They resumed their journey at daybreak. Plodding along, half listening to the creaking of the cart’s wooden wheels. From somewhere in the depths of the forest came a deer’s plaintive cry.
“Do deer have souls?” Brendán wondered aloud.
“Of course not,” the bishop said testily. “They are animals.”
“But…”
“You have too much imagination, lad. Pay attention to the trail. We have to climb that slope on a slant.”
That evening they were guided by the smell of roast venison to a hostel with raised sleeping shelves and thick blankets. The bishop reproved Brige for being greedy and ate almost nothing himself. Afterwards he went outside and stared gloomily into the darkness. Eithne went out to him and touched his arm, but he did not notice.
At their third stop Brendán overheard a conversation between the bishop’s wife and their host. “You are giving hospitality to a most prestigious man,” Eithne told the hosteller.
“Ah?”
“Oh yes. My husband, Bishop Erc, is the founder of a renowned Christian centre at the edge of the Western Sea. I’m sure you’ve heard of Tearmónn Eirc?”
“Ah.” The hosteller scratched his head. “Don’t think so.”
“You must have; men came from far and near to study with him,” Eithne went on, sounding a little desperate. “Surely some of those pilgrims stopped with you?”
“A lot of people stop with me,” the man said. Not to be out-done he added, “They also come from far and near.” Noticing the arrival of a new party of travellers, he hurried rather too quickly to greet them.
The bishop’s family fell asleep to the sound of rain on thatch.
On our journey I was not troubled by my dreams. Motion seemed to keep them at bay—or perhaps I was too tired to dream.
The rough track the oxen were following gave way to a well-trodden road. Traffic increased. Some travellers were on foot but men and women of the noble class rode horses; stallions for the men and mares for the women. Large hounds trotted behind their masters. Meanwhile traders with their carts shouted greetings or imprecations, and stopped in the middle of the road to make deals.
Erc was exhausted. Riding in an oxcart was tiring enough; depression added a dreadful burden. He dozed fitfully.
When they encountered a family walking along with a number of children, the bullocks stopped of their own accord and lowered their heads to be scratched. Brendán struck up a conversation with a boy about his age who claimed they had never met a Christian before.
The bishop made a mighty effort to shrug off his weariness. He stood up in the cart and spoke to them of Christ.
And God.
The mother of the brood asked, “Which god are you talking about? Where is his dwelling-place? Is he young or old? What makes him different from other gods?”
Erc’s eyes, bloodshot from the dust of the road, grew bright again. “Our God is the God of all mankind, God of heaven and earth, of the seas and rivers and lakes, God of the sun and moon and stars, God of high mountains and low valleys, God beyond heaven and within heaven and below heaven.” As he quoted Patrick, Erc’s voice slowed, deepened. Became music. “God has his dwelling in sky and earth and sea and in everything they contain. He breathes in all creatures and makes all creatures live. He surpasses all things and supports all things, he illumines the sun and the stars, makes wells in dry earth and islands in the sea. He is the God of all creation and all creation lives in him. Youth begins and old age ends with God, who always has been and ever shall be.”
The conviction ringing through the bishop’s words was irresistible. Even Brendán, who had heard this many times before, was entranced anew.
Erc was only a breath away from Patrick. It was Patrick’s God speaking through the bishop in the oxcart. I can still see the upturned faces staring at Erc while incomprehension gave way to excitement….
…and then to rapture as they accepted the all-embracing love of God.
Watching the bishop, I realised I could never do what he did.
Their trek continued. One step at a time, dictated by the pace of a pair of bullocks. Cold and rain but sunshine too; brief flashes of warmth. Even in winter the land was green and the birds sang. Brige could mimic their songs perfectly. An escort of flashing wings accompanied the oxcart.
As word spread, Erc frequently was stopped by crowds wanting to hear him preach the Gospel.
The Word.
I loved the sense of forward motion, however slow, and the constantly changing scenery. No forest was like any other forest, every tree was different. Every river, every meadow. The earth was as various from moment to moment as the sea.
I was happy because I was no longer having the dreams.
The landscape through which they travelled was shaped by territorial claims as much as by nature. Promontory forts of stone and earthwork stood atop rounded hills—often manmade—that emerged like islands from the forest. Sacred burial mounds contained chieftains committed to protect their tribeland even in death.
On open grassland, roughly shaped standing stones defined territorial boundaries.
Brendán began noticing standing stones carved with Christian symbols. Once the bishop got out of the oxcart and went to touch the stone, resting his hand against his surface as if he could read God’s word through his palm.
Close to the Slighe Mór, one of the five royal highways leading to Tara, they came upon an extraordinary sight. Stalks of mullein dipped in tallow blazed in tall iron holders, guiding travellers to the door of a palatial inn. The oaken exterior was painted in vivid colours. The interior was lighted by beeswax candles as thick as a child’s arm. Beams and crossbeams were carved with abstract Celtic designs. Portable screens set with bands of silver and copper were arranged around the walls to partition off private spaces.
Outside the hostel, icy rain penetrated the skin and chilled the marrow of the bones. Inside was a fragrant fire of applewood logs. The rain was reduced to a muted song played upon thatch, accompanied by a harper with closed eyes who caressed his harp like a lover. Two huge wolfhounds sprawled at his feet. Scattered about the room were benches set with platters of polished yew wood and beakers of green glass, holding more food and drink than Brige and Brendán had ever seen in one place. Wild boar sausages and blood puddings and carved wildfowl; freshly baked bread and thick oat stirabout sweetened with honey; apples and nuts and ale and buttermilk; stone bottles containing a clear liquid that was not water.
At the invitation of the hosteller the children ate until their stomachs hurt. They teased each other with bits of food whose nature was unfamiliar to them, but tasted wonderful. They laughed a lot. And yawned. And ate some more.
Eithne drank an impressive amount of ale and all of the liquid in one of the stone bottles, then stumbled across the hall to sit at the harper’s feet. Without opening his eyes, he smiled down at her. One of the great hounds licked her face. The other put its head in her lap and heaved a contented sigh. She began to hum tunelessly, waving her hand with the chords of the harp.
The bishop lowered his aching bones onto a mattress stuffed with goosedown and instantly fell asleep.
“Are we going to live like this from now on?” Brige whispered to her brother.
Brendán shook his head. “I doubt it. I don’t think this qualifies as a desert.”
On a barren, rocky island we had searched for food for three days without success. We fell asleep exhausted. The following morning we found a smaller island separated from us by a narrow channel. Its cliffs were surmounted by luxuriant vegetation. “My eyes are even hungrier than my stomach,” said Brother Moenniu. “They long to look upon growing things.”
We sailed around the new island looking for a landing site. The sheer cliffs were daunting, but eventually we came to the mouth of a little river. Taking to the oars, we rowed upstream until we reached a shallow gravel bank. There we moored the boat and went ashore.
To be enveloped by beauty.
A
flower-starred meadow stretched before us. The green grass was as thick as wool and hemmed by shrubbery in full blossom. Groves of little trees rang with birdsong from ten thousand throats. Butterflies danced in clear bright air that smelled of grass and flowers and sunshine. But not of the sea. Not of the abyss.
When we went looking for a source of fresh water we found a spring of crystal purity. Above the spring stood a single immense tree, its outstretched branches weighed down with snowy doves. The emblem of peace and mercy.
Tears filled my eyes. In the silence of my head I began to pray. “God, who knows the unknown and unknowable, you are aware of the burden I carry in my heart. Show me your mercy.”
From the multitude on the tree one dove launched herself into the air. She flew straight to me and lit on the grass at my feet.
I bent down to address her. “If you are a messenger of God,” I said, “tell me why these birds have congregated here.”
In a piping voice she replied, “We are the survivors of a great slaughter wrought upon us by an ancient enemy. The Creator saw the wrong done to us and carried us to this sanctuary in the palm of his hand. In this paradise we recovered and took a sacred vow. Now we wander through the regions of creation in the form of spirits invisible to earthly eyes, like many other spirits who have missions to perform, but on holy days we return here to take on the bodies you see and sing the praises of the Creator. If you and your brothers join us in this endeavour, you will be rewarded with the dream you most cherish in the depths of your hearts.”
My companions understood nothing that had transpired. They thought I had been talking to myself—a longstanding habit of mine. When I repeated what the dove told me they were astonished.
“How can you talk with a bird?” Brother Tarlách wondered.
Thinking of Préachán, I said, “By listening.”
“And that’s all?” Obviously Tarlách did not believe me.
Sometimes the simplest lesson is the hardest to learn.
Brother Anfudán said eagerly, “Will we go to paradise as soon as we praise God?”
“The bird’s message was this,” I replied. “If we praise God as devotedly as the birds do, we shall realise our most cherished dreams one day.”
“What day? When?” This from Brother Fursu.
Before I could answer him Brother Gowrán said, “In God’s good time, which is not ours.”
When the doves flew down to drink from the crystal spring they tilted their heads back afterward to thank God.
At the hour of Vespers the birds all sang as if with one voice and we sang with them. The same was repeated for Compline. My brothers and I lay down to sleep around the base of the tree and awoke to the singing of the birds at Lauds. And so the canonical hours passed, Prime, Terce, Sext, Nones, Vespers, and Compline again.
We celebrated Easter in that holy place. The island fed us with its natural bounty: berries and roots and herbs, cresses and fish in the stream. We took what we needed but not one bite more, and thanked the fishes for sharing their life with us. It was as if we existed outside of time, in a place that was intended for humankind before we became greedy.
At Pentecost our avian friends abruptly departed in a cloud of white feathers.
“God has dispatched them on a new mission,” I told my companions. “This is the signal to be on our way as well.”
They were reluctant to leave the paradise of birds, but I reassured them. “We can load our boat with enough food and water to last until God leads us to the next place. He has not failed us yet.”
So we turned our backs on comfort and security and set forth on the sea of life once more. As God intended, we sailed on.
Chapter 8
The Boyne River was named for Bo-an, the cattle goddess.
Unless it was the other way around. The fruits of creation conversing in the long pagan summer and choosing identities for themselves. Mountain and river and salmon and deer, wind and rain and stars and humans. Nothing really mattered but the names God gave them. And everything was God.
‘On the final leg of our journey,’ Brendán wrote, ‘we followed the river. If we not already known we were in Royal Meath we knew it then; promontory forts stood watch atop every bluff.’
The oxen were tired, though we had acquired a fresh pair halfway along. When we stopped for the night I always saw they were fed before feeding myself. Standing with the beasts in the dark as they lowered their heads to the corn. Smelling the clean scent of their skins and the sharp tang of their manure. Rubbing their shoulders where the yoke had pressed.
Wondering what the morrow would bring.
‘Three days before Christmas we came up valley of the Boyne and saw the Hill of Slane rise before us.’
Erc gave a sharp intake of breath. He recognised the shape of the hill but little else. The grassy slope was scored with footpaths. Where Patrick had lit his fire on that fateful morning there stood a rectangular timber church. The building comprised a single but spacious chamber with the door at one end and a single window at the other. The steep-pitched roof was covered with oak shingles. The interior walls were bedecked with linen hangings embroidered by local women. Close to the pebble-bordered path leading to the door was a large stone cross, deeply carved with Celtic knotwork and scenes from the Gospels.
Word of the bishop’s arrival had preceded him. A crowd had been gathering since before dawn, huddling together for warmth. When the oxcart finally appeared they ran forward, jostling one another in their eagerness to greet Erc and his family. The wise oxen, realising their job was done, halted mid-step. Erc was lifted bodily from the cart and carried in triumph up the hill. His wife and the two youngsters followed on foot.
The local Christians had been busy for weeks preparing for their new bishop. No sooner had Erc inspected the church than he was hustled along to admire his freshly-constructed residence.
Secular dwellings were still round, following the ancient pattern. The bishop’s house was unusually large. The construction was wicker and daub, with fleeces affixed to the interior walls to keep out draughts. The roof was thickly thatched with reeds from the river, prized for their insulating qualities. Household accoutrements included mattresses stuffed with down and blankets woven of the softest wool. A full range of newly-crafted utensils hung from thongs around the walls. The central hearth boasted elaborate iron fire-dogs.
A dozen strides to the north was a bread oven made of clay; a dozen strides in the other direction was a sizeable guesting house. As a final touch, the bishop’s dwelling had its own well.
Eithne could not take it in. She had expected the worst, had armored herself against resentment and hardship. Standing in the doorway of her new home—a house fit for nobility—she began to weep.
Erc was too busy to notice, but Brige did. She put her arms around the woman and whispered, “It’s all right now, don’t you see? The bishop and God have organized it between them and everything’s all right.”
In his journal Brendán wrote, “The newly designated diocese of Slane was delighted to have as its first bishop a man ordained by Patrick himself. There were even a few who remembered him from the days of King Laoghaire, and greeted him as “Erc, the sweet-voiced judge.” To his visible embarrassment and secret pleasure.
We who had been sharing the hardships of a subsistence life were overwhelmed with plenty. Apart from the western coast, most of Ireland was cloaked with primeval forest. There was never a shortage of firewood. Nor of red meat. Vast herds of cattle and deer grazed the grasslands; wild boar fattened on acorns beneath the oak trees. Countless varieties of birds made the trees and meadows their home. In addition the land provided all the raw materials needed by craftsmen of the highest standard, whose products were then traded for imported luxuries of every description.
I could only imagine the splendour of the high king’s court at Tara.
He did not deign to pay an immediate visit to Erc, which disappointed the bishop, but every other chieftain and person of
importance within a day’s walk of our hill soon arrived. Bearing gifts. We received more fur cloaks and baskets of fruit than we could ever use, so many that Erc sent me out to find “needy people” to give them to. Except there were no needy people. This was Ireland in her prime: a bounteous island that could support its inhabitants a thousandfold.
That year at Slane the Feast of Christmas was a feast in truth.
I began to wonder how Erc could reconcile this with his avowed austerity. I knew better than to ask him.
Ireland always had been pastoral; cities and towns were non-existent. Now the Christians were establishing new, vibrant communities around their religious centres. Tearmónn Eirc had been an early example of what was becoming a mighty movement.
Slane was meant to be Erc’s reward.
His new congregation filled the church to overflowing and knelt outside on the cold earth. Their prayers swelled to a joyous chorus that echoed along the valley.
On the Feast of Epiphany, King Lughaidh finally paid a call on the new bishop of Slane. Lughaidh was the last living son of Laeghaire, and had reigned at Tara for twenty-five years after killing his father’s successor in battle. A tall, broad, big-bellied man with a body as hard as hewn oak, he retained the habits of war: balancing on the balls of his feet; constantly shifting his gaze.
Lughaidh listened with grave courtesy to Erc’s attempts to bring him into the Christian fold. Then, with grave courtesy, he declined. “Your concern for the fate of my spirit does you credit,” he said, “but my strong right arm is all I need to gain admittance to the Isles of the Blest, the paradise of warriors. I doubt if your Christian heaven could compare.”
Brendan Page 9
