan,” Fintán advised. “It is for the best. You will feel better now.”
This promise seemed especially remote, however, as I fell back onto the grain bags, drooling and gasping. Dugal sat with me until he was called away to help the sea monks strike the sail. This, I understood, would make the ship less easy to steer. But, as Máel explained, “It is take down the sail, or lose the mast.”
“Is it that bad?” I wondered, feeling innocent and helpless.
“Nay,” replied Máel, frowning, “not so bad that it cannot yet get worse.”
“You mean it can get worse?” I wondered, apprehension stealing over me.
“Aye, it can always get worse. Sure, this is no more than a summer’s breeze compared to some of the storms I have braved,” he told me proudly. “I tell you the truth, Aidan, I have been shipwrecked four times.”
This seemed to me a dubious boast for a seafaring man, but Máel appeared most pleased with it. The pilot called him to take the tiller just then, and I watched as Fintán grappled his way along the rail to join Brynach and the bishop at the mast. The three conferred briefly, where-upon the pilot returned to the helm. Dugal had seen this, too, and went to where Brynach and the bishop stood with their arms about one another’s shoulders to keep from falling over.
They spoke together, whereupon Dugal returned to where I sat and said, “We cannot put in at Ty Gwyn. The coast is too treacherous and sea too rough to stop there now.”
“Where, then?” I moaned, not really caring any more where we went.
“We are making for Inbhir Hevren,” he told me. “It is a very great estuary with many bays and coves, and not so many rocks. Brynach says we can find shelter there.”
Any sight of land had disappeared in mist and cloud wrack long ago. I wondered how the pilot knew where we could be, but lacked the strength or will to ask; it was all I could do to hold to the sacking and keep my head upright.
I clung to the grain bags and prayed: Great of Heaven, Three-One, Evermighty, who delights in saving men, hear my prayer and save us now. From torment of sea, from dolour of waves, from gales great and terrible, from squall and storm deliver us! Sain us and shield us and sanctify us; be thou, King of the Elements, seated at our helm and guiding us in peace to safety. Amen, Lord, so be it.
Night drew on quickly and the gale, rather than abating, increased; as if drawing power from darkness, the wind mounted higher. The ropes, taut against the storm, sang mournfully as the mast creaked. Our tight little ship was tossed from trough to peak and back again, and my stomach heaved with every rise and fall. The grain sacks provided some stability and all who were not needed to keep the ship afloat gathered there to huddle together.
The last light failed and Fintán announced: “We cannot make landfall in the dark. Even if we could see the estuary, it would be too dangerous in this storm.”
“What are we to do?” a
sked Brocmal, fear making his voice tremble.
“We will sail on,” the pilot replied. “Fret not, brother. The ship is stout. We can easily ride out this storm.”
So saying, he returned to his tiller, and we to our close-mumbled prayers.
Through the long darkness we prayed and comforted one another as best we could. The night wore on and on, endless, gradually passing to day once more with little alteration in the light. Day or night, the darkness remained heavy as the waves towered over us on every side.
All that dreadful day we looked for some evidence of land. But night came upon us once more, before we found even the smallest suggestion of a coastline or shore. We huddled in the bottom of the boat, clinging each to the other and all to the grain sacks. Bishop Cadoc, cold to the bone, shivering and shuddering, offered a continual litany of psalms and prayers of deliverance. The men of Éire are a seagoing tribe and we have many invocations of an oceanic nature. The good bishop knew them all and spoke them twice, and then said as many more that I had never heard before.
From time to time, one of the muir manachi would take a turn at the tiller, but our helmsman shouldered the greatest share of the burden alone—a very rock in the teeth of the storm; the Stone of Cúlnahara is not more steadfast than Fintán the pilot. My respect for that man grew with every wave that crashed over the rails.
All through the tempest-tortured night we shivered and prayed, the scream of wind and thunder of water loud in our ears. Hard pressed though we were, we kept courage keen with faith in God and hope of deliverance.
Even when the rudder pin gave way, we did not despair. Máel and Fintán hauled the broken rudder aboard and lashed it securely to the side of the boat. “We are at the mercy of the wind now,” Máel informed us.
“Let Him who fixed the pole star guide us,” Cadoc replied. “Lord, we are in your hand. Send us where you will.”
With or without the rudder, I observed little difference in the behaviour of the boat. We were yet thrown from one wave to the next and blasted by every gale. Sea and sky continually changed places. Seawater broke over us in freezing cascades; had we taken up residence beneath a waterfall, we could not have been more severely drenched.
Three days and nights we endured this tribulation. We could neither eat nor sleep; any such comfort was impossible. When, after three days, there came no hint or evidence of the storm ending, Bishop Cadoc raised his cambutta and stood. Then, with those nearest him clutching him about the legs and waist to keep him from being snatched overboard by the wind and waves, the Bishop of Hy called out a seun to calm the storm. The charm he spoke was this:
May the Three encircle me, May the
Three succour me, May the Three shield me,
Be thou ever saving me!
Aid thee me in my dire need, Aid thee me
in my distress, Aid thee me in every
danger, Be thou ever aiding me!
Nor water shall drown me, Nor flood
shall drown me, Nor brine shall
drown me,
Be thou ever upholding me!
Away with storms! Away with gales! Away with
cruel killing waves!
In the name of the Father of Life,
and the Son Triumphant,
and the Spirit Most Holy, with peace everlasting,
Amen, Amen, Amen!
Cadoc repeated this charm three times and then sat down. We waited.
Clutching to the grain bags and to one another, the storm’s savage howl loud in our ears, we waited. The ship turned around and around, rudderless, flung this way and that on the high-lifting sea swell.
Then, by some happenchance, Ciáran raised his head, looked around and sang out: “The sun!” Up he leapt. “Sol Invictus! The sun has conquered! Gloria Patri!”
Suddenly everyone was struggling up, pointing to the sky and shouting, “Glory be to God!” and praising the Ever Wise and all his saints and angels for our deliverance.
I looked where Ciáran was pointing and saw a narrow crack in the solid mass of grey. Through this crevice poured golden light in a broad, many-rayed band, piercing the night-dark sky with spears of bright morning light.
The crack opened wider allowing more sunlight to spill over the tempestuous sea. And it was almost as if the honeyed light was a balm poured onto the storm to soothe the troubled waters.
We stared at the shimmering shaft, willing it to expand and increase. But the sky closed again; the storm-clouds drew together once more, shutting out the light. Our hopes flickered out as the last ray disappeared.
Cold, exhausted from our long ordeal, we gazed forlorn and unhappy at the place where we had last seen the light. The wind gusted again and we shivered to hear it. And then, even as we hunkered down to weather the reawakened gale, the heavens split above us.
“Look!” shouted Clynnog, leaping up. “God’s bow!”
I turned and saw a great arc of glowing colour shining in the air, God’s promise renewed once more. Blue sky and rainbow—two of creation’s most beautiful sights. We were saved. We turned our faces to the sky above, welcoming the sun’s return with loud cries of joy and thanksgiving.
Fintán, the pilot, standing by the helm, called out, “Behold! The storm has flung us across the sea.”
It was true. The clouds and mist had vanished, and away to the south I could make out the humped shape of land, floating on the horizon.
“Do you know the place, Fin?” asked Cadoc hopefully.
“I do indeed,” the steersman replied, allowing himself a wide smile of approval.
“Then,” suggested the bishop lightly, “will you yet tell us what land it is that we see there?”
“I shall,” said Fintán. “Brothers, it is Armorica. Though the gales have battered us, they have performed a small service. Our crossing, though wave-tossed, has been made in half the time. We are wet and cold, truly. But God is good, he has delivered us to our destination.”
“And this without a rudder?” wondered Connal.
“Yes, Con,” replied Fintán, “the very hand of God was upon us, guiding us on our way. Now it is for us to do what remains.” With that he began calling orders.
The muir manachi jumped quickly to their tasks. The oars were unshipped and we all set ourselves to rowing; without a rudder, use of the sail—even in a rapidly calming wind—would be useless, if not hazardous, and it was easier to steer by oar. The helmsman, meanwhile, took an extra oar and lashed it to the tiller post to serve as a rudder—enough of a rudder, at least, to help correct our rowing. The sea continued to run high and rough.
I watched the backs and shoulders of the men ahead of me—bending, swaying, hunching, to the rhythm of the song. I tried my best to imitate them, throwing the oar before me and drawing it back. I soon acquired a rough proficiency in the task, and was glad to do my part.
We rowed a goodly while, and the exertion, after three days of inactivity, roused both hunger and thirst. Gwilym and Ddewi left off rowing and began preparing a meal. It was then that they learned we had lost most of our drinking water. For, when Ddewi went to the ship’s vat he found it all but empty, and that which was left tainted with salt water. The cover had come off during the storm and the good water dashed out by the rough waves.
This was not a serious problem, for we had yet a cask of water and several skins, but as these were meant to serve for our land journey it meant we would have to replenish them as soon as possible. Bishop Cadoc, Brynach, and Fintán put their heads together to determine what should be done. Since I was manning the last oar, I was near enough to overhear them.
“We must make land soon to repair the tiller,” Brynach pointed out; “let it be near a stream.”
“There may be a settlement,” suggested Cadoc.
“Aye, there may,” agreed Fintán, pursing his lips.
“Do you not recognize the coast?”
“No.” The pilot shook his head. “Sure, I know it is Armorica,” he added quickly, “but whether we be north o
r south of Nantes, I cannot say.”
That was the first I had heard mention of any stopping place—and yet, on such a long trip as this, we must have numerous destinations. I realized with some chagrin how little I actually knew about the journey I was embarked upon—not that it mattered very much for all that. Upon reaching Byzantium, I would die. That much I knew, and it was more than enough to occupy my thoughts.
Still, I wondered. Why Nantes? From the little I had heard of the Gaulish abbeys—and it was very little indeed—the monasteries of Gaul were unlike any known in Britain and Éire. It was often said that the continental monks were not Fir Manachi, that is True Monks, much less were they Célé Dé! Why, then, should we look to such men to aid our purpose? What interest could they have in our journey?
I thought about this as I rowed, but could make nothing of it, so contented myself with the thought that all would be revealed very soon. Bishop Cadoc and his advisors had, no doubt, good reason to hold close counsel in these matters. I determined to keep my ears open, however, to catch any stray word which might enlighten me.
When the meal was ready, we eagerly shipped oars and fell to with a will. I sat down next to Dugal and we ate our barley loaves and salt beef, and gazed upon the land to the east. The coast of Armorica, or Less Britain, as it was also known, was much closer now.
“Have you ever been to Armorica, Dugal?” I asked.
“I have not,” he replied. “Although, it is said there are more Britons there now than in Britain.”
“Is that so?”
“That is what they say. Samson of Dol brought them, you know. And those he did not bring, followed him anyway. They went to escape the Saexen plague.” He shrugged. “Or, so they say.”
“Then perhaps it is to a British abbey we are going,” I mused, and told him what I learned from the conversation I had overheard.
“You may be right, brother,” he agreed as Máel handed him the water jug; Dugal guzzled down a great draught and passed it to me.
Byzantium Page 8