Saint Patrick

by Michael Scott

  And then I waited.

  The barn was warm and smelled of old straw. The sun’s rays passed through its warped planks, creating patterns on the floor. I looked around. High on the far wall, I could make out a cross traced in sunlight against here for a reason: this would be the site of my first church in Erin.

  I turned around and stepped outdoors, then gasped in alarm. A dozen armed men faced me!

  The men were arranged in a half circle before the opening. Clad in wool and leather, with heavy, oiled cloaks, they carried spears and long knives. From their clothing and weapons, I guessed they were farmers rather than soldiers. A huge man, who was obviously their leader, stepped forward and leveled a spear at me. For a long time he said nothing, and in the sunlight, his bright red hair and beard shone gold. His eyes, I noticed, were an astonishing bright green.

  “Who are you?” he demanded in the Irish language.

  “I am called Patrick.”

  “What are you? Why are you here?” Every time he asked a question, he jabbed with the spear, the point coming dangerously close to my chest.

  “I am a Holy Man who follows the ways of the New God,” I explained. “I have come to bring the Word of God to Erin.”

  Behind the leader, one of his men laughed rudely.

  “My brothers and I have come in peace. We carry no weapons,” I added quickly.

  “You are not from this land,” their leader said quietly, “so how is it that you speak our language?”

  This was the question I had been waiting for. It was a dangerous one. The Irish lords dealt very harshly with runaway slaves—usually the penalty was death. Still, I spoke truthfully.

  “I was a slave in this country once,” I said evenly. “I escaped, and I have returned to talk to my old master, Miliuc.”

  The men had gasped at my revelation. They murmured angrily when they learned whom I had escaped from.

  “No man has ever escaped from Miliuc!” one of the men shouted. “He’s lying.”

  But the leader waved his hand, silencing the man. “I once heard of a boy running away from Miliuc…but that was a long time ago. I was little more than a boy myself when it happened.” Then he added, “I remember wondering what it would be like to be a slave on the run.”

  “It was thirty years ago,” I said.

  The man nodded slowly in recognition. “It would be.” He glanced over his shoulder at his men. “I believe this man.” When he looked back to me, there was a broad smile on his face. “I am Dichu,” he said, dropping his spear. He extended his right arm and I reached out with mine. His hard fingers tightened around mine. “My shepherd spotted the strange boat sailing in and thought it might be raiders. But I knew the moment I saw you that you were no threat to us.” He nodded at my brown robe. “Last year, I heard stories of a foreigner dressed as you are, preaching about a new god. He did not last long. The Irish winter drove him back to warmer shores.”

  “Palladius,” I said. “A holy man, a follower of the New God, one of the first missionaries to attempt to bring the Word of God to Erin. I had hoped to meet him, but he died in Briton. I intend to continue his work.” Then I turned my attention back to the barn. “Is this yours?” I asked, gesturing at it.

  The man nodded.

  “I believe I was led here by my God,” I said, speaking to him directly and watching his expression. “Inside, I saw a sign, a holy sign. I would like to buy this barn from you, if it is for sale.”

  But Dichu shook his head. “I will not sell it to you.” He saw me open my mouth and raised a hand, and I fell silent. “A man should always follow where his gods lead. If your god led you to this place and this barn, then it is yours. A gift to you and your god.”

  I nodded appreciatively. That place was called Saul, and my brothers and I built our first church in Erin there.

  Chapter Seven

  The Burning Fort

  Dichu was the first Irishman I baptized into the Christian faith—or the New Faith, as it was called. His people followed in his footsteps almost immediately. When I asked him why they had also agreed to convert, Dichu replied, “They trust me to make the right decisions.”

  And so my brothers spent the next few weeks teaching and baptizing the locals.

  Standing by the side of the lake, watching Dichu’s clansmen lining up, waiting their turn to be dipped in the water to be baptized, I was struck by a sudden idea.

  “Who is the king now?” I asked Dichu.

  “Laoghaire,” he said. “A hard, cruel man.”

  “What would happen,” I asked, “if Laoghaire were to become Christian?”

  The huge man shrugged. “All Ireland would follow him,” he said, and then, realizing what I was thinking, he grinned and shook his head. “But you’ll never convert Laoghaire. In fact, I doubt you could even get close to him.”

  “I only want to talk to him,” I said.

  “The Druids—the Holy Men—will see you as a threat. If he becomes a Christian, all their power will disappear.”

  I had encountered the Druids before, in Gaul, Briton, and Wales. They were more than just the priests of the pagan religion. Male and female, they were doctors and judges, historians and prophets, and their power was absolute. In many places they were more powerful than the king.

  “There must be some way to get close to Laoghaire.”

  “I am sure your god”—Dichu paused—“our god will find a way.”

  I looked up at the sun, gauging the time. “I am going to see my former master, Miliuc. We have unfinished business.”

  “Be careful of Miliuc; he is an old man, proud and stubborn.” Dichu’s broad face was serious. “I don’t think he will like that fact that you’ve returned. Remember, you were the only slave of his ever to escape. I think he will be insulted that you have come back; he will think you are here to mock him.”

  “But I am not.”

  “I know that—I know there is no harm in you. But all he will see is an escaped slave. An escaped slave who is already gaining a reputation as some sort of magician. He might think you’ve come back to work your magic on him.”

  “But I’m no magician,” I protested.

  Dichu grinned. “You’ve converted me and my people to the New God. Surely there is magic in that?” He turned away and was walking down to the shore when he stopped and looked back. “At least, that is how outsiders will look at it. They’ll think you cast a spell over us.” He grinned, and I heard his final words drifting back over his shoulder. “And perhaps you have.”

  Away from the lakeside and its murmuring crowds, I came to a place of stillness. The day was warm, with the sun shining from a pale, bright sky. I was glad to be in the forest, which was pleasantly cool and shady after the harsh sunlight. Dichu had given me directions to Miliuc’s fort, and I followed a well-worn track through the trees, blinking hard when the light darted through the branches, blinding me. There was no sound, not even a bird singing. Even the leaves were still.

  I was busy with my thoughts, trying to work out what I would say to Miliuc and how I would get close to Laoghaire. I was not paying attention to my surroundings when, suddenly, a cold breath of wind brushed the back of my neck. I spun around, but there was nothing behind me. Puzzled, I hurried on, but I was alert now; over the years I had come to recognize the cold wind as the angel’s breath.

  Soon enough, I spotted chariots through the trees. There were two of them, and they seemed to be keeping pace with me. One was off to my right, while the second was to my left and a little behind me. I stopped and pretended to examine something on the ground. They stopped too. So they were following me. I straightened and hurried on.

  The forest ended at a crossroads, and I took the left-hand fork, following Dichu’s instructions. This was the road that led to Miliuc’s fort. I had gone a little way down the dusty road when I noticed that the ch
ariots weren’t following me anymore. They had to have been Miliuc’s men, sent to watch me, I thought. No doubt they had gone ahead to alert him that I was coming.

  How would I be received when I arrived? Would it be as bad as Dichu had warned?

  Miliuc’s fort was smaller than I remembered. The walls that I had once thought so high were now no taller than my head, and the huge buildings turned out to be nothing more than huts. The gates were closed, and I could see the sun sparkling off some kind of metal. And then I understood: there were men carrying spears standing behind those walls.

  I stopped on the muddy, rutted track and shouted, “Hello. I have come to pay my respects to Miliuc!”

  There was no reply, although I could now see that there were men and women moving around behind the walls.

  “I am alone. I mean no harm,” I shouted.

  “What about Dichu and his people?” someone shouted back. “What harm have you done to them?”

  I had started to shake my head and was about to reply, when suddenly, the gates were thrown open and an old man appeared. He was tall and broad, his hair and beard the color of old snow, and he leaned heavily on a tall spear. Although the day was hot, he was wearing a leather cloak over a wool robe. Without saying a word, he walked slowly toward me.

  I waited until he was standing almost directly in front of me, and then I raised my right hand in greeting. “I have come to this fort in peace.”

  “You are the slave?” he asked. It was difficult to understand him because he had no teeth and his gums were rotten. There was the same smell of sheep-droppings from his clothing that took me back to our first meeting all those years ago.

  “I was once a slave here…,” I said cautiously.

  “Runaway,” he spat. “The only slave I ever lost. You disgraced me.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “And now you’ve come back. A magician, I hear…”

  “No…”

  “…come to enchant me and my people…”

  I shook my head, but the old man wasn’t listening to me.

  “…come to enslave me to your new god.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Dichu and his people are your slaves now,” the old man spat, his eyes blazing with anger and rage. “Well, you won’t have me. You won’t take me and my people, that I swear.” He turned his back on me.

  “I’ve come to say I’m sorry…,” I began, but Miliuc had stormed away, leaving only his words and his hatred behind him. I took a few steps nearer the fort, when two spears struck the ground close to my feet. I got the message and backed away.

  Just then, the gates to Miliuc’s land were pulled open. A dozen chariots raced toward me, led by snorting horses with thundering hooves. Were they trying to kill me? I blessed myself quickly and prepared to meet my God. Before the chariots could bear down on me, I braced myself and closed my eyes…and opened them again to find that the chariots had thundered past, all dust and noise.

  I turned around to look at them and noticed for the first time that there were women and children in the wicker carts. It looked as if Miliuc’s people were fleeing. But where was Miliuc? I turned back to the fort—just as the first gray wisps of smoke drifted up into the cloudless sky.

  I had started to run toward the open gates, when Miliuc appeared. The old man was holding a blazing, cloth-wrapped stick in his hand. I could see him brush it against the gateposts and the gates. The cloths must have been soaked in oil, because they immediately burst into flame.

  “You’ll never make me your slave, Patrick.” He shouted my name like a curse and slammed the burning gates shut.

  I tried to reach the old man in the fort, to save him from the licking flames, but the heat drove me back. I choked and coughed on the smoke and ash-filled air. Cinders and grit stung my eyes, making them water, and I tried blinking away the tears. For a time I could see nothing. When my vision cleared, Miliuc’s fort was engulfed in flames.

  Later that afternoon, when the fire had died to gray-black smoke, I wandered through the ruins, desperately trying to work out why the old man had done this. Why had he been so afraid of me?

  It was only many years later that I discovered that a Druid had warned him of a slave who would master all Erin. Miliuc obviously thought that I was that slave.

  In the center of the smoldering ruins, I discovered a large yellow pool. I knelt in the ashes and looked at it closely, then jabbed it with a stick. It was liquid gold. Miliuc had destroyed all his finest treasures and gold. I am afraid he must have died with them, because he was never seen again. Kneeling in the ashes, I prayed for his soul.

  I was walking away from Miliuc’s fort when the cold wind touched my neck again. I turned quickly, expecting to find charioteers or riders at my back, but there was no one. The only thing behind me was the fire-blackened ruin of the fort. As I watched, a wooden log caught fire, and the flames blazed into the heavens. It was a sign, surely. But what did it mean?

  * * *

  —

  It was dark by the time I reached Dichu’s fort. I was just in time to stop him and my brothers from setting out to look for me. When they met me—dirty, soot-streaked, and stinking of fire—they were full of questions. Dichu immediately made sure I was taken care of. He sent one brother off to prepare a meal for me, another to find me clean clothes, and a third to bring me water.

  “The old man is dead,” I whispered to Dichu, when my brothers had hurried off about their tasks. “I think he killed himself rather than face ‘enslavement’ by me and my God.”

  The big man nodded seriously. “There will be many like him. They will fear you, hate you, kill you if they can.”

  “He sent all his people away and then set fire to his fort.”

  “That’s odd,” Dichu muttered. Then, seeing my expression, he continued. “This is the Time of Darkness, when, according to our custom, no fire may be lit. That is, until the Great Flame is sparked by the Druids at the Hill of Slane.” I looked confused. “The fire is the symbol of the new season,” he explained.

  “No fire can be lit at all this time of year, then?”

  Dichu nodded. “The country remains in darkness until the Druids gather with the king and queen at Tara to celebrate the new season.”

  “And if someone were to light a fire?” I asked.

  “They would be put to death, of course!”

  “Would there be a trial?”

  Dichu thought for a moment and then nodded. “For such a terrible crime, I imagine the king himself would preside over a trial.” He stopped suddenly. “You’re not thinking…”

  “I am thinking about fire,” I said with a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  The Druids

  The morning was cold; the wind coming in from the east was tipped with ice. The sun had not yet risen, and the horizon was just beginning to glow with the gray dawn. Overhead, stars sparkled, sharp and bright. Many religions believe there are pictures and patterns in the sky. I spent much of my youth lying on my back staring into the heavens, and I saw none.

  I looked over my shoulder at Dichu and nodded toward the east. “How much time do we have?”

  The warrior turned to look at the horizon and then at the stars overhead, reading the time. “Not long.”

  I nodded, took a deep breath, and smiled. I was going to do what no other man in Erin had done—I was going to defy the holy men, the Druids. I rubbed both hands down the front of my rough brown robe and picked up a thick log, one end of which had been coated in sticky black tar. “Well,” I said, “let’s begin.”

  Dichu walked slowly up the hill to join me. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Patrick,” he said doubtfully. He knelt on the ground and struck flint against a piece of oiled wool. One of the sparks caught and the wool began to burn. I touched the end of my stick against the wool and it
caught fire immediately, the flames licking the tar. When it burned strongly, I stepped over to a mound of wood and sticks that we had built during the night. What I was about to do could change the course of Irish history. I hesitated a moment.

  And then I plunged the burning stick deep into the pile of oil-wet wood.

  The light that followed was intense. Fire blazed across the early-morning sky, the huge bonfire exploding into tall dancing flames. I am sure the people in the valley below thought the sun had risen early that morning.

  Dichu and I moved back as the wood snapped, popped, and exploded, and streamers of sparks spiraled high into the sky. Smoke twisted in the wind, and flakes of soot and ash drifted down like bitter snow. The fresh, clean air was fouled by the smell of burning wood and leaves.

  We had been standing in silence for what seemed like a long time, watching the huge fire burn, when I turned and looked at Dichu. “How long do you think it will take them to reach us?” I asked.

  He started to shrug his broad shoulders, and then he stopped. Squinting in the morning mist, he answered my question. “Here they come.”

  Four chariots thundered up the hillside, and even though I had never met him, I immediately recognized Laoghaire, the king, in the first chariot. Dichu touched my sleeve and said quietly, “The woman beside him is Angras, his queen, and the two men in the second chariot are Lochru and Lucetmal, the Arch Druids. They are men of great power, and I’ve seen them work powerful magic.”

  “My God is stronger than any pagan spells,” I said with my chin held high. Dichu said nothing, but I could see the flicker of disbelief on his face. Even though he had become a follower of the New God, doubt that his old gods were the true ones lingered.

  The chariots skidded to a stop before us, the horses—wide-eyed, snorting—rearing on their hind legs, forelegs pawing the air before our faces. One of the Druids jumped down from the chariot and pointed at us with a long-nailed finger. His dark-skinned, bearded face was contorted in rage. “They have lit a fire before the Sacred Druid Fire. They have broken the Holy Law. They will bring disaster on us all. Kill them!”