Brendan

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The seasons passed. A year and then another. Brendán was kept busy studying and working and praying, trying to please the bishop and trying to grow into an individual in his own right. Erc was unremitting in his criticism of his godson.

  “Why are you staring at that bird when I am talking?” he would challenge abruptly, awaking the boy from reverie.

  “I was studying the structure of its wing,” Brendán explained. “Don’t you think it’s a miracle the way it works?”

  “The creature is nothing but an ordinary seagull; a scavenger. You waste your time with such nonsense, Brendán. You are here to learn from books; from the wisdom of those wiser than you.”

  One autumn afternoon Brendán fled to the promontory in search of respite. There had been severe storms during the summer and the finger of land was appreciably smaller. The climb to the top was less steep. Once again he stood beside the cairn—was it smaller too?—and looked out over the bay.

  The immense sea heaved as if alive. Beneath its restless surface countless living creatures were also in motion: fish and crabs and lobsters and sea monsters too, or so the fishermen claimed.

  Squinting against the glare off the water, Brendán tried to imagine a sea monster. Concentrated so hard he lost any sense of self.

  The voice came to him then, like the muted roar of the sea in a shell held to the ear.

  Observe the direction of your life. Outward. Always outward.

  In Tearmónn, Eirc the bishop’s wife was never still. She took tireless care of the bishop; cooking his meals—with meager ingredients because there was nothing else—making and mending his garments and sandals, maintaining his house and church, entertaining his visitors, lifting his spirits when they were down, and listening to his problems when they seemed about to overwhelm him.

  She also cared for anyone in the community who was ill and prepared the food for the refectory. The meal provided once a day for the novices and Brendán—except on fast days—consisted of coarse bread, a portion of boiled legumes and sea vegetables, and a cup of thin beer. A gannet’s egg was a rare treat. The bread was gritty and tough. The grain was acquired through barter with the Ciarrí Luachra, who kept the best for themselves.

  When Brendán failed to appear for his daily meal Eithne was worried. The boy had a voracious appetite; it was not like him to forget his food. She decided not to tell the bishop—not yet. She did not want to get the child in trouble, so she went looking for him herself. At twilight she finally came upon Brendán returning. His eyes were filled with stars.

  “Where were you all this time?” she demanded to know.

  “Looking at the sea. It’s where I go to contemplate.”

  Eithne laughed. The word was bigger than the boy. “Do you even know what ‘contemplate’ means, Brendán?”

  “I do know, it’s from the Latin. Contemplor means to consider carefully. I consider the sea.”

  That night in their bed Eithne told her husband, “Brendán has his father’s blood in him. The sea’s calling him.”

  “He is going to be a fisher of men like Christ’s apostles from the Sea of Galilee.”

  “That may not be what he wants.”

  “What he wants?!” The bishop sat bolt upright in bed. “What are you saying, woman? Childish fancies are irrelevant. Brendán has a hungry mind, he soaks up learning the way blotting sand soaks up ink. He will walk in the footsteps of blessed Patrick himself; he will become a star in Christ’s crown and do us all honour. You have a way with the boy, Eithne; you must help him appreciate his good fortune. I rely on you.”

  Eithne rolled over and closed her eyes. She knew what would happen. Erc would claim Brendán’s successes. His failings would be hers.

  The following day the bishop told Brendán, “You are not to go near the sea again. It would be a great pity if you were to repeat your father’s mishap. You are meant for better things.”

  “But…”

  “I expect obedience from you, young man.”

  “I understand.” The boy dropped his eyes. But he made no promises.

  Winter was hard in Altraighe territory. The wind off the sea was savage. The ice along the shore dug in its claws and held on hard. Boats were beached; fishermen set about repairing their battered gear. Fires were fed with sods of turf or dried cowpats that smouldered sullenly on the hearth. In late winter families were forced to gather furze in the mountains for fuel. Dead, brittle stems and tough roots quickly burned away to nothing, but gave off great heat while they lasted.

  The bishop excused his students from their studies to assist the tribe. Festooned with baskets and bags, Brendán and the novices were sent south to the lower reaches of Sliabh Mis, the Mountain of Phantoms. Aside from a bristly carpet of greyish-brown furze, the landscape was barren. Slides of rock and shale waited to trap the unwary, to twist a knee or snap an ankle. Relentless wind scoured and burned any exposed skin. Dark cliffs loomed menacingly over the searchers, guarding an abandoned fort built into the living rock by a former king of Munster. A pagan king whose spirit, people claimed, had never left the mountain.

  The novices signed the Cross on their breasts before they set to work gathering furze.

  I meant to do my share but my thoughts kept wandering; trying to envision the people who once lived in the fort. I longed to see their faces. Hear their voices. Were they like me or very different? What caused them to abandon their stronghold? What manner of spirit had they left behind?

  Bishop Erc said I had too much imagination. He frequently admonished me for daydreaming when I should be concentrating on practical matters, but it was hard to think about feeding a hearth fire when I was in the presence of mountains. Mountains sacred to our ancestors long before Christ was born.

  Anchored by Sliabh Mis on the landward side, a broken chain of mountains swept along the peninsula of Corca Dhuibhne, south of the bay of Tra Lí, and culminated with Sliabh Diadche. Solitary Sliabh Diadche was said to be the second highest mountain in Ireland. Local people believed “Diadche” referred to its divinity. Bishop Erc insisted it only meant the backside: the end. As with many Irish words, the definition was open to interpretation.

  Many years later Brendán wrote: ‘Adapting our native tongue to Christian usage was not easy. Some of the novices at Tearmónn Eirc had grey beards but no allowances were made for age. Young and old alike were expected to make the adjustment.

  ‘Studying Latin helped. The languages of Rome and the Gael were not compatible; one could not subsume the other, but moving back and forth between them made our minds more agile.

  By the time I was ten years old my mind was very agile indeed. I appreciated that Latin, for all its precision, lacked the subtlety and vivacity of my native tongue. The Irish language was a rainbow. Latin was a rock.

  ‘Bishop Erc provided what he described as the basic education for men aspiring to the priesthood. In addition to Latin we were thoroughly instructed in Holy Scripture and the Canons of the Church. The bishop also taught us as much as he thought we needed to know of the world beyond our shores. We listened, both horrified and fascinated, as he told of the barbarians who had plundered Athens and sacked Rome. When he said “pagans” he grimaced as a man in pain. By his own admission Erc had never been out of Ireland, yet the images he painted with words were so vivid we could smell the blood of the slain and hear the screams of the mutilated.

  ‘By daylight we examined maps drawn by long-dead geographers, showing our humble, almost negligible, place in the world. On clear nights we lay on our backs while the bishop explained the map of the stars. For astronomy alone I owe Erc a debt I can never repay. Only years later did I realise he must have studied the skies as a Druid.

  He tutored us in another esoteric subject which must have come from the same source: the secret language of ogham. Angular lines carved on stone to give directions or convey necessary information. Ogham was not a complete language in any sense, could not even be called “writing,” but under certain circumstances it wa
s useful. As I would discover.

  ‘Mathematics was my least favourite subject. I found it hard to submit to the tyranny of numbers, but the bishop insisted. He explained that coins, not barter, were the rate of exchange in the civilised world. By “the civilised world” he meant the Roman Empire. Doubtless Erc had acquired his admiration of all things Roman from Patrick.

  ‘The bishop told us, “In Ireland Patrick undertook to convert the chieftains first. Because of the intense loyalty of the Gael to their chieftains, he knew they would follow their leaders into the new religion. At the beginning Patrick had no following himself, however. Without attendants a man lacked prestige, and without prestige Patrick could not gain an audience with the chieftains. He wisely dispensed gold coins to their sons, and in this way built a sizeable retinue of followers.”

  If Patrick was clever and pragmatic, Jesus Christ, as described by the bishop, was exceptionally robust. No weakling could have commanded the devotion of the rugged fishermen of Galilee.

  “Strong men will only follow other strong men,” Erc told us. “Consider the conversion of Aenghus, who reigned as king of Munster from a stronghold on the Rock of Cashel. Aenghus had a mighty reputation as a warrior. It was said of him that even the hair of his head would not bend.

  “When the king’s wife embraced the new religion, her husband was scornful. Aenghus declared that Christianity was nothing more than a refuge for the feeble and insipid. Night after night his wife urged the king to at least meet Patrick and hear what he had to say. ‘What harm can a few words do to your ear?’ she asked. For the sake of peace in his household—the only place where he ever knew peace—at last Aenghus agreed.

  “On the summer solstice Patrick made his way up the steep path to the top of the Rock of Cashel. His climbing stick, which had a crook at the top and a pointed end, was actually a shepherd’s staff.” At this point the bishop had held up his own crosier by way of demonstration.

  “Aenghus kept his promise and granted the missionary an audience. While Patrick talked about the meek inheriting the earth, the king gazed out over the rich grasslands of Munster and planned his next cattle raid. At last even Patrick’s patience failed. Raising his staff, he drove it into the ground with both hands to gain the king’s attention.

  “Aenghus gave a great cry.

  “Looking down, Patrick was dismayed to see that he had driven his staff clear through the king’s foot. He unwittingly had pinned the unfortunate man to the soil of Cashel.”

  Brendán chuckled to himself, remembering.

  Even the bishop had smiled as he continued, “Patrick was horrified, but Aenghus was mightily impressed. He assumed the gesture was part of Christian ritual, and then and there re-thought his view of Christianity. Obviously it was no religion for weaklings, but a muscular faith worthy of a muscular king. Aenghus was baptized that same day. He became one of Patrick’s most devoted followers, bringing many along with him.”

  In his journal Brendán wrote, ‘Bishop Erc believed that Christianity must be practical as well as idealistic, participatory as well as observational. When I first arrived at Tearmónn Eirc I was assigned to trim candles. Within weeks I was filling lamps and transporting books to and from the scriptorium. Eventually Erc’s craftsmen taught me to prepare wax tablets for temporary writing. Next I learned how to fashion quill pens and ink horns, and make repairs to book satchels.

  I was very careful about even the smallest detail. The tiniest stitch, the slightest drop of glue had to be exact. Creation was a form of prayer; anything shoddy or carelessly made was a sin.

  ‘As I grew older I assisted with the forging of bells and other heavy tasks. I had not expected it to be such hard work, being a Christian.

  ‘If God permeated Cill Íde, Erc’s Christianity filled Tearmónn Eirc to overflowing. The literacy lessons given to laymen were for no other reason than to enable them to study Holy Scripture. In the rare moments when he was not praying or teaching, Erc was likely to seize upon some hapless person occupied with his own business and lecture him on the Gospels. Yet it was tremendously exciting. Even a child could recognize that something extraordinary was happening. A warrior culture that had lived by the sword for a millennium was being conquered by ideas.’

  Smiling, the nun had approached the little boy and held out her hand. “I have a piece of honeycomb for you, Braon-finn.”

  The child saw angry red bee stings on the nun’s hands. “But you’re hurt!”

  Sister Íta had kept smiling. “There is no gift without cost,” she replied.

  We made our first landfall on an unfamiliar strand, hoping to take more water aboard. Our search was unsuccessful. The three latecomers seemed the least disappointed; they were still assuming the self-conscious affability of uninvited guests.

  When we returned to the boat a figure walked towards us. The finely modelled features could have belonged either to a girl or a young man. When the person spoke the voice did not solve the mystery; it was sweet and pure, without gender.

  Holding up a basket heaped with bread and a large water jug, the stranger said, “Receive this blessing from the hand of your servant. A long journey lies ahead of you, but neither bread nor water will fail you from this day until the first day of Eastertide.”

  “Our eyes look upon an angel,” murmured Brother Gowrán. I concurred. We all knelt and prayed. When we arose the stranger had vanished. Marvelling, we launched our boat.

  And sailed on.

  Chapter 5

  ‘When Patrick was a slave herding sheep on Slemish Mountain,’ Brendán wrote, ‘God spoke to him in a dream, urging him to escape and flee Ireland. With God’s help he did. Many years later a crowd of the Gael began appearing to Patrick in visions. They pleaded with him to return and convert their people to Christianity. With God’s help he did that too.

  Children accept. Theirs is the earliest and purest faith, and by the grace of God I have never lost mine. By opening myself to the possibility of miracles I welcome them into my world. As the years pass no hard shell has formed around my soul, making me deaf and blind. I can still hear the sun singing.

  Whenever he could steal time for himself from the busy schedule Erc assigned, Brendán sneaked down to the strand. And the sea. His disobedience weighed but lightly on his soul. Sometimes he simply stared at the expanse of water, awed by its elemental force.

  “What is…?” Brendán would whisper. “Why is…?”

  No wonder the pagans worshipped the sea. Confronted by the Great Inexplicable, theirs was a natural response.

  Brendán was instructed by the nature around him. He was interested in everything that lived, but particularly birds. In caves and crevices along the western seaboard of Ireland the fastidious yet much-maligned chough, a member of the crow family, made its nest. He enjoyed watching them riding the updrafts of wind, their glossy black feathers highlighted with blue and green, their beaks and legs an intense red.

  God must love beauty very much, I told myself, because he created it in so many forms. Was that an odd thought for one so young? God made me thoughtful just as he made me curious. Such gifts are given for a reason; not carelessly dispensed to agitate a man’s days.

  The fishermen grew accustomed to seeing the boy alone on the strand. They knew who he was and who his father had been. Brendán helped them spread their nets to dry on the beach while they answered his questions about boats and fish and tides and clouds and winds and water. Their wives fed him, their children played with him.

  One bright spring afternoon Dubán, a wiry man in his middle years, was carrying his currach to the water with the help of his friend Gaeth. They noticed Brendán watching them. Dubán called out, “It’s a fine day to be on the water. Join us.”

  “I don’t know how to fish,” said the boy.

  “We won’t be fishing anyway. I’ve resealed the seams of this boat, and I need to test them. Come on.”

  Tingling with excitement, Brendán clambered into the currach and crouched in the cent
er. Dubán sat in the prow, holding an oar. Gaeth pushed the boat into the water, then jumped in and lifted the other oar.

  Outwards!

  A few oar strokes carried them beyond the shallows. A gentle swell lifted the boat. When the currach rose with the water, Brendán’s heart rose too. He grinned with delight.

  The next swell took them, and the next; each one larger than the one before.

  The boat’s rocking motion steadily increased.

  The boy’s grin began to fade.

  “It’s quiet now because the tide’s still going out,” Dubán remarked, “but once we put Ard Fert behind us you’ll get a real sense of the sea.”

  Brendán opened his eyes wide. “Ard Fert? The High Grave?”

  “The strip of headland over there.” Dubán nodded towards the eroded promontory.

  “A Milesian fortress stood on it once,” said Gaeth. “Now all that remains are the ruins of an ancient tomb.”

  Curiosity overcame Brendán’s discomfort. “Who were the Milesians?”

  “The first of the Gael: the invaders who defeated the Tuatha de Danann, the peoples of the goddess Danu. When the sons of Milesios arrived in Ireland some of their ships beached not far from here. I could show you the actual place.”

  “The bishop never told us about any Milesians.”

  Above the boy’s head the two men exchanged glances. “Leave it,” Dubán warned Gaeth.

  “I won’t leave it! He should have access to a bard. The bishop knows perfectly well that history didn’t begin when Patrick arrived, but….”

  Brendán interrupted, “What does a bard do?”

  “Bards remember for us,” said Gaeth. “They memorise and recite poems that tell the history of entire tribes, going back for countless generations. The bards know who we are.”