Saint Patrick

by Michael Scott

  The guards, who had jumped down from the other chariots, immediately moved toward us, spears leveled at our chests.

  I made the Sign of the Cross in the air—and they stopped, thinking I was working some magic. Ignoring their quizzical looks, I looked at Laoghaire and bowed slightly. Angras, the queen, stood behind him, and I bowed to her also. The woman nodded, the barest movement of her head, and a slight smile touched her pale lips.

  “Who are you?” Laoghaire demanded roughly. He was a short, stout man with graying hair going bald on top and a scraggly beard. I was beginning to wonder how this man could be the king of all Erin when I looked into his eyes—and they were cold and sharp. Dichu had warned me that Laoghaire was cruel and hard and I could instantly sense that this was true. “Who are you?” he demanded again.

  “I am called Patrick,” I said, my voice even.

  “The magician?” he asked.

  “I’m no magician,” I said with a smile.

  “You are a follower of the New God?” Angras asked suddenly.

  I looked at her and nodded. “I follow His teachings.”

  “There was one before you,” she said, watching me carefully.

  “Palladius.” I nodded. “He too attempted to bring the Word of God to this island.”

  “He failed.”

  “I will not.”

  “He is a magician,” Lucetmal, the older Druid, snapped, anger turning his face into an ugly mask. “He has broken our holy laws and must be put to death.”

  “I am no magician,” I repeated, annoyed that they were talking about me in front of me. I looked from the Druid to the queen and, finally, to the king. “I am a man of faith. Not a magician, a sorcerer, or a hedge wizard. I am a simple man.”

  “I think you are many things,” Angras said, “but I doubt you are simple.”

  “l have been told that you enchanted one of my villages and made all of its people your slaves,” Laoghaire said. He looked past me to where Dichu stood before the smoldering remains of the fire, his arms folded across his broad chest.

  I shook my head slightly. “I spoke to them of my God and they listened. They found a truth in my words.”

  The two Druids shook their heads. “Our people are loyal—they would not give up their faith so quickly for this new god of yours.”

  Laoghaire looked at me. “What do you say to that, eh?”

  I shrugged. “Dichu and his people are proud and strong—and wise.” I looked at the two Druids and added proudly, “They know my God is the stronger than your many gods.”

  The old man, Lucetmal, walked forward until he was almost touching me. I tried to hold my breath; the smell from him was enough to make my eyes water. His eyes—a deep, muddy brown—stared into mine, and I could see the hate and the fear in them. When he spoke, I could clearly see the few teeth remaining in his mouth. But while he was filthy—his scraggly hair was greasy, his skin was dirty, and there was dirt under his nails—his robe was spotless. I looked beyond him to the second Druid, Lochru. The younger man was also wearing a spotless gray robe, but unlike Lucetmal, he was clean, like most of the Celtic peoples.

  “This new religion is not fit for men,” the old Druid spat.

  “I am the son of a Roman. My race conquered the known world. The Christian faith is spreading quickly among my people,” I said. “They recognize its strength.” I was watching the old man carefully, and I noticed that his right hand had disappeared into the folds of his robes. I felt a cold breath touch the back of my neck, and it gave me a vision. I suddenly knew what he was going to do.

  “There is a knife in your hand,” I said loudly, stepping back. “But it is a damaged knife—there is a slight crack where the blade meets the handle. One solid blow and it will break apart.”

  Lochru, the younger man, stepped up and grabbed Lucetmal’s arm just as he was pulling out the knife. With a quick twist, he pulled it from the old man’s hand, then stepped back to examine the blade. Without a word, he handed it back to the king. In the absolute silence that followed, I was sure everyone could hear the pounding of my heart. Angras leaned forward across her husband’s shoulder and rubbed a short, blunt nail down the length of the blade, then murmured something to him.

  The king held the knife high. “The Holy Man has spoken the truth—the blade is flawed.” He threw the knife against a stone—and it immediately broke into two pieces. Laoghaire turned to look at Lucetmal. “Tell me, Druid: Is there some meaning in this? Is it an omen because the Druid’s knife was damaged. Is this a warning?”

  With a terrible scream, Lucetmal threw himself at me, his fingers bent into claws, his filthy nails long and sharp, like daggers.

  I saw him moving in slow motion. And only I saw Victoricus, the angel, appear between me and the raging man. The angel’s long arm went up and touched the Druid almost gently in the center of the chest, as if pushing him away. Without a word, the man fell to the ground, dead.

  In the long, long silence that followed, I expected Laoghaire to order his men to attack us, but he did nothing. He simply stood and looked at the dead Druid on the ground, the broken knife lying beside him.

  Finally, he looked at me. “Come to Tara tomorrow morning and we will speak of this God of yours.”

  Chapter Nine

  One the Road to Tara

  I spent the rest of the day in prayer around the smoldering remains of the fire. Twice during the afternoon, the king’s men rode by. Clearly, they were keeping an eye on us. As evening fell, Dichu came to tell me that Lochru, the younger Druid, was standing on a distant hill spying on us too.

  “I think they will try to stop us from reaching Tara tomorrow,” Dichu said in a low voice.

  I nodded. “Neither the king nor the Druids want us in this country.”

  Dichu looked at the distant Druid. “There will be an ambush on the road.”

  “Have you any idea where?”

  Dichu smoothed a rough piece of the ground with his hand. Using a small stick, he drew two circles in the dirt and connected them with a wavy line. He tapped one of the circles with his stick. “We are here on this hill, and Tara is over here.” He tapped the second circle. “This line here is the road that leads us there. Now, it makes its way mostly through open countryside, except here….” He dropped a large flat stone on one side of the road. “There is a forest here—it is the only place where a large body of men could hide and wait for us.”

  I nodded. This was where the attack would come from. Looking up at Dichu, I asked, “Is there any other way to Tara?”

  “Not easily,” he said. “It would mean a long, long walk, and if we did that, then it would only give Laoghaire and the Druids more chance to attack.” He frowned. “If we had a little more time, I could send back to my fort for men to guard you.”

  “I don’t need any guards.” I shook my head, surprising him. “My God will protect me.”

  “I hope so,” my friend said in a whisper.

  “I am not afraid,” I said, and truly I wasn’t.

  “Can I be afraid for you?” Dichu asked.

  “That is what friends are for.”

  * * *

  —

  The sky was still dark when we set out for Tara, the heart of Erin and, since ancient times, home to the king and his court. Along with Dichu, we had been joined by his young son Benin and seven of my brothers. The men were frightened—even Dichu was silent and nervous. They all knew that some confrontation was bound to happen. Only young Benin seemed unafraid, and we chatted quietly together as we walked along the dark road.

  It was a little after sunrise when we neared the forest. The brothers, who had been murmuring their morning prayers, fell silent, wondering what I was going to do. When they saw that I intended to stick to the road and walk right past the trees, they began to murmur among themselves.

  “That�
��s where they’re sure to be waiting for us….”

  “They’ll be waiting for us here….”

  “They’re in the trees….”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Silence!” Dichu snapped, his voice sounding very loud in the early-morning quiet. The large man touched my sleeve and continued softly, “If your god—our God—is going to help us, then He had better do it soon, and here.”

  “He will help us,” I promised, and, even as I was speaking, I felt the cold wind on the back of my neck. When I turned to face the road, the angel Victoricus was standing before me.

  “Have no fear,” he said, his voice echoing inside my head. “Follow the path and no harm will come to you.”

  So we followed the road, walking right past the trees. In the stillness we could clearly hear the sounds of horses in the woods, their leather harnesses creaking, and when the wind shifted we could smell men and beasts on the air.

  I looked over my shoulder and repeated what the Angel had said to me. “Have no fear: follow the path and no harm will come to us.”

  And tThen I began to pray. The words came to me suddenly, but I knew they were sent to me by God. As I was speaking, Benin joined in with me, and his words too came from God:

  “Let Christ walk before me…,” I said.

  Benin added, “And behind me…”

  “Let Him be beneath my feet…”

  “And above me also.”

  “Let Him be on my right-hand side…”

  “And on my left also…”

  “Let Him be with me in my waking hours…”

  “And whilst I sleep…”

  “Let me think of Him always…”

  “And speak of Him always…”

  “And see Him everywhere…”

  “And hear Him everywhere,” Benin finished.

  There was more of the prayer, but I don’t recall it. Some of the brothers who were with me that day wrote it down and called it St. Patrick’s Breastplate, but I don’t remember speaking half of the words they said I did.

  We did walk past the soldiers that day—and yet we weren’t attacked.

  I don’t know how it happened. I certainly felt no different, but something strange had passed over us and protected us from being seen. The men who had been sent to kill us later reported to Laoghaire that no men had walked the road to Tara. They had been waiting all night and hadn’t seen a human soul. The only creatures to use the road, they said, had been a herd of eight or nine deer!

  Perhaps that is why my prayer is sometimes called the Deer’s Cry.

  Chapter Ten

  Tara

  All the nobles of Erin had gathered in a huge fort in Tara to await our arrival. They knew that the Druids would put up a fight against us, and they were expecting a battle. Guards lined the fort’s walls and doors, armed with swords and spears, ready to protect the royal court. They looked as if they were expecting an army, rather than a few unarmed men and a boy.

  An old man met us at the gates and led us through the fort. We saw no one except the palace guards, although once or twice, I thought I saw someone peering through a half-open door. The large fort was cold and damp, and smelled musty and sour. Wind whistled through the cracks in the stones, and there were puddles of water in the corners. Rats squeaked in the shadows.

  Two guards waited in front of the throne room. They stood to attention as our small group approached, and without a word, they pushed the doors open. Calmly, quietly, I walked into the circular room. The doors immediately slammed shut behind me. I heard shouts and spun around, but I was alone. My companions had been locked outside!

  , I turned back and looked across the room. So, I would have to speak to the nobles on my own. No matter; I was unafraid. This was where my God and faith had led me. I toward them. I immediately noticed that the gathered lords and ladies remained seated, even though it would only have been good manners to stand and in greeting.

  Taking a deep breath, I approached the throne, every eye in the room on me…and not a friendly face in the place.

  Suddenly, an old man stepped out of the crowd; his hair and beard were the color of snow and his eyes were the deepest blue I have ever seen. He was wearing a robe of soft wool, decorated with a curling design in red and green thread. There was a torc—a twisted metal bracelet—high on his arm, and there was another thin band of gold around his head, keeping his hair from his eyes. Even before he spoke I knew he must be someone of importance.

  He bowed deeply and spoke in a voice that carried to every part of the hall. “Greetings, Patrick, Holy Man. I am Dubhthach, Chief Poet, and I bid you welcome to Tara, the heart of the Land of Erin.”

  I bowed deeply, trying to hide my relief. The poets were as powerful as the Druids; to be greeted by the Chief Poet was a good sign indeed. “Thank you,” I said simply. “You honor me.”

  All around me the lords and their ladies were murmuring together, surprised that the old man had greeted me. Then, a second person stepped from the crowd. He was younger and slimmer than Dubhthach but also beautifully dressed and wearing many ornaments of gold.

  “I am Fiac,” he said, his voice deep and rich. “I too am a poet, and I can see that you bring no harm with you. Welcome to Erin.”

  I bowed to him also, and as I straightened, I looked around at the others. They seemed confused. They had anticipated a battle between their Druids and the new magician. Instead, they had seen the enemy greeted by two of their most respected people.

  I continued across the floor to where Laoghaire was sitting with Angras. I stopped before the throne and bowed slightly. When I raised my head, I looked directly at the king. “You asked me to come here,” I said.

  “You must answer for your crimes,” he retorted loudly. “You lit a fire before the Holy Druid Fire was lit….”

  There was movement in the shadows behind the throne, and then Lochru, the Druid, stepped up beside the king. “And you were responsible for the death of Lucetmal,” he added bitterly.

  “His own anger killed him,” I said firmly.

  Lochru shook his head. “You have disregarded the ancient laws of our land by lighting a fire before the Druid Fire,” he said quickly. “The sentence for such a foul crime is death!”

  The king glared at me. And yet I thought I saw a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. I knew then that this man wanted to have me killed.

  “I lit the fire to honor my God,” I said, my voice carrying to all parts of the hall. “Yesterday was the holiest day of my faith. It honors the day when my God rose from the dead. Have any of your Celtic gods ever risen from the dead?” I asked, looking around the room.

  “Tell us about this god of yours, then,” Laoghaire said. “Is he powerful?”

  I nodded. “He is very powerful.”

  Angras leaned forward. “And is there only one god? Do you not need more?”

  “There is only one God, but He has three parts—the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.”

  I could hear the people behind me muttering, sounding confused. Even the queen seemed puzzled.

  “How can a god be one and three together?” she asked.

  For a moment I couldn’t answer the question. And then I remembered the hills of my youth, where I had tended sheep. Those hills had been dotted with a small clover plant with three leaves. “You all know the shamrock,” I said, raising my voice as I turned to face the assembled people. The odd statement silenced them. “It has three leaves on one stem. Three leaves making a single plant. My God is like that: three that are one, the one that is all.”

  “Do not listen to this man!” Lochru shouted from behind me.

  But Dubhthach, the old poet, stood up and said loudly, “I would like to hear what he has to say.”

  And this time there were shouts of “Yes, let him speak.”

 
“I want to hear….

  “Let the man say his piece.”

  And so I spoke to the assembly, telling them of the Christ and the lessons He taught five hundred years ago. I spoke through the morning and long into the afternoon, and when I was finished, I had won most of them over to the Christian faith. Later that day, I baptized Angras into the True Religion. I knew then that I had taken the first step to converting all Ireland.

  * * *

  —

  I have heard many stories about that meeting of mine with Laoghaire and his Druids at Tara. I have heard how we worked magic, he and I.

  I have heard how the Druids attempted to poison me and how I turned the drops of poison into jeweled stones and picked them from my drink.

  I have heard how Lochru covered the countryside with snow—and how I melted it away to reveal flowers beneath.

  I have heard how he covered the country in darkness—and how I brought back the sunshine.

  But none of these stories are true. The truth is always plainer, always simpler.

  When Laoghaire saw that even the powerful poets supported me, and when he saw how the people were prepared to follow me—and how even his own wife believed me—he knew there was little point in standing against me. Although he never became a Christian himself, he didn’t stop me from teaching the Christian faith all across his land.

  But it is true that there was magic worked in Tara’s stone halls that day. That same day, many people gave up their pagan ways and decided to follow the Christian way. They were the first of many.

  Chapter Eleven

  Miracles

  And so I set out on my mission across the land of Erin.