“Yes, abbot,” I replied.
“Therefore,” he continued, “I grant you leave from your duties. Use this day to rest, to think…to prepare yourself.” I made to protest, but he continued. “Your pursuit of this opportunity has been most vigorous. Your zeal is laudable, son. But there is more work to come, and a strenuous journey when the weather turns.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “A day for yourself now, Aidan—it may be the last you will have for a very long time.”
I thanked him and took my leave, then hurried across the yard to my cell. I entered and pulled the oxhide cover over the door, whereupon I threw myself onto my pallet and lay kicking my feet and laughing. I had been chosen. Chosen! I was going to Byzantium! I laughed until my sides ached and tears came to my eyes and I could laugh no more.
Elation left me exhausted. As I had not slept the previous night, I closed my eyes and composed myself to rest, but my mind whirled. Think, Aidan! Think of the places you will see, the people you will meet. Oh, it is wonderful, is it not?
My thoughts flitted like scattering birds and, tired as I was, I could not sleep.
So, I thought to meditate. As the abbot suggested, it was an arduous journey and I must prepare myself spiritually and mentally. It seemed right to bring before my mind all the dangers and hardships that might befall us on our way. But instead of dangers, I saw vast mountain ranges swathed in cloud, and strange seas sparkling under foreign skies; I saw people thronging the streets of great cities and the courtyards of shimmering palaces. Instead of hardships, I saw eastern potentates, kings, queens, bishops, and courtiers—all arrayed in splendour to rival the glory of the sun.
Failing my meditations, I set my mind to pray instead. I began by asking forgiveness for my wayward thoughts. Very soon, however, I was thinking of meeting the emperor—how I should address him, what I might say to him, whether I should kiss his ring, or kneel…any of a thousand different things other than the prayer I had begun.
Since I could neither sleep nor pray, I decided to go out into the hills. The solitude and exertion, I thought, might calm my restless spirit and bring me to a more tranquil mind. I rose at once and left my cell. Quickly crossing the yard, I made my way to the gate, passed by the guest lodge and out. Continuing along the path outside the wall, I descended the shallow ditch and made my way up the opposite side, then turned onto the hill path. The once-bright day had faded under a dull sky, but the wind remained fresh and I relished the bitter bite of the cold air on my face as I walked, my breath coming in steamy puffs. The path rose steadily and soon I ascended the heights above the abbey and began making my way along the hilltop.
I walked a long time, letting my footsteps take me where they would. It was a joy to feel the fresh wind on my face while I filled my soul with the green beauty of those beloved hills. I came at last to the edge of the great wood. Not daring to enter that dark domain alone, I turned and started back the way I had come—but my mind roamed far, far ahead on unknown paths.
Thoughts of alien lands and exotic customs filled my head, and I imagined what it would be like to tread foreign soil, to taste foreign food, to hear foreign tongues speaking words I had never heard before. Even as, in my mind’s eye, I clearly saw myself striding boldly through unfamiliar fields, standing before the Pope, or kneeling before the emperor, I could hardly believe that the man I saw was me.
In all, it was a pleasant enough, if frivolous, exercise, and it occupied me until I reached my favourite perch: a rocky outcrop just below the crest of the hill overlooking the monastery and the broad valley with its dark river beyond. In the windshadow of the rocks, I sat down on the grassy turf as the monastery bell tolled sext.
Though it was only midday, the late winter sun was already low, bathing the valley in a soft, misty light. The abbey was as I had known it from my earliest memory—unchanged and unchanging: like its oratory and scriptorium, a place of solitude and safety, where not even time, the Great Ravager, dared intrude.
Cenannus na Ríg, they call it: Kells of the Kings. In an earlier time it had served as a royal fortress—a hillfort set within protecting rings of earth and timber. But the kings long ago abandoned the stronghold in favour of Tara. Thus, while the ancient seat of Éire’s monarchs boasted a sovereign presence once more, Cenannus’ ditches and walls protected a monastery, and the folk of several nearby settlements as well.
I had come to the abbey as a boy. It was my father’s wish that I should become a priest. Cainnech was a king and I his second son. As it was deemed auspicious for the clan to have a priest of noble blood, I was sent for fosterage, not to a noble house, but to the monastery.
I was only five summers old when I was bundled together with the length of cloth my mother had woven for me and brought to Kells. The cloth was for my cloak when I took holy vows. I wore it now, even though it was grey and the other monks wore brown, for I was a prince of my clan. Even so, any claim I might have made to the throne ended in my tenth summer when my father and brother, along with most of the clan, were killed in a battle with the Danemen at Dubh Llyn near Atha Cliath.
Upon their deaths, the kingship then passed to a man of another tribe, a cousin of my father. The day they buried my father, I buried all hope of ever taking my place as priest and counsellor to a king; nor would I become a sovereign myself as some priests had done. Not for me the world of kingcraft and courtly concerns. At first I was bitterly disappointed, I confess. Yet, as time passed, I grew to love the life of the monastery, where every hand was busy from dawn to dusk, and all moved in precise rhythm with the cycle of labour, prayer, and study.
I devoted myself to learning, and at the end of twelve summers achieved the scriptorium, pledging myself to the vocation of a scribe—though some small part of me still yearned to embrace a larger life.
This is why, when word of the bishop’s undertaking was first proclaimed among us that frosty winter’s night, I determined to show myself worthy of joining such a pilgrimage. And I had succeeded, praise God! Most fortunate of men, I was going to Byzantium. Oh, the very thought delighted me; I hugged myself, rocking back and forth on the grass, and chuckling at my good fortune.
Looking down from my place on the hill, I saw the monks streaming from the chapel, returning to their work: some to the kitchens to prepare the midday meal; some to the scriptorium; some to the workshops and stores; some to the fields and woodpiles. Even though I had been granted a day of idleness, it was good to see others about their chores. I turned my eyes to the world beyond the monastery.
In the glen below the ringwall, the Blackwater ran. Across the river cattle grazed on the hillside, noses to the frosty ground, tails to the wind. And beyond, empty hills, clothed in the dusky green of winter, rose in gentle swells to the east. A smudge of smoke spreading on the wind marked the nearest settlement. Along the horizon, just below the leaden clouds, a line of palest blue appeared.
I watched as this swath of colour widened, deepening to a brilliant bird’s-egg blue. In the abbey below, the kitchen bell announced dinner. I watched the brothers make their way to the refectory for their meal; but, content in my own company, I made no move to join them. Bread and broth did not excite my appetite; I feasted instead on the beauty of the day—made much the sweeter by my success.
After a while, the sun wore through the covering of cloud, and light like pale honey spread over the hilltop, warm where it touched me. I leaned back against the cold rock, closed my eyes, and turned my face to the sun, letting the thin warmth thaw my ears and cheeks. I dozed…
“Aidan!”
The shout, though indistinct and still far away, roused me. Opening my eyes, I saw a very large figure toiling up the hill, calling as he came. “Aidan!”
Dugal, the tallest man among us by far, approached rapidly, mounting the hillside with great bounding strides. A warrior before coming to Cenannus, he wore the woadstained tattoos of his clan: a leaping salmon on his right arm, and a spiral disc on his left. Upon taking vows, he had added a cross ove
r his heart.
For strength and dexterity, he was rarely bettered: he could crush walnuts in his fist; he could toss three knives at once and keep them spinning in the air as long as he liked; I had once seen him lift a horse. By training a warrior, by inclination a monk, he was in many ways a most uncommon Christian.
I had never seen him fight, but the criss-crossed scars on his arms argued for his valour in combat. As a monk, however…well, let it be said that no other Latin speaker I knew could hurl a spear half so far as Dugal mac Caran. Of all the brothers, he was my best friend.
“Mo anam!” he exclaimed, stumping up to tower over me. “That is a fair climb on a cold day. I had forgotten it was so high.” He looked around, a smile spreading slowly over his face. “Ah, but it is a fine sight to be seeing.”
“Welcome, Dugal. Sit and rest yourself.”
He dropped down beside me with his back to the rock, and we gazed out across the valley together. Neither of us spoke for a time, content just to soak up the small warmth the sun offered. “When you did not come to table, Ruadh sent me to find you. I knew you would be here.”
“And here I am.”
He nodded and, after a moment, asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Thinking,” I replied. “I still cannot believe I was chosen to go with the book.”
“That is a wonder!” Dugal said, nudging me with an elbow. “Brother, are you not pleased?”
I grinned to show him the extent of my pleasure. “In truth, I believe I have never been happier. Is that wrong, do you think?”
As if in answer to this, Dugal replied, “I brought something for you.” He put his hand to his belt and withdrew a small leather pouch which he flattened and smoothed on his hand. The pouch was new, and on its side he had carefully burnished a name: Dána. The word meant “bold one”—a name Dugal had given me years ago, and one that only he used—a small jest from this prince of warriors to a docile scribe.
I thanked him for his gift, and observed, “But it must have taken you a long time to make this. How did you know I would be chosen?”
The big monk simply shrugged. “I never doubted,” he said. “If anyone were to go, I knew it would be you.”
“I do thank you, Dugal,” I told him. “I will keep it with me always.”
He nodded with satisfaction, then turned his face away. “They say the sky in Byzantium is gold,” he said simply. “And the very stars are strange.”
“That is true,” I confirmed. “Also, I have heard that the people there have black skin.”
“Everyone?” he wondered. “Or some only?”
“Some, at least,” I told him confidently.
“The women, too?”
“I suppose.”
Dugal pursed his lips. “I do not think I would like to see a black-skinned woman.”
“Neither would I,” I agreed.
We sat in silence for a time, thinking about the utter strangeness of golden skies and black-skinned men. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, Dugal sighed: “Please God, I wish I were going with you. I would give everything to go.”
I heard the yearning in his voice, and a sharp pang of guilt nicked my heart. Since learning of my good fortune, I had not given my friend a single thought—nor considered the feelings of any of those staying behind. Indeed, I had thought of nothing but myself and my own happiness. Smarting with shame, I cringed at this fresh evidence of my rampant selfishness.
“I wish you could go, too,” I told him.
“What a fine thing that would be!” He paused, considering this daring possibility. When it proved beyond his imagining, he resigned himself with another sigh. “Ah, my soul…”
The cattle across the valley began lowing as they moved slowly down to the river to drink. The pale sun sloped further down, staining the undersides of the clouds the colour of butter. I noticed the wind had slackened and changed direction, bearing the scent of smoke from the cookhouse.
“Mo Croi,” the big monk muttered after a time, “look at the two of us. Whatever shall become of us, do you think?”
I will go and you will stay, I thought and, at that very moment, realized for the first time that I would be leaving every familiar thing I had ever known. I would go, and it would be months—years, perhaps—before I clasped arms with any of my friends and brothers again. The close-woven cloth of my life would be rent in ways I could not now conceive. I said none of this—how could I? Instead, I merely replied, “Who can say?”
He was silent for a while, then asked: “Will you bring me back a treasure, Aidan?”
“That I will,” I promised, glad to have something to offer him in consolation. I shifted my head to look at him; he was still gazing out across the valley but his eyes were misty with tears. “Anything you like,” I added.
“I hear the knives of Byzantium are the best in all the world—better even than those the Saex-men make.”
“Would you like a knife?”
“Aye, that I would.”
“Then I shall bring you the finest knife in all Byzantium,” I vowed. “And a spear as well.”
He nodded and looked out across the valley in the fastfading light. “I should go back,” Dugal said, drawing a hand quickly across his eyes. “Ruadh will be wondering what happened to me. Some of us, at least, do not have leave to sit and think all day.”
“I will go back with you,” I said. He stood and reached a large hand down for me. I took the offered hand and he hauled me upright with a single quick pull, and we faced one another without speaking.
Finally, Dugal turned and looked out across the valley one last time. “It is pleasant up here, though.”
“I like it.” I drew the air deep into my lungs and looked around again. The sun was disappearing quickly now, and the far hills gleamed a smooth frosted green with ice-blue shadows. “Sure, I will miss it.”
“But think of all the new places you will see, Dána.” Dugal did not look at me this time. “You will soon forget all this—this…” His voice faltered.
A crow flying overhead cracked the cold air with its lonely call, and I thought my heart would break.
“How I wish I was going with you,” Dugal murmured.
“So do I, Dugal. So do I.”
3
Dugal and I returned to the abbey, and to the daily round. Although the abbot had relieved me of my duties for the day, I thought best to resume them, and indeed, to increase them if I could, and in this way prepare myself for the rigours of the journey. Dugal took himself off to the brewhouse, and I continued on to the scriptorium intent on taking up my work once more.
The sun skimmed the low hilltops, casting a deep yellow light and blue shadows over the yard; I reached the door as the bell tolled none. Pausing at the door, I stepped aside, and a moment later my fellow scribes began trooping out into the yard. Others came from their various chores, talking loudly as they toiled up the hill to the chapel.
“Returned so soon, Aidan?” I turned to see Cellach, the Master of the Library, watching me, his head held to one side as if pondering a philosophical complexity.
“Ah, Brother Cellach, there is a task I would finish.”
“Of course.” Cellach started away, tucking his hands into his sleeves.
When everyone had gone, I entered the scriptorium and went to my place. The unfinished manuscript lay on the board. I picked up my pen and stood contemplating the line that I had last been writing. The neat black letters, so graceful in their simplicity, seemed perfectly conceived to carry the weight of their inspired message. Into my mind came a scrap of verse I had written numerous times: Heaven and Earth shall pass away, but my Word shall never pass away…
Word of God’s Word, I thought, I am the vellum and you are the Scribe. Write what you will, Lord, that all who see me shall behold your grace and majesty!
Laying aside my pen, I sat in the empty room, looking and listening, remembering all that I had learned and practised in this place. I gazed at the clu
stered tables, each with its bench, and both worn smooth, the hard, hard oak polished through years of constant use. In this room everything was well-ordered and precise: vellum leaves lay flat and square, pens were placed at the top right-hand corner of each table, and inkhorns stood upright in the dirt floor beside each bench.
Thin light slanted in through the narrow windholes high in the four walls. The dying wind whined as it circled the scriptorium, searching among the chinks in the timbers for entrance, but many hands over many years had pressed tufts of raw wool into the cracks, frustrating all but the most savage gales.
I closed my eyes and breathed the air. The room smelled of peat from the small fire of turves glowing red on the hearthstone in the centre of the room. The pungent white smoke drifted up through the smokehole in the roof-thatch.
It had been my chore, when I first came here, to carry the turves, guard those embers, and keep that fire going through the chill winter days. I would sit in the corner on my pile of peat, and watch the faces of the scribes at their labour, all sharp-eyed and keen as they copied out Prophet, Psalm, and Gospel, their pens scritch-scratching on the dry vellum leaves.
I saw the scriptorium now much as I had seen it then: not a room at all, but a fortress entire and sufficient unto itself, a rock against the winds of chaos howling beyond the monastery walls. Order and harmony reigned here.
After prayers, my fellow scribes returned to their work, forsaking their talk at the door. In the scriptorium no voice was ever lifted above a whisper, and then rarely, lest the sound disturb or distract. A momentary lapse in concentration could mean the ruin of a page, and days of meticulous labour.
Taking up my pen once more, I undertook to complete the passage before me, working happily until vespers. We secured our work for the night and left the scriptorium, joining our brothers in the chapel. After prayers, we gathered at table to break bread for our evening meal: a watery stew of brown lentils and salt pork. Brother Fernach read from the Psalms as we ate, and Ruadh read from the Rule of Colum Cille, then dismissed us to our cells for study.