I could feel my heart thudding in my breast.
Before the creature submerged for the last time she gave a ringing cry that reverberated across the waves.
We sailed on.
Chapter 6
Erc’s many wise judgements as a brehon had brought him to the attention of the high king, Laoghaire—a son of Niall of the Nine Hostages. Subsequently Laoghaire appointed Erc to his inner circle. Thus he had been present on a day which became legend: the day when Laoghaire the pagan confronted Patrick the Christian on the Hill of Slane.
Years later Erc told the novices at Tearmónn Eirc, “In actuality, the royal hill of Tara is a long, low ridge, but on a fine day every major peak in Ireland is visible from there. Tara can be wonderfully bright in summer. The chief poet and his retinue are in residence then, composing poems of praise to the high king or satires to deflate the pomposity of lesser men. The foremost brehons convene to debate the Senchus Mór, the Great Law. Music rings through the stronghold during all the waking hours, binding the tribes in harmony. Artisans throng from the farthest reaches of the land to proffer their finest creations.
“Inevitably, winter comes. I recall one bitterly cold, dark winter, rife with dire omens. There was but one grain on the stalk and one acorn on the oak. Children sickened. Cattle died. During the Festival of Imbolc the udders of the ewes were supposed to fill with milk, but they remained dry and their lambs starved. Spring did not appear. The winter dragged on.
“The desperate people pinned their hopes on the rituals of their grandfathers’ grandfathers. The Festival of Bealtaine would begin with the kindling of the sacred fire on Tara, and the sacred fire would recall the life-giving heat of the sun.
“On the eve of Bealtaine, every fire in the land was extinguished. Climbing the Hill of Tara to await the ceremony, I made my way towards the royal enclosure like a blind man, following the sound of voices. There was not even a torch to guide me. On punishment of death, no other light was permitted to preempt the sacred flame.
“An immense pile of oak branches which had been interwoven according to an ancient pattern stood in front of the High King’s house. By the time I arrived a number of dignitaries had gathered there. They shuffled their feet in the dark and chafed their hands to warm them. Dubthach, the chief poet of Ireland, was murmuring to himself, committing the scene to memory. Meanwhile seven Druids danced in a sunwise circle.”
“Exactly what are the Druids?” a youthful voice interrupted. “Are they so very evil?”
What the bishop knew empirically and what he chose to believe as a Christian were two different things. A pursing of his lips warned Brendán that interruptions were not acceptable.
Erc resumed his narrative. “Swathed from shoulder to ankle in a dark red cloak lined with wolf fur, King Laoghaire was standing beside the chief Druid, Lucet Mael. The Chief Druid held a tiny stone lamp, shielding its flame with his hand so no ray of light emerged. When the sacred moment arrived Lucet Mael would use this lamp to light a torch soaked in pine resin, then set the giant bonfire alight. The sacred flame would drag the sun up from its cold grave to signal the coming of spring, and the light of the newborn sun touching the face of the High King would re-affirm his kingship.”
Erc stared into space with unfocussed eyes. The remembered scene was more vivid than the one before him.
Waiting in the cold, in the dark, while the stars wheeled overhead, he had felt the timeless tug of superstition. From the vortex created by the collision of known and unknown, anything might emerge. The world was hedged with horrors. Only Druid magic—the ability to negotiate with the implacable gods of nature and manipulate natural forces to conform to the needs of man—stood between the Gael and disaster.
Any moment now. Any moment. Only Lucet Mael knew when. The Chief Druid waited as patient as a cat sizing up its prey. Soon now…one heartbeat more…the chief Druid reached for the torch…
A rival fire blazed in the distance! Its golden light shone like a beacon across the plains between the Hill of Tara and the Hill of Slane.
King Laoghaire was outraged. “Who has dared to commit such a crime in my kingdom? What is the explanation of this sacrilege?”
Lucet Mael licked his fingers and held them to the wind, then sniffed them three times. “Eternal life to you, great king,” he said in the time-honoured formula, though his voice was unsteady. “This much we can tell you. The fire which was kindled before the fire on Tara must be extinguished this same day. Otherwise it will blaze forever.”
The assemblage gave a gasp of horror.
“We go at once to put out the fire and kill the man who lit it!” cried Laoghaire. He ordered twenty-seven chariots and charioteers. Flogging the horses at every stride, the royal party plunged down the slope and out across the valley, racing to meet Fate. In one of the chariots, Erc the brehon hung on with all his strength while the cart bucked and jolted and the cold wind brought tears to his eyes….
With a great effort, the bishop dragged his mind from past to present. He gazed thoughtfully at his audience. Could he ever convey to them the full wonder of what had followed, the singular miracle which had transformed his life?
“When a rival fire blossomed on the Hill of Slane,” he said, silently praying for the drumbeat to begin inside him, the gift of oratory, “the High King set off to punish the transgressor. I was among those who accompanied him. Anger carried us with the speed of the wind until we reached Ferta-fer-Feig, the Graves of the Men of Feig, from which the hill took its name. There the charioteers drew rein. According to custom at burial sites, they turned the faces of the horses to the left and their own faces to the right.
“Lucet Mael went to summon the violator while the rest of us waited well beyond the light from the usurping fire. It was important to keep the High King safe from its malign influence. We sat down to show the criminal no honour. As the sky began to grow bright—unaided by any fire on Tara—the anger of the Druids increased.
“A sliver of sun gilded the horizon; the Druids hissed through their teeth. Then a sturdy grey-bearded man came towards us from the Hill of Slane. In one hand he carried a shepherd’s staff. He walked with purposeful strides like someone who has nothing to fear. Lucet Mael had to trot to keep up with him. As he approached, the stranger called out in a clear voice, ‘Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we go in the name of God!’
“Unaware of what I was doing, I leaped to my feet. Dubthach, the chief poet, also stood up, but the rest of the king’s party sat as if carved in stone. Patrick came straight to me and said with a broad smile, ‘The eternal God blesses you.’ At that moment the power that was in him reached out and took hold of my spirit. It has never let go.
“The High King ordered his personal guards to seize the stranger and kill him on the spot. But each time they approached Patrick the earth shook so violently that they were afraid to touch him.
“King Laoghaire demanded that his Druids question Patrick. They tried every trick they knew to expose flaws in the man, but he turned their words against them and exposed their own flaws instead. Their tempers snapped like dead branches. The man who identified himself as a messenger from Christ remained calm. He said nothing in his own defence, but spoke with great dignity of peace. And love.”
As he spoke those words, the gift returned to Erc. The bishop’s voice began to ring like a bell. “I myself heard Patrick in that golden dawn. A holy man from the frontiers of Britain was opening a new frontier. The vitiated past was being swept aside. The Creator of All Things was manifesting a new face in Ireland!”
In Ireland, thought Brendán, feeling prickles rise on his arms. Right here.
All that was youthful and ardent in the boy responded.
In his journal, the Abbot of Clon Fert wrote, “Laoghaire the High King was never converted, but the seed Patrick planted on that Easter morning has flowered dramatically. Until the coming of Christianity, knowledge had been passed down through the oral tradition for countless generat
ions. The missionaries brought literacy to Ireland. As the monastic movement grew, monks were assigned to make copies of the Gospels. The Gaelic passion for exuberant patterns and vivid colours soon exerted its influence; the manuscripts became works of art.
‘Monasteries competed with one another for the most gifted scholars. When Ninnidh completed his novitiate at Tearmónn Eirc he departed for further study at a new monastic school called Clon Ard—the High Meadow. The founder of Clon Ard, a former warrior and sea raider called Finnian, was renowned for his knowledge of the Greek language.
Hatred is a sin. Sins, according to the bishop, result from deliberate actions. We can choose not to commit them. The virtues Erc extolled were passive: obedience, humility, submission.
That’s why I had so much trouble with them.
I don’t remember choosing to hate Ninnidh, but I must have done. His departure came as a great relief to me. He had begun throwing sly looks in my direction as if he knew all about the strange dreams that troubled my nights.
There was something wrong about those dreams and I knew it. Although Brige and I lived in each other’s shadow I could not confide in her. Even to myself I could not explain what was happening.
Before the arrival of Christianity prudery had been unknown among the Gael. Poets extolled the white breasts of women and praised the naked legs of young men. Eithne and Brige bathed unabashed in my presence, making no any attempt to hide their bodies. When I recalled that I had never seen a nun naked I wondered why.
That’s when my dreams began.
The lanky boy whose tunic strained at his shoulders and whose arms had grown too long for his sleeves complained to the bishop, “You never answer my questions about the Druids. You explain everything else, but not Druids. Exactly what are they?”
“Pagans,” Erc replied in a voice rimed with ice.
“A pagan is someone who doesn’t believe in our God. Many people don’t believe in our God. What makes Druids special?”
The bishop could no longer evade the question. With evident distaste, he said, “The Greeks described the Druids as the intellectual class of the Celtic race. Perhaps that was true once, but no longer. The Druids are evil because they want to keep us trapped in the past, where they control all wisdom and the people are enslaved to superstition.
“Fortunately Christ has brought a new truth and a greater wisdom, Brendán. By his sacrifice he set us free. That is all you need to know.”
Someone was always telling me, “That’s all you need to know.” But I wanted to know everything.
Brige was a growing girl. Her body demanded more than frugal fare, and constant short rations were dimming her bright spirit. On a morning when the gnawings of hunger became unbearable, she confided in her brother.
His reaction was immediate. Before the bells rang for Prime, he had persuaded Dubán to give him the use of a coracle and a paddle. Gaeth provided some lines and a seine, and Brendán took to the sea. Disobeying the bishop was a small sin compared to letting his sister be hungry—though he did obey Dubán’s injunction to stay near the shore. “If you lose this boat I’ll have to build another,” Dubán said, “and that would hardly be fair repayment of my generosity, would it?”
When Brendán caught his first fish he was as proud as a warrior spearing a wild boar. Gaeth’s wife boiled the fish and wrapped it in seaweed. Brendán concealed his trophy beneath his cloak and carried it to Tearmónn Eirc in triumph. “Don’t tell the bishop I gave you this,” he warned his sister.
Brige was indignant. “Do you think I’m stupid?” Before he could reply she added, “Can you catch another one?”
Within weeks Brendán had his own small currach, complete with a triangular sail. He learned to read currents by the colour of the water and to sense dangerous rocks beneath the surface. To determine the direction of the sun on overcast days he peered through a sliver of iolite given to him by Dubán. Gaeth had contributed a small leather pouch containing flint stones and shreds of tinder for kindling a fire, equipment every experienced sailor carried in case he was forced ashore far from home.
“Be sure to fasten that bag around your waist,” Gaeth warned. “Never leave it lying in the boat.”
The boy began sailing farther westward, paddling his currach into unfamiliar shallows. Observing varieties of fish he had never seen before; marvelling at the grotesque shapes of seaweed which writhed as if with a life of its own.
Giving his imagination free rein.
Diadche held a peculiar fascination for Brendán. The solitary peak stood aloof from the rest of the mountain chain. Cloaked in heather; crowned with clouds.
I imagined the mountain as a giant ogham stone with a message only initiates could decipher.
Wild tales were told about Diadche, stories that Erc dismissed as superstition. Most of the Altraighe who lived on Corca Dhuibhne avoided the mountain. A stone fortress built on the eastern slope had been deserted for generations. Any red deer who reached the wild and scraggy glens on Diadche’s flanks were safe from the spears of hunters.
While exploring the coastline below Diadche, Brendán discovered a natural harbour where a little creek flowed into the sea. The landward side was steep, making access by that way difficult. It looked as if no one ever visited the place.
The narrow harbour became Brendán’s favourite destination. He beached his boat and kindled a fire to cook a fish, or stretched out on a stone shelf to take a nap. Sometimes he gazed up at the frowning brow of Diadche with a feeling of kinship.
The two of us alone. Out here.
He was discovering a taste for solitude.
The hush of a snowflake on the soul.
I could never have been a warrior. My ears despise the clang of sword and spear; they want the music of birds and the songs of the sea.
Erc was well aware of his godson’s activities. Nothing that happened in the parish of Tearmónn Eirc escaped the bishop’s notice for long. But in spite of his original injunction to stay away from the sea, he said nothing about Brendán’s disobedience. Over the years, Brendán had reminded Erc what it was to be a boy. In the recesses of the bishop’s memory lurked a youngster who was forbidden to climb certain tall trees but climbed anyway, just because it was forbidden.
When more fish began to appear in Eithne’s iron cooking pot, Erc did not question their source. He merely said, “God provides.”
As long as Brendán kept up with his studies, he was tacitly allowed the freedom of the sea. It was only a matter of time until he began going out with the adult fishermen.
He was in his element.
Serious fishing demanded all of a man. The effort of rowing against the tide and the intense concentration of hauling in the nets left no energy for conversation. That only came later, at the end of the day, when the fishermen gathered on the beach to divide the catch and spread their nets to dry. One man would bring a jug of fiery liquid to pass around while others built a fire.
That was the time for talking, and listening, while the wind blew smoke into Brendán’s eyes and the sea murmured to itself like a living thing. The time for being, at last, part of the tribe.
As sure as the jug of liquor there was always a seanchaí, a storyteller, even if the tribe had no official bard. At the request of his audience the seanchaí might give a vivid description of Hy Brasail, the distant Isles of the Blest: the paradise of the Gael where no one ever grew old.
He spun nets of magic in which he captured the iron-weaponed Milesians and the mysterious Tuatha de Danann and displayed them like a catch of silvery herring. Or, clothing myth with flesh, he brought epic heroes such as Cúchulainn and Fionn Mac Cumhaill to thundering life for the entertainment of his listeners.
Everything was there, in the night. By the sea, under the stars.
Whenever the seanchaí paused for breath, or a drink from the jug, Brendán besieged him with questions. Brendán was intensely curious about those very aspects of the Gaelic world which Bishop Erc sought to suppress. The s
toryteller recounted the names and qualities of the numerous ancient gods of the Gael: nature gods for the most part, such as Manannán Mac Lir. In spite of Christianity, the Lord of the Sea remained a powerful deity among the fishermen.
Brendán also learned there were a number of Druids among the Altraighe, though they never went near Tearmónn Eirc. Or if they did, they were not wearing the ritual robes which would have identified them.
As far as I could tell, the Druids posed no threat to any Christian. They simply existed; part of the landscape and part of the people. Yet, from the day he arrived in Altraighe-Caille, Erc had waged unrelenting war against them.
The bishop’s hatred of Druids puzzled me.
One day the answer came to me when I was thinking of something else entirely. As answers often do.
Erc hated the Druids not because of their philosophy or their threat to our religion, but because he had been a Druid. He had to hate them to justify leaving them.
The seasons became years; flew away like startled birds. Novices were ordained and left Tearmónn Eirc; other men took their places. Not all aspired to the priesthood. An increasing number were preparing for a monastic life, though some of these were barely able to raise a beard.
Ruan was Dubán’s youngest son. A few years older than Brendán but no taller; a swarthy boy with brooding, heavy-lidded eyes. The Gael were a garrulous race, talking—or singing—at every opportunity, but Ruan was an exception. He spoke very little and did most of his communicating through gestures. Brendán found the older boy’s diffidence a challenge. Slowly, patiently, he had set out to make friends with him. In time he was rewarded with the lifelong loyalty of a steadfast soul.
For such a dark lad Ruan had such a bright smile.
Born and raised in a tribe of fishermen and taken aboard boats as soon as he left his mother’s arms, Ruan disliked everything to do with fishing. He detested the flavour of fish, the smell of oxhide boats smeared with rancid fat, the buffeting winds that scoured a man’s flesh, the backbreaking labour that made men old before their time.
Brendan Page 7
