Brendan Read online

  “Herding mice in a meadow would have been easier than controlling us. The nuns did not interfere unless our rough-and-tumble antics turned serious. Then it was always Sister Íta who came at the run to wipe a bloody nose or dry furious tears. She never apportioned blame, but distracted us with a song or story until the quarrel was forgotten. Thus we were defended from one another. And from ourselves. Never again have I felt as safe as I did on the Meadow of Deep Soil.

  “To each boy Sister Íta imparted the conviction that no matter his faults, he was loved deeply, permanently, and without qualification, by herself and God. She gave us a rock to stand on. My feet are planted there yet.”

  Brendán closed his eyes for a moment. Alas, one cannot remain a child any more than the blackbird can remain in the egg.

  “In high summer men from Sister Íta’s clan came galloping over the grassland to make any necessary repairs to the structure of the nunnery. Some were mounted on small horses whose tails had been dyed bright red or vivid blue. Those of higher rank drove wickerwork chariots decorated with plumes. A good chariot was worth twelve cows.

  “The men’s hair either streamed to their shoulders or was plaited into complex patterns and dyed like their horses’ tails. Faces were clean shaven except for flowing moustaches, the emblem of the warrior class. Beneath their sleeveless coats they wore knee-length linen tunics dyed with saffron. Gold brooches fastened the mantles on their shoulders. More gold adorned their necks and arms, fingers and ears, until they gleamed like the sun. Gorgeous and gaudy and proud; warriors of the Gael.

  “By contrast the nuns clothed themselves in grey wool, finely woven but absolutely plain. Their gowns hung straight from neck to feet. They possessed no gold or treasure of any kind. The priest who visited us to say Mass in the chapel even brought his own chalice and paten. Cill Íde was simplicity itself. Nothing in excess. The nuns spoke in low voices. In the presence of men they spoke more softly still.

  “The other boys admired the warriors and followed them everywhere, imitating their bold swagger and brandishing spears made from branches. I was more intrigued by the foreign traders who occasionally visited Cill Íde. Ireland was the last port of call for men who plied the world’s trade routes. They described the Irish as ‘World Enders,’ because there was nothing beyond us but the Great Abyss: the Western Sea that ran to the edge of the world and beyond. When the traders brought their exotic merchandise to our gates I was always wildly excited.

  Sharp eyed, oily tongued men with wide smiles and extravagant gestures, they spoke with enviable familiarity of sunblessed Egypt and subtle Persia. I listened to them with my mouth hanging open like a gate.

  “The traders exchanged worked iron and woven flax for the nuns’ herbal medicaments and fine wool. They displayed jewels of jet and amber and malachite, and tiny sheets of gold leaf as thin as fish skin, but the nuns were not tempted. ‘Desire only what you need,’ was the rule at Cill Íde.

  It’s still a good rule.

  “When she was with the traders Sister Íta’s demeanour changed. She became the warrior she might have been; standing taller, shoulders back and chin lifted. She spoke in a firm voice and drove a hard bargain. The traders admired her for it. They called her ‘The White Sun.’

  At twilight other visitors—either three or five in number—occasionally approached the nunnery. Yet they never came as far as the wall. They stood off at a distance, silent within hooded robes. We boys could never get a close look at them. If we tried they melted away into the trees. When I asked Sister Íta about them she replied with a single word: ‘Druids.’

  The cormorant dropped like a spear from the sky, seized a hapless fish in its beak and flapped away.

  A shudder ran up Brendán’s spine. When overtaken by its fate, did the fish feel terror?

  Chapter 2

  Sitting at his table in the scriptorium at Clon Fert amidst half a dozen other monks painstakingly copying manuscripts, Brendán wrote, ‘In my youth as now, Ireland was divided into five provinces. Each comprises a separate kingdom: Ulster in the north, Connacht in the west, Leinster in the east, and Munster in the south. Central to these like the hub of a wheel is the Royal Kingdom of Meath.’ He paused to dip his feathered quill into the little pot of sticky ink. His eyes were smarting. The oil was smoking in his lamp, but it was hard to stop writing. The narrative had him in its grip and there was so much to tell. To explain.

  Can any of it be explained?

  ‘Gaelic nobility extends downward from kings and princes to the warrior aristocracy. The noble classes are bound by laws of reciprocal obligation. Tribal chieftains, who are lesser kings, are loyal to their provincial king and supply him with warriors on demand. In turn, the provincial kings pay tribute to a high king who rules at Tara, in Meath. Tara is the heart of Ireland, where five royal roads meet.

  ‘Roads are of vital importance because they provide a network for trade through impenetrable forest and across dangerous bog. Provincial kings go to great trouble to maintain them; their personal honour is at stake. Honour is the foundation of Gaelic society and prestige is the mortar that holds our society together. Dispensing lavish hospitality is essential to maintaining prestige, so the kings build the most splendid hostels they can afford for travellers passing along their roads.’

  Brother Tarlách leaned across Brendán’s shoulder to squint at the words scribed on the vellum. His breath smelled of smoked herring. He was the only monk at Clon Fert who genuinely preferred fish to meat. “Is that going to be a spiritual apologia like Patrick’s ‘Confessio’?”

  Brendán laid down his quill. “I would not presume to emulate Blessed Patrick,” he said gently. “This is merely an iris, a humble recounting of my experiences.”

  “You’ve been busy with it ever since we came home from Ard Fert.”

  “I have,” Brendán agreed, hoping a terse reply would discourage further conversation. Tarlách could be a test of patience.

  Undeterred, the monk went on talking. “Did I ever tell you that my father was a famous hosteller in Ulster? Every traveller in the north of Ireland took shelter under his roof at one time or another. You can ask me anything you like about hostel keeping; anything at all. Did you know that Brehon Law obliged us to keep three vats of drink filled and ready at all times? One with wine, one with ale, and one with buttermilk.”

  Suddenly Brendán’s eyes twinkled. “Which one did you steal a drink from when no one was looking?”

  “That’s not very Christian of you,” Tarlách muttered. He wiped his perpetually dripping nose on his sleeve.

  Giving him a smile of childlike innocence, Brendán said, “I was only teasing you, Brother. I remember what it was like to be a young man. In fact many memories are coming back to me now and I’m eager to capture them, so if you’ll forgive me…?” He lifted his quill.

  Tarlách continued to hover over him. “If you want my opinion, you should begin by describing the incident with Judas Iscariot. That was a lot more interesting than what you’ve written there.”

  Brendán put down his quill for a second time. “In a journal, Brother Tarlách, events are placed in chronological order.”

  “But aren’t you telling what you remember?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you can begin wherever you like. Memory skips around, you know.”

  “Perhaps you should write your own journal,” Brendán suggested with what sounded like—but was not—infinite patience.

  Tarlách straightened up. “I have enough work to do,” he said indignantly. “You assigned it to me.”

  “Just so,” replied the abbot of Clon Fert. Only two words, softly spoken. Yet this time Brendán put the invisible weight of his office behind them.

  Tarlách returned to his own writing table. The Navigator went back to his journal.

  When a monastic scribe copied any part of Holy Scripture he had to be mindful that it was the word of God. No monk would dare to correct God. But Brendán could correct his own work unt
il it said what he wanted it to say. He relished the freedom such writing afforded, and accepted the discipline it imposed. Knowing he needed both.

  Words…

  On the walls of the scriptorium book satchels made of wood and leather, elaborately carved and ornamented with gilding, were hung from pegs to protect the precious sheets of vellum from damp. The air was redolent with timber and calfskin and inks. Old manuscripts and new. Sacred words and informative words. Words.

  Words.

  Brendán’s fingers caressed the shaft of the quill before he wrote: ‘Nunneries and monasteries also offer hospitality to those who seek shelter.’ From such chance visitors the boys at Cill Íde heard of flamboyant warrior kings who led huge cattle raids and stole other men’s wives. Sadly for us, in deference to the sensibilities of the nuns, their guests never related any of the details. The only stories the nuns told us were about Christ and his disciples. When I pleaded to hear more about the warrior kings, Sister Lerben said briskly, “Christ is the King of Kings—that’s all you need to know.”

  Or did she say that? It sounds more like Bishop Erc.

  A great yawn rose up in Brendán and forced his jaws open. He sprinkled sand on the written words to dry them and carefully cleaned his quill on a scrap of silk. Easing his tired body from the high stool, he made his way to bed.

  Erc’s memory followed him down the passageway like a shadow. A long narrow shadow that carried one shoulder higher than the other.

  Tarlách’s right about the way we remember things. It seems like only yesterday…

  Erc, son of Daig and bishop of Altraighe-Caille, was a determined man. Being resolute was necessary for any disciple of Christ in a land that danced to a wilder music. For Erc it was imperative.

  His father was a chieftain. Erc’s greatest wish had been to be a warrior in his father’s service, but a childhood accident left him unable to bear arms. He would never win glory on the battlefield. He could never be a hero in a land that celebrated heroes.

  Although Erc was bitterly disappointed, there was another route to prestige. He possessed gifts of the mind sufficient to gain admittance to the order of Druids, the intellectual class of Celtic society. Members of the order were not practitioners of a specific religion, nor were they priests in the Christian sense of the word. The Greeks were more nearly correct by describing Druids as poet-philosophers.

  A physical disability was no bar to Druidry. Erc could have become a teacher or historian or musician or satirist or student of the stars: all highly respected offices. But the innermost circle of Druidry was closed to him.

  Chief Druids were those who, from childhood, had demonstrated an intimate awareness of the Otherworld. Its mysteries were not mysteries to them; its patterns were carved in their bones. They could move in and out of the realm of spirit, seeing that to which others were blind.

  Erc lived only in the tangible world. He had to face the fact that he could never be a chief Druid, the equal of kings.

  He did the next best thing, undertaking the arduous twelve-year course of study necessary to become a brehon, a judge and interpreter of the law. Brehons held the second-highest rank in Druidry. Erc’s tribe had celebrated his achievement with a great feast. Warriors carried him on their shoulders. With more years of work he could gain the title of ollamh, the ultimate degree of learning. He was on the verge of a spectacular success.

  When something unexpected had intervened.

  Morning light streamed through the windows of the scriptorium, buttering the flagstones of the floor. Brendán wrote, ‘In my fifth year at Cill Íde, Sister Íta told me I must go on a journey.’

  In my excitement I tugged at her robe, the wool so soft to the touch. “Where? Where am I going?”

  “To be with your people in Kerry.”

  “But you are my people.”

  When Íta smiled she had dimples in her cheeks. “We are all God’s people, dear heart.”

  “Then why…”

  The smile slipped from her lips and fell away. She looked stricken; I thought maybe it had fallen into the neck of her gown. “Because…” She folded her hands—the strong hands I loved—and said nothing else. She could not bear to hurt me.

  Her reluctance conveyed itself to me. I took a step backwards—the first time I ever backed away from Íta, though it would not be the last. “I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

  “You have to, Braon-finn. We must accept the Will of God.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The greatest of all the Mysteries,” she replied.

  I did not understand. I still don’t. Faith must fill the gap of knowledge.

  ‘My transport was a brightly painted wooden cart pulled by a shaggy pony with plumes in his mane. Three armed warriors acted as my escort. One stationed himself on either side of the cart while the third led the pony.

  I was certain I could drive the pony myself if they would give me the reins. They refused. From their accents I could tell the men were not Déisi. They spoke as if they had stones in their mouths.

  ‘My escorts kept the pony at a trot most of the time while they ran effortlessly alongside. When we made camp for the night I was put to bed in the cart under a leather cover.

  The warriors lay down beside the fire and were warmer than I was.

  “We were on our way again at dawn, jolting along steep trails where the cart threatened to overturn, or following causeways across bogs where heron fished.”

  My escorts warned that a hostile tribe might try to take me hostage, which sounded exciting, but didn’t happen. Nothing happened. We saw only grassland and forest and mountain. And once, some great red deer who came to the edge of the trees to stare at us. Kings in their own kingdom.

  ‘My enthusiasm for the adventure gave way to boredom. Time doubled back on itself; I slept in the daylight and did not know I slept, the condition being scarcely different in my child’s mind from wakefulness. Dreams and reality flowed into one another with no demarcation.

  The journey became a penance; distress inflicted without apparent reason on a little lad who previously had known only kindness.

  But if not for that first journey, where would life have taken me at all?

  Putting down his quill, Brendán narrowed his eyes and peered into the past. Trying to see Erc’s face again for the first time.

  When the cart disappeared from sight Íta returned to the nunnery. Feet dragging, shoulders slumped. Until that day she had considered herself the most fortunate of women. She had been a well-loved, high-spirited child who could ride a horse or hurl a spear as well as any of her brothers. When she was thirteen her parents had converted to Christianity. Three years later Íta had taken a private vow to remain a virgin in honour of Christ’s mother, and persuaded her father to let her found a nunnery.

  Her vocation allowed her to concentrate on the love of God, while the school satisfied any maternal instincts she might have.

  And yet…

  Braon-finn. The sturdy little fellow with the beaming smile had embedded himself her heart. His wide-eyed, candid gaze revealed an exceptional innocence, even for one so young. She longed to shield him from every blow life might offer. Yet there was nothing weak about him. He played with inexhaustible energy, concocted pranks that outsmarted boys older than himself, and prayed as earnestly as if Christ stood at his elbow.

  The boy brimmed with promise like the largest honey tree in the forest.

  While still a toddler he had approached Íta and held out a chubby hand. A tiny object lay on the moist palm. “Flower,” he had announced.

  “No, Braon-finn, that’s a seed.”

  Closing his fingers over the seed, he had stood with his head cocked as if listening. After a moment or two he gave the nun a sidelong glance through his dark eyelashes. “Flower’s asleep,” he whispered. “In the seed.”

  Íta had hoped to keep him with her until his fifteenth year, the age at which a boy became a man. Under her influence he would have chosen peaceful
pursuits instead of the ubiquitous tribal warfare; he could have survived in a land where warriors lived short lives and died hard.

  Now he was taken from her. Everything had happened so quickly; there had been no mention of his return. The cart rattled over the meadowland and was swallowed up by the trees.

  Gone.

  Who else would appreciate how deep the child’s soul was? Who else would give him the exact combination of strength and tenderness he needed?

  The nun stepped through the doorway into the chapel.

  The answer filled her like water pouring into a cup.

  A child needs many things. Some will be beautiful and kind, some will be painful and cruel. All will shape him as I decree.

  A rebel spark flared in the woman’s breast. Flared wildly and flamed high; swept through her and created another woman with another life entirely; flamed and dwindled and died.

  Íta fell prone on the earth and extended her arms in the shape of a cross.

  When the leather cover was lifted from the cart the little boy blinked at the sudden light. He had been asleep again, unaware the wheels had stopped rumbling. A dark silhouette peered down at him. “We expected you yesterday,” said a male voice.

  The child gaped wordlessly.

  The man caught him under the armpits, grunted as if with pain, and then lifted him out of the cart. “Yesterday,” the man repeated. He set the little boy down and dismissed the warrior escort with a flick of his hand. “Close your mouth and come along, child.” His was a voice of exceptional sweetness. Yet he spoke quickly, as if he could not wait to get one word out of his mouth before reaching for the next.

  Lifting the staff he had propped against the side of the cart, the man walked away. When he realised the little boy was not behind him he stopped and looked back. “Do you understand? You must follow me.”

  Beneath the stranger’s robes his body looked misshapen. To the child this explained his need for a walking stick, though not its form. The wooden staff had a rounded hook at the top and came to a point at the bottom.