Iona Portal (The Synaxis Chronicles)

by Robert David MacNeil

  Yet he somehow felt a connection to his namesake, Patrick. Guidebook in hand, he walked the Hill of Slemish where Patrick tended sheep as a teenager. He visited the Hill of Slane, where Patrick defied the High King of Tara. He finished his tour on Cathedral Hill in Downpatrick standing over Patrick’s grave. He had no words to describe it, but being in Ireland was somehow a healing experience. Yet he knew his quest was not over.

  There was still one place calling to him: a tiny, storm-swept isle off the western coast of Scotland. Though seemingly nothing more than a treeless sliver of rock and earth, historians consider the island to be one of the most significant places on earth. It’s been given many names over the millennia, but in recent centuries, it’s simply been called Iona.

  Yet Iona is not easily reached. Patrick’s cramped coach flight from Dublin to Glasgow had been followed by an hours-long rail journey to the city of Oban on the Scottish coast—a trip made infinitely longer by the screaming child in the seat behind him. After an overnight stay in Oban (which included visits to several of the local pubs), he awoke just in time to catch the MacBrayne ferry to Mull.

  Yet his journey was still not over. Disembarking at Craignure on Mull’s eastern shore, Patrick would next board a tourist bus for a long trek westward—traveling a winding one-lane road the length of the island—to the village of Fionnphort on Mull’s western tip. At Fionnphort he’d catch yet another ferry for the crossing to Iona.

  The summer he graduated from college, Patrick signed-up for an adventure tour and spent ten days backpacking the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. At the time, Patrick thought Mongolia was the remotest place on earth. It now struck him that Mongolia had been much more easily accessed than this little Scottish Isle.

  Patrick slapped a five-pound note on the bar and ordered a pint of Velvet, the thick, foamy Scottish ale he’d discovered the night before in a crowded Oban pub. Pint in hand, he retreated to the rear observation deck to watch the port of Oban and the western shore of Scotland fade into the distance.

  Driven by its eight-cylinder, 3100 horsepower Mirlees Blackstone diesel, the Isle of Mull was already making fifteen knots across the smooth water of the sound. The ship was designed to carry a full complement of 80 cars and 972 passengers but the summer crowds were still weeks away. Lightly loaded today, she carried barely half her maximum capacity.

  Patrick took a seat next to an older man who looked like a college professor enjoying an early summer vacation.

  The morning was bright and clear, and unusually warm for this early in the year. Patrick leaned back in the deck chair, stretched out his legs, and enjoyed the sensation of the warm breeze gently ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This sure beats flying in a jumbo jet.

  Taking a sip of the ice-cold Velvet, Patrick savored its rich smoothness while surveying a scene of almost surreal beauty. Receding behind him was the port of Oban, “gateway to the Western Isles.” Tucked at the foot of massive wooded hills, the port was laid out in a natural amphitheatre with the harbor as the stage. At the end of the 19th century, Oban flourished as a Victorian seaside resort and many of the buildings still had that feel. Gingerbread villas clung to the hillside while majestic old hotels lined the Esplanade. Along George Street, busy shops and restaurants provided a quaint backdrop for the fishing boats crowded against the quay. Further to the south stood the historic Caledonian Hotel with its ornate façade of towers and gables rising above the harbor.

  As Patrick studied the scene his attention was captured by an unusual structure on the hill above the town. Looming high above the picturesque Victorian village was a structure that looked for all the world like the coliseum of Rome.

  Patrick’s mouth opened, and without thinking, he said aloud, “What the hell is that!”

  “Ah,” the man next to him responded, “sounds like you’ve noticed McCaig's Tower.”

  Patrick glanced at the man. He appeared to be in his early-fifties with an untrimmed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a floppy white hat pulled down over a tangle of graying hair. Yet he carried a quiet air of confidence and intelligence.

  “What is that thing?” Patrick asked. “It looks like the Roman coliseum.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s supposed to look like.” The stranger laughed. “It was built by a wealthy banker named John Stuart McCaig back in 1897. Folks around here call it McCaig's Folly. Old man McCaig wanted to build a replica of the Roman coliseum here in the Scottish highlands and fill it with statues of himself and his family. It was supposedly a philanthropic project to provide work for the unemployed stonemasons of Scotland. McCaig only got the outer wall completed before his death, when his sister went to court to stop the project. It’s a public park now. Really quite lovely.”

  Patrick offered his hand. “Patrick O’Neill… Dallas, Texas. You sound like an American, but you seem to know the countryside here pretty well.”

  The man shook his hand and laughed again, “Call me Michael. Michael Fletcher. I’m actually Canadian, though I’ve spent some time in the states. But I’ve spent many more years studying this part of the world. Sort of an amateur historian. Tell me, what brings an Irish cowboy to the Western Isles?”

  “That’s a long story,” Patrick replied, sipping his pint. “I grew up in the states, but had an Irish grandmother who loved to tell me stories of the old country; so I’ve set out to explore my roots. I’ve spent the last four weeks in Ireland and have one more place to visit.”

  “And that would be… Iona?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’ve the look of a pilgrim about you,” Michael observed, “and pilgrims come from all over the world to Iona.”

  “I don’t know about the pilgrim part… ” Patrick responded, laughing. “I grew up Catholic but ditched religion in college. I’m an agnostic now, which doesn’t make me very good ‘pilgrim’ material.

  “My interest in Iona is sheer curiosity. My grandmother’s stories of the old country included one puzzling detail. She said our ancestors left Ireland and for almost two hundred years lived on the Island of Hy—what’s now called Iona. She described Hy as a mystical place. ‘An isle of lights and faeries’ she used to call it. She said our ancestors built a school there, attended by kings and princes from all over the world… and faeries would come down and teach them.” Patrick laughed and shook his head, glancing at Michael to gauge his reaction. “I guess that’s one part of our family history I may never understand, but I had to come here and see the place for myself.”

  “That sounds like Iona, all right,” Michael said with a straight face and stared out across the water as though focusing on something Patrick couldn’t see.

  Michael excused himself and returned a few minutes later with his own pint.

  The Isle of Mull had passed out of the Bay of Oban into the broad estuary known as the Firth of Lorne. To the right they were passing the Island of Lismore, marked by the picturesque Lismore Lighthouse at its southern tip.

  Visible ahead, off the port bow, was their destination, the ship’s namesake, the Island of Mull. The hulking form of an old castle was perched on the cliffs above the shore.

  “Michael, do you know what that castle is?”

  “That’s called Duart castle,” Michael answered, pausing to take a sip of his ale. “It’s the ancestral home of the Clan Maclean… dates back to the thirteenth century. Duart means ‘Black Point’ in Gaelic, and that is where it sits—on the point—standing guard over the Sound of Mull. Quite a history this place has.”

  Michael stood and scanned the water on the port side of the ship, finally pointing to a jagged rock just breaking the surface of the water. “Do you see that rock over there? It’s called Lady’s Rock. It’s only visible at low tide.

  “They say that in 1523, Lachlan Cattenach, the ruler in residence over at Duart, tied up his wife Margaret and marooned her on that rock, hoping she’d be drowned by the incoming tide.

  “When the ro
ck reappeared above the waves the following morning, Lachlan sadly reported her death to her brother, the Earl of Argyll.”

  Michael eased back into his seat, “Unfortunately for Lachlan, that wasn’t the end of the story. A few weeks later the Earl invited Lachlan to dinner at his castle, supposedly to console him on the death of his wife. As he entered the hall, Lachlan was shocked to discover Margaret sitting next to her brother at the head table.

  “Turns out she’d been rescued by a passing herring fisherman. Nothing was said at the banquet, but it’s reported that Margaret’s cousins met Lachlan outside the hall after dinner and administered some rather severe Scottish justice.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, Michael added, “My understanding is that it was all handled very quickly… without lawyers!”

  Patrick took a long last sip of his pint, and looked at Michael. “Michael, what do you know about Iona?”

  “Sounds like you already know a good bit about Iona,” Michael answered. “It’s a tiny island of course, just three miles long and a mile wide, and about as remote a place as you can imagine.” Michael took a quick gulp of his ale, then continued, “The usual history goes something like this… An Irishman named Columba and twelve followers came to Iona in 563. By the way, Columba was a member of the Ui Neill clan—what’s called the O’Neill’s today—so he really was your relative.

  “Columba and his followers built a community on Iona. The history books call it a monastery, but it wasn’t the kind of monastery most people think of. It wasn’t even Catholic, at that time. It was more like a town... a cluster of thatched huts, surrounded by a stone and earthen embankment. Their ‘monks’ were allowed to marry and have children. They tended fields, raised livestock, practiced crafts, and worshipped God.

  “As remote as it is, it’s amazing the influence Iona had. At one time, the place was known all over Europe. Kings of many lands sent their sons to study on Iona.

  “It’s always been an unusual place. Many strange things happened there. Visitors sometimes comment that the barrier between the material and spiritual realms is very ‘thin’ on Iona.”

  “What kind of things happened there?” Patrick asked.

  “A man named Ademnan—one of Columba’s successors as the head of Iona—wrote a description of Columba’s experiences on the island. Interestingly, he described pretty much the same things your grandmother told you about… strange glowing lights, angels, demons, and supernatural manifestations.

  “According to Ademnan, Columba and his followers went out from Iona with supernatural powers. They performed miracles, healed the sick, drove out demons, and converted all of Scotland from paganism to Christianity in a single generation.

  “So Iona developed a reputation as a holy place.” Michael continued, “During the medieval period, kings from Scotland, Ireland, Norway, and even France chose to be buried on Iona because they believed it was close to heaven.”

  Patrick stared at Michael. “How do you know all this?”

  “It goes with the territory, you might say.” Michael paused and returned Patrick’s stare. Then he leaned closer to Patrick and confided, “You see, I’ve a unique field of study. I’m what they call an angelologist. I study angels.”

  Patrick barely suppressed a laugh. “Angelologist? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  “Most people don’t,” Michael said. “But I’ve spent most of my life studying the creatures you call angels… and of course, their dark counterparts, the demons. I’ve written three books on the subject! Angels don’t fit easily into our modern worldview. But when you begin studying them, it’s quite addictive.”

  “So… you really believe in angels?” asked Patrick.

  “Oh, absolutely. We’ve been visited by these creatures throughout our history.”

  Seeing the skepticism on Patrick’s face, Michael added, “Did you know that every society in human history has recorded contacts with angels?”

  “They’re part of every religion. You were raised Catholic... Your Catholic Bible is filled with angels from cover to cover… and demons. In the first book of the Bible, angels visit Abraham. Do you know what he does? He fixes dinner for them! Abraham and the angels sit down and eat together as though it was the most natural thing in the world.”

  “But angels aren’t just Christian,” Michael continued. “The pagan Greeks and Romans painted pictures of angels that look exactly like your Christian ones. In every generation there are those who’ve claimed contact with these beings."

  Patrick looked at Michael with suspicion, “Are you a priest, or something?”

  “Heavens, no!” Michael laughed heartily. “I’m not even religious. When I talk about angels, I’m not talking about weird ethereal spirits. I’m talking about beings that are as real and physical as you and I. But they have some unique abilities. They appear to be trans-dimensional.”

  “Trans-dimensional?” Patrick questioned.

  “Yes.” Michael explained, “You see, you and I are limited to a universe of three dimensions… length, width, and height.” Michael gestured broadly to illustrate the dimensions, taking care not to spill his ale. “We can’t imagine moving in a direction that doesn’t fit one of those categories.

  “However, science now recognizes there are dimensions beyond the ones we know. The latest theories point to the existence of at least eleven dimensions.”

  Patrick arched his eyebrows. “Eleven dimensions?”

  “That’s not some crackpot idea, Patrick,” Michael laughed again. “It’s mainstream quantum physics! And by the way, eleven is the conservative estimate. Some hold there are as many as twenty-six dimensions. Some believe there’s an infinite number. That’s why many cutting-edge physicists don’t even talk about a “universe” anymore. They call it a multiverse.”

  “You’ve lost me again.” Patrick laughed. “Now explain multiverse.”

  “Well…” Michael said, pausing to take another sip of his ale. “Back in 1954, a Princeton University doctoral candidate named Hugh Everett III came up with a radical new idea: the existence of parallel universes. It seemed the only explanation for the data his experiments had produced.

  “Many physicists accepted his theory, and many have since tried to develop it further, but it was always considered unprovable. Then in 2007 it was announced that a team led by Dr. David Deutsch of Oxford University had actually succeeded in proving the existence of these parallel worlds.

  “So we now know that our universe is not alone,” Michael said with rising enthusiasm. “The universe we’ve known is part of a whole series of universes occupying the same physical space. Each universe exists in a different dimension, totally self-contained. You might picture them stacked up, 'superpositioned' upon each other, like layers on a cake. That’s the multiverse.”

  “So, you’re saying if we could shift into a different dimension,” Patrick asked, “we would find ourselves in a totally different universe?”

  “That’s what the physicists tell us. In our universe we’re sitting on the deck of this ferry headed toward the coast of Mull. But if we could shift into a different dimension, we could find ourselves in a totally different version of this world. It might be quite similar to the world we know, but there could also be some surprises. A parallel universe might operate with a whole different set of physical laws. It could even have its own inhabitants.

  “And that brings us back to angels,” Michael continued. “I’m convinced the beings we’ve called angels are the inhabitants of one of those parallel worlds. They live in their own world—their own universe—but they have an ability we lack. They can move from one dimension to another. They shift in and out of our world as easily as we move from shadow into sunlight.”

  “That makes my head hurt.” Patrick laughed again.

  “Think of it like this…” Michael said, pointing out across the water, “Suppose you’re in a small boat out there on the Sound of Mull. Beneath you, just a few feet away, are many kinds of fish. Y
ou and the fish are in virtually the same location, yet you are totally unaware of each other’s existence. You live in different worlds, different dimensions. You occupy the “air” dimension. The fish live in the “water” dimension.

  “But you have an ability the fish don’t have,” Michael added. “You can travel between worlds. If you put on a scuba tank you can leave your own dimension and enter the realm of the fish. For a brief time you can swim among the fish as though you’re one of them.

  “That’s how angels and demons interact with humans. They’re as real and solid as we are, but they have the ability to move in and out of our world. They can enter our realm and walk among us. Then, just as suddenly, they slip out of our dimension and disappear. To primitive man that made angels seem like supernatural beings.”

  Patrick shook his head and smiled in disbelief, but Michael drained the last of his pint and continued, “Here’s what’s really interesting, Patrick. The fact that twenty-first-century thinking has little room for angels hasn’t hindered the angels in the least. In fact, reports of angels and demons have skyrocketed in recent years.

  “Something unusual is happening in the angelic realm right now… some kind of battle is brewing, and I’ve a sense that Iona will be right in the middle of it.”

  Chapter Six: Across Mull

  THE ISLAND OF MULL, ARGYLL, SCOTLAND

  Dark clouds were moving in from the west as Patrick and Michael exited the MacBrayne ferry at Craignure on Mull’s eastern shore.

  Craignure was a tiny village whose main industry appeared to be servicing the ferry passengers waiting for connections to other parts of the island. Michael and Patrick grabbed a quick lunch at the inn across from the ferry terminal, then found the waiting area for the tourist coach that would carry them westward to the town of Fionnphort.

  By the time the bus for Fionnphort arrived, big drops of rain were spattering the ground around them. They were soon inundated by a cold, steady downpour. Boarding the bus, Patrick and Michael took a seat together with Patrick by the window. The bus was packed, with nearly every seat occupied.