Brendan

by Morgan Llywelyn

  My prayers at last concluded, I looked up at the mountain. Why had I never climbed Diadche before? It was always there, waiting for me.

  Perhaps that’s why: it was always there, waiting for me.

  Even with the aid of my staff, the climb was difficult enough. I undertook it as a penance. No matter what others thought, God—unto whom all hearts are open and all desires known—was aware of the true circumstances of my ordination. Was he very angry? I would have been.

  As Brendán began his climb the wind became a gale. It pummelled him with furious fists; it drove the breath from his lungs. Every step was a struggle. He hunched down into his shoulders. The gale gathered force; threatened to tear him off Diadche. The roar was deafening.

  Near the western base of the mountain Brendán found a slight hollow. Fighting the wind every step of the way, he piled up enough stones to shelter the front of the recess. Within this makeshift cell he knelt to ask God’s forgiveness.

  Whatever you ask of me I shall do. Without resentment; with an open heart.

  Stones and the wind. Dark and the mountain. And prayer.

  Little by little, the gale diminished.

  When he judged it was safe, he resumed climbing.

  Up, and up; boggy soil slipping unexpectedly; be careful! Angle sideways and keep going; up, and up, wading through purple heather, past pink thrift and green samphire and saxifrage. Rough beauty on every hand but he could not stop to admire it. Up, and up…abruptly he was enveloped in dense fog. The very air he breathed turned liquid. The mountain below him vanished. The peak above was invisible.

  Brendán was totally alone. The only reality was the ground under his feet and the staff in his hand.

  And faith. I have faith that the summit is there.

  Up, and up. His heart was hammering but he kept climbing. For an eternity, it seemed.

  The fog was blown away in a single mighty exhalation.

  And Brendán found himself on the summit of Diadche. No clouds, no mist. The air was as clear as on the first day of Creation.

  Here. Right here.

  He turned around slowly, feasting on the view.

  To the east Brendán glimpsed glacier-carved valleys filled with purple shadows. When he raised his eyes to the curving spine of Sliabh Mis he could see half of Ireland beyond, lying in soft folds like a blanket. In the opposite direction was the Western Sea, reaching to the end of the world. And beyond.

  On the horizon was the setting sun.

  Singing. Like a great bronze bell ringing out over the water.

  The sea was singing too, a wild melody advancing and retreating and roaring back again, ever changing, always the same. Great deep rollers falling upon themselves like thunder. White spume flying: the tossing manes of white stallions pulling the chariot of Manannán Mac Lir. Clouds turning rose and gold, birds stitching black patterns across their glowing faces.

  As Brendán watched with dazzled eyes, the sun painted a golden road over the sea. Somewhere along that road—he could not tell how far away—tall towers glittered. Clearly visible.

  “Hy Brasail,” Brendán murmured, awestruck. “The Isles of the Blest.”

  On the early part of our voyage we had become accustomed to kindness. The beneficence of God was to be found everywhere, it seemed. Our faith grew in equal measure to our sense of well-being. We had nothing to fear. The Western Sea was not an abyss at all, but the road to Paradise.

  The shores we approached on that warm, windless day bore no resemblance to Paradise.

  The land looked bleak and barren. We could see a solitary mountain wreathed in clouds; clouds which were lit from beneath with sparks of fire. The air rang with the blowing of bellows and the clanging of hammers. “I believe we have found an island of smiths,” Colmán announced. “At last I can have a new head made for my axe.”

  However the rest of my crew observed the forbidding landscape with trepidation.

  “There is life here,” I told them, “and if not Christian souls, then souls which need Christ. We shall go ashore and find them.”

  We landed our boat on a beach of glittering black sand. Carrying several full water bags, we headed inland. The ground was littered with lumps of charcoal and heaps of slag frequently blocked our way. Soon our faces and clothing were speckled with soot. The air smelled like rotten eggs. Liber wondered, “What manner of people could possibly live here?”

  “Whoever they are,” I replied grimly, “they must be in dire need of Christian compassion.”

  Except for Cerball, to whom caution was unknown, the monks looked apprehensive. I did not want to give in to their fears, but I too felt something was terribly wrong.

  Just as I decided to turn back, the mountain gave a deafening roar and burst open.

  An immense, blazing demon of crimson and gold sprang from the ruptured heart of the mountain and began hurling boulders into the air. Rivers of liquid fire poured down the flanks of the mountain and ran past us into the sea, sending up great clouds of hissing steam. The ground shuddered as if the island were shaking itself apart.

  Then the soil under our feet caught fire.

  “Run!” I shouted to my dumbstruck companions. “Run!!! We have come to the gates of Hell!” I whirled around and raced for my life. Their vow of obedience saved them; they came pelting after me.

  My feet hardly seemed to touch the smoking earth but I could feel its heat through my sandals. Never in my life had I run as fast.

  The fire did not extend as far as the beach but the demon was not through with us. As I drew near the boat a shower of burning coals fell from the sky. Some of the coals landed in the bottom of the vessel. I vaulted over the side, tore off my robe, and scooped up the flaming embers with it, then threw them into the sea.

  The other monks arrived panting and sweating, thankful to be alive. “We must launch the boat at once!” they cried.

  I agreed—but first I had to take a count.

  One was missing.

  Almost naked, with blistered skin and sandals burned away, I crawled out of the boat and went back for him. The brothers begged me not to go but I ignored their warnings. Just as it is possibly to be so badly hurt you feel no pain, it is also possible to be so badly scared you feel no fear.

  It was late afternoon but the sky was as dark as night, save for the lurid flames. The air was almost too thick to breathe. I tried to call the missing monk’s name but kept choking.

  At last I saw him.

  The second of the three uninvited monks who had insisted upon coming with us stood staring at the fiery spectacle. He did not move; he might as well have been a tree. I once saw a fawn stand like that while a wolf approached. There are sights which freeze the mind.

  I ran forward, determined to carry him in my arms all the way to the boat if necessary. Before I could reach him a fresh river of flame came pouring down towards us, encircling him, cutting off any hope of rescue. A great gout of fire belched around the unfortunate man. For an instant I saw his hair standing upright, crisping in the heat.

  Then he was gone.

  We dragged the boat into the water and rowed away as fast as we could, while the demon smith continued to rage over the island. All through the night we could see his fire. At last, exhausted by terror and pity, we slept.

  We awoke in a sulphurous dawn to find ourselves still safe. Our brave little boat was floating in the palm of God.

  We sailed on.

  Chapter 15

  Molua was waiting for Brendán when he returned from Diadche. “Bishop Erc should have been the one to tell you,” Molua said apologetically, tenting his fingers and hiding behind them. “But he only made the decision shortly before his death, and he made me promise to wait until after his funeral before informing you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You must have known that Bishop Erc wanted you to succeed him at Slane, but he realised you are still too young. I personally thought his cousin Ninnidh would be his choice, but they had a quarr
el about something—you remember when Ninnidh stormed out of here—so the bishopric has gone to Ninnidh’s eldest brother instead. A good man,” Molua added. “Bishop Erc educated him too.”

  To Molua’s surprise, Brendán smiled.

  God has a sense of humour; that’s another proof that we are made in his image.

  A lesser man might be disappointed, thought Molua, but obviously Erc’s godson was made of stronger stuff. Brendán grew in his estimation. “If there’s anything I can do…” Molua began. Knowing there was not.

  “Thank you for informing me of Bishop Erc’s wise decision,” Brendán said with quiet dignity. “And also for your many kindnesses to him during his illness. I shall go to the church now and pray for the new bishop of Slane.”

  After spending half a day on his knees, Brendán retired to his clochán. Alone in his cell, alone in himself.

  Had Erc read my heart and relented at the last moment? Or—and this was far more likely—was he merely being practical?

  Did it matter? Sometimes we are too busy looking for reasons to see results.

  Was the vision I saw from Diadche a blessing? Or a punishment?

  Either way I understood.

  I would not have to be the bishop of Slane because that was not what God wanted of me.

  Brendán remained at Tearmónn Eirc to assist the bishop as a parish priest. He also sent for Brige to come from Slane. “I didn’t want to stay there with the new bishop,” she confided to her brother after she arrived. “He’s nothing like Erc.”

  “Have you thought of marrying?”

  A shadow passed over her face. “If I had a husband, he might die. Or our children might die. I’ve seen…it’s better to stay as I am.”

  “What happened to our mother wouldn’t happen to you.”

  “You don’t know that, Brendán. I could take care of Bishop Erc because we weren’t part of each other; do you understand? I can love Christ without being afraid, but I don’t want a husband.”

  Brendán grinned. “And Bishop Molua doesn’t want another wife. But he does need someone to cook his food and sweep his floor; someone familiar with the burdens of his vocation. Would you be interested?”

  She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about joining a nunnery.”

  “Don’t,” said Brendán. “Join me instead.”

  Stay here so there will be a woman in my life.

  Ruan was another who remained at Tearmónn Eirc. “I’ve worked hard at learning illumination,” he told Brendán, “but now the abbot has me studying Greek. It’s heavy weather. I need a rest.”

  Eventually Brendán brought up the subject of Ninnidh. “He’s also studying Greek under Finnian, I believe. What do you think of him?”

  Ruan shrugged. “He’s all right. Why?”

  “I thought perhaps he was the reason you didn’t want to go back to Clon Ard.”

  Ruan looked astonished. “Ninnidh?”

  When Brige found a butterfly that had outlived its season, she carried it to her brother. Tears glittered in her eyes. “The poor thing is so beautiful and it’s dying,” she said. “I can’t bear it.”

  Brendán took the exhausted creature onto the palm of his hand. He diluted a single drop of honey with water and touched it to the insect’s proboscis. Slowly, the butterfly unrolled its tongue and supped the liquid. It lived for five more days, and attended Mass clinging to Brige’s sleeve.

  “You saved it only to die again,” she mourned when the butterfly finally died. “That was cruel.”

  Her brother put his arm around her shoulder. “Look up at the sky. God hung those stars there to brighten the cavern of night. They know they’re in his hands and they don’t protest their fate. Neither do creatures like butterflies, Brige. They don’t anticipate grief; they live each hour fully. To them five days is precious. On our own deathbeds we’ll plead with God for five more days.”

  “What will you do with yours, if he gives them to you?”

  Brendán laughed. “Find more butterflies for you.”

  Sometimes his eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a solid core to Brendán which others instinctively recognised. He had the calmness of power.

  A small coterie of admirers began to form around him.

  Brendán was puzzled. “What do they want of me?” he asked Ruan.

  “Just to be with you.”

  “Why? There’s nothing special about me.”

  “There is. For one thing, you’ve seen miracles. Remember telling me about the chariot in the clouds, and the wheel that fell off?”

  A miracle? In my memory the incident had the weight of reality.

  Brendán’s band of followers grew. When the weather deteriorated, they gathered in the refectory and urged him to relate the details of his pilgrimage. They listened attentively to his thoughts and discoveries. Almost before he realised it, Brendán was explaining his ideas for a monastic order.

  I let myself be flattered. There is no other explanation.

  On the first mild day he set out alone for Diadche.

  The wall at the mouth of the hollow was still there, though partially collapsed. He gathered more stones and began creating a grotto, an artificial cave. The inside was as dark as the inside of a clochán. The earthen floor followed the angle of the slope, making it uncomfortable to stand. Kneeling was easier, yet even then there was a sense of clinging to the side of the mountain.

  When the work was finished, Brendán stood back to see the structure in its entirety.

  I made that, he thought with satisfaction. Everything that is made has a maker.

  The skin on his arms began to prickle.

  Those stones. This mountain. Me.

  Everything that is made has a Maker. His Creation is the tangible proof of Him.

  ‘My very first foundation,’ wrote the abbot of Clon Fert many years later, ‘was a simple stone oratory on the side of a mountain. I went there by myself from time to time, to pray.’

  The young bird was awkward, as newly fledged birds are. Its inexperienced parents had built their first nest of sticks upon a precipice and the wind had torn it down. Only one fledgling survived. Flapping helplessly, it tumbled down the western face of Diadche, easy prey for the golden eagles who patrolled the mountains.

  Brendán found it first.

  As he approached his grotto an erratic motion off to one side caught his attention. The bird panicked even more when it saw him. He called in a soothing voice, “Don’t be afraid, little préachán; little crow. I won’t hurt you.”

  The bird tried to flatten itself against the earth. Brendán stood still. “It’s cold up here, isn’t it?” he said in a conversational voice. “And you don’t have enough feathers yet. I can take you to a warmer place if you like.” He squatted down so he did not loom so large in the creature’s eyes. “Préachán,” he repeated softly. “Préachán.”

  The bird blinked.

  Snugly nested in Brendán’s cloak, the fledgling was carried across the bay in his currach. From time to time it extended its neck and fixed its beady eyes on the man. “I’m still here,” he said reassuringly.

  When he reached Tearmónn Eirc he found two men wiping mildew off the timber in the gateway. Wood was scarce and valuable; maintaining it was a constant job. “What’s that you’re carrying?” one asked.

  “A young crow.”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you that you can’t eat a crow?”

  “I don’t intend to eat him. I’m going to feed him until he’s able to fend for himself.”

  “Stone the thing,” said the other man. “Everyone knows that crows devour the grain in the fields.”

  “No worries for us, then,” Brendán laughed. “Everyone knows that we have no grain nor any fields to grow it in. And before you ask, I’ll give little Préachán a share of my food, not yours. A bit of bread soaked in water should do for a start.”

  “You think it will live?”

  “He’ll live if he wants to,” said Brendán.

&nb
sp; He composed a letter for Íta; the first since his unanswered apology many years earlier. He did not mention what had happened between them, nor his ordination, nor even the death of Bishop Erc. He wrote:

  I have an unusual friend, an orphan I rescued on the mountainside. At first I thought he was a crow so I called him Préachán. As he grows it is obvious he is a raven. He has a massive beak, a shaggy throat, a wedge-shaped tail and fingers of feathers at the tips of his wings. Enormous wings, for he is becoming an enormous bird. Whatever his tribe, Préachán is a droll character. He sits with his head cocked, staring into my face, and from time to time he croaks a caustic comment. I do not yet understand his language, but I doubt if his remarks are complimentary. Having a critic at a man’s elbow keeps him humble.

  Íta did not write a reply to this letter either. But she sent a large sack of corn.

  “You’ve worked a miracle,” Brendán told the raven. “I think I may be forgiven.”

  He debated with himself about taking Préachán to Cill Íde to meet his benefactress, but decided against it.

  Behaving like a foolish child had alienated me from her once; I didn’t want to risk that again.

  Shortly after Erc’s death, an increased asceticism, inspired by the Penetential of Vinnian, a book written in Rome, swept through the Church in Ireland. Stringent new restrictions were imposed on both clerics and laymen. Married persons were required to refrain from sexual relations not only on Saturday and Sunday, but also for three periods of forty days each in every year, and from the time of a child’s conception until its birth. Divorce and concubinage, both common in Ireland, were proscribed. Celibacy became the rule rather than an option, for monks and nuns alike.