Byzantium

  There came a call from the wharf below. “The tide is ebbing!”

  “It is choose now,” Bishop Cadoc said, “or wait until another day. I leave it to you, Fraoch.”

  The abbot made up his mind at once. He turned to Cellach. “I am sorry, brother. I know you would gladly come with us, but you are needed at the abbey.” Then, facing the warrior before him, he said, “Brave Dugal, if it is in your heart to take Libir’s place, then perhaps God himself has placed this desire in you. So be it. I say you shall go. May God bless you richly, brother.”

  I stared on in disbelief. Dugal nodded, accepting the abbot’s decision almost reluctantly. “On my life, I will do all to aid the successful completion of our journey,” he vowed.

  Another shout echoed up from the wharf. “The tide is ebbing! You must hurry!”

  “It is settled,” said the king. “Go now. We will care for your man while you take your leave.” Then turning to Dugal, he said, “The world is wide, friend, and dangers crowd the day.” He drew his sword and offered it to his former warrior. “Therefore, take this blade for the protection of your good brothers.”

  Dugal reached for the sword, but the bishop put out his hand. “Lord Aengus, keep your weapon,” he said. “The Word of God is our protection; we need no other.”

  “As you will,” the king said, replacing the sword. “Hurry now or you will not get clear of the river mouth.”

  Leaving poor Libir in the care of Cellach and the king’s men, we made our way down to the ship. The last of the supplies had been loaded, and most of the monks had already clambered aboard. The bishop, with great dignity, eased himself over the side of the boat and took his place beside the mast. Dugal and I were the last to board.

  I had never been in a ship before. “Dugal,” I said urgently, “it is not big enough! Sure, it is too small.”

  He laughed. “Fret not. It is a stout craft.” He ran his hand along the rail. “It was made to carry thirty men at need, and we are but thirteen. We will fly before the wind.”

  I gaped at him, still marvelling at the turn of events I had just witnessed. If the archangel Michael himself had reached down and plucked Dugal from the wharf and dropped him into the boat beside me, I would not have been more astonished.

  “You are going, too, Dugal!” I cried suddenly.

  “That I am, brother.” His smile was broad and handsome.

  “But it is wonderful, is it not?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  At a shout from one of the British monks, four of the brothers standing at the rail took up long oars and pushed away from the wharf.

  The abbot raised his staff aloft and made the sign of the cross over us. “You go with a treasure, my brothers. May you return with tenfold riches and blessings untold!”

  Then, lifting his poor, broken voice, he began to sing:

  I set the keeping of Christ about thee,

  I set the guarding of God around thee,

  To aid thee and protect thee,

  From peril, from danger, from loss.

  Nor drowned be thou at sea,

  Nor slain be thou on land,

  Nor overthrown by any man,

  Nor undone by any woman.

  You shall hold to God—

  God shall hold to thee,

  Surrounding thy two feet,

  His two hands about thy head.

  Michael’s shield is about thee,

  Jesu’s shelter is over thee,

  Colum Cille’s breastplate preserves you,

  From all harm, and the heathen’s wicked wiles.

  The love of God be with thee,

  The peace of Christ be with thee,

  The joy of the Saints be with thee,

  Always upholding thee,

  On sea, and land,

  Wheresoever you shall wend,

  Blessing thee,

  Keeping thee,

  Aiding thee,

  Each day and night of your lives for ever.

  Alleluia, amen!

  I stood at the rail, listening to this fine song, knowing I would never see my homeland again.

  The ship swung slowly out into the centre of the swift-flowing stream. The sea tide bore us quickly along, and I stood watching the green hills slide past. Those on the wharf waved us away, and sang a psalm of farewell. I could still hear that song long after a bend in the river took them from sight. I dashed the tears away with the heels of my hands, lest anyone see me.

  The high banks fell away on either side and we entered a wide, low bay. “Up sail!” cried the brother at the tiller. Four monks leapt to the mast, and began tugging on ropes. A moment later the tawny-coloured sail ascended, ruffled in the breeze, shook itself, and then puffed out with a snap. Painted in white in the centre of the sail was the symbol of the wild goose: Bán Gwydd.

  All at once, the ship seemed to gather itself and leap forward in the water; I heard waves splashing against the prow. Before I knew it, we were seaborne and on our way. I cast a long, lingering backward glance at the green hills of Éire, and bade a last farewell to my homeland. The journey was begun.

  8

  Exhilaration surged through me as the ship gathered speed before the wind, gliding out upon the smooth, glassy waves as quick and keen as any black-winged gull. The sea spread before the ship and I gaped in awe at the sight: an immense expanse of restless blue-grey water billowing to the horizon and beyond, wider and more wild than I had ever imagined. How different it appeared from the rail of a swift-sailing ship.

  Gasping, the raw wind stealing the breath from my lungs, I marvelled at the speed of the boat and the power of the waves sliding by along the rail. From time to time a wave would strike the side, flinging salt spray into my eyes.

  I felt the wind on my face and tasted salt on my tongue and knew what it was to be alive. I breathed deep, exulting in the racing of my heart and the cool air in my lungs. We flew!

  Stupid with wonder, I stared into the sea-misted distance, and offered up the fisher’s prayer: Save me, Lord! Your sea is so big, and my boat is so small. God, have mercy!

  I stood at my place at the back of the boat, almost too frightened to move, and watched the seafaring brothers perform their labour. They worked with deft efficiency, moving naturally with the running bound of the boat, hands busy with ropes—pulling, knotting, loosing, casting—calling to one another with a familiarity born of long acquaintance.

  There were six of them altogether: Connal, Máel, Clynnog, Ciáran, and Faolan—five of the muir manachi, that is, five sea monks, who braved deep water under the leadership of a brother named Fintán, a gaunt gristle-bone of a man who was the pilot. He stood with tiller in hand, keen eyes asquint against the sky, watching the sail and calling sharp commands which the others instantly obeyed. Obviously, they had sailed together before and had been chosen for their ship-handling mastery.

  I looked around at my other companions. Bishop Cadoc had placed himself at the front of the boat, together with his advisors, the three Britons: Brynach, Gwilym, and Ddewi. At the rear of the boat, along with Fintán at the tiller, stood Brocmal, Dugal, and myself.

  Thus we were thirteen souls in all; a sacred number, the number of Christ and the disciples: thirteen peregrini, chosen of God, dedicated Célé Dé each and all.

  Despite the apprehension of my death, I could not help feeling proud to be included in this eminent company. And as I had not yet told anyone about my vision, I decided that I would keep this secret to myself, shouldering its bitter burden alone. This resolution pleased me oddly; I felt that in some way it would be my unsung contribution to the venture. The thought made me feel noble and worthy. I enjoyed the feeling.

  As if to confirm my brave intentions, the sun suddenly cracked the clouds and poured dazzling light over the wind-stirred waves. Gazing out upon the broad, endless sweep of shimmering sea, I thought, “Come, let the world do its worst. Aidan mac Cainnech is ready.”

  I gradually settled into the plunging rhythm of the ship, and l
earned how to anticipate the sudden lifts and shuddering dives. The up-and-down motion was not at all difficult to master, but I found the erratic and abrupt side-to-side lurch unnerving. Whenever it happened, I seized the rail with both hands and held on, lest I tumble headlong into the sea.

  Dugal, who had some small experience in ships, laughed to see my first, stuttering steps. “Stand straight, Dána,” he instructed. “You hobble like an old man. Take the motion in your knees.” He bent his legs slightly to show me. “It is like riding a horse.”

  “I have never ridden a horse,” I complained.

  “A Celt who has ridden neither ship nor horse? Now I have seen everything.” He laughed again, and several of the sailing monks laughed with him.

  “Some of us are not so worldly-wise as others,” I replied.

  “You will learn, my friend,” Fintán called from his place at the tiller. “I daresay you will learn.”

  Our tutelage began at once, as the sea monks began instructing us in the ways of the rope, sail, and oar. At their bidding, we worked side by side, and I soon came to recognize seafaring as a rough yet exacting occupation, as demanding in its own way as anything encountered in the scriptorium.

  When at last we finished securing the provisions and ordering the ship, I made myself a nest among the grain sacks and settled in; Dugal joined me there. “Strange the way God works, is it not?” I observed. He watched the sail swelling full in the wind. “It seems we are to be together after all.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, regarding the sails closely.

  “Forgive me, brother, but I must know…” I hesitated, unwilling to speak the words.

  “Did I push Libir?” he offered, guessing my thoughts.

  “Brocmal thinks you did.”

  “I care little enough for what Brocmal thinks; let him say what he likes. What do you think?” he asked, turning his glance to me. “Did you see anything?”

  “I did not see you do it,” I answered. “Nor can I see how you could have pushed him.”

  “Then let us just say that God has favoured us highly,” he said. “Truly, I do not think he meant us to be apart.”

  “And here I was beginning to fear I would never see you again. Who would have believed it possible?”

  “We are friends,” he said simply, and seemed inclined to say more, but turned his attention to the sail once more, drew a deep breath and exclaimed, “Ah, mo croí. The sea, Aidan. The sea! A ship is a beautiful thing, eh?”

  “It is that.”

  We talked for a while, and then drifted into reverie, watching the slow rise and fall of the sea swell. I lay back on my grain-sack throne and closed my eyes. I did not think to doze, nor considered that I had. Nevertheless, I was startled when Clynnog, a Dál Riada Irishman, sang out: “Land ahead!”

  “Already?” I wondered, rising in surprise. We had sailed little more than half a day, or so it seemed to me.

  “The wind has been a fair friend to us,” Fintán said, running a hand over his grizzled grey head. “Pray this weather holds.”

  I stepped over Dugal’s sleeping form, and lurched to the side of the ship. Gripping the rail, I scanned the far horizon, but saw nothing save the great grey empty sweep of the sea—some of it glowing where sunlight touched it through a hole in the low-hanging clouds.

  “I see no land,” I called back to Fintán.

  “There!” he said, pointing with his right hand. “Low on the horizon.”

  I looked where he was pointing, but still could see nothing but the rolling sea. “Where?” I shouted.

  He laughed. “Keep looking.”

  Straining over the rail, I searched and searched, and at last began, dimly, to make out a vague shape in the misty distance—like that of a cloud bank sitting just above the firm line marking the boundary of sea and sky. I watched this murky bank for some time before observing any significant change, and at last began to see a small variation in the colour.

  The ship flew towards this low-lying bank, leaping from wavetop to wavetop, ropes taut, mast-tip bending, sail straining, driving the ship’s sharp prow through the deep green water. Slowly, steadily, the dark distant bank took on definition, becoming a gently undulating contour of mottled grey and green. After a time, these soft contours resolved into sharper features: stark cliff-faces of tumbled stone.

  Dugal wakened and took his place beside me at the rail. “Ynys Prydein,” he said, lifting a hand to the landscape before us.

  “Have you been there before?” I asked.

  “Once or twice,” he said. “But it was night and I remember little of the land.”

  “Night?” I wondered. “Why would you go at night?”

  He shrugged. “We most always went at night.” Dugal paused, looking at the coastline almost wistfully. “Oh, but that was a long time ago, and I was very young.”

  Even as Dugal was speaking, the sky opened and light streamed down through a hole in the clouds, drenching the crag-bound coast in glorious golden rays. The sea sparkled in silver and blue, the broken rocks gleamed black as crows’ wings, and the smooth-sloped hills glowed like fired emerald. This sudden beauty startled me with its intensity. I blinked my dazzled eyes and stood in awe of the sight.

  And when I could take in no more, I lowered my gaze to the water and caught a gleaming flash out of the corner of my eye. I looked again and saw a swift, graceful form curving through the water; a single ripple and it was gone. I half-turned to call Dugal—and saw it again: a smooth, brown, lightly-dappled body with a face and eyes that looked right at me. “Dugal!” I cried in alarm, waving my hand at the water. “Look! Look!”

  Dugal peered unconcernedly over the rail and searched the deeps. “What was it—a fish?”

  “I do not know what it was,” I gasped, leaning down for a better view. “But it was no fish I ever saw.”

  Dugal only nodded and turned away.

  “There!” I shouted, as the swift-gliding creature appeared from under the ship. “There it is again! Did you see it, Dugal? Did you see it?”

  He spread his hands.

  “What was it?” I demanded.

  “I cannot say, as I did not see it, Aidan.” He spread his hands again in a gesture of serene helplessness.

  From his place at the tiller, Fintán the pilot chuckled aloud, and asked: “Have you never seen a seal before, Aidan?”

  “Never,” I confessed. “Was it a seal?”

  “Aye, it was. Dappled, you say?” He raised his eyebrows. “Then it was a young one. Keep your eyes open, brother; you will see many and many a thing in these waters.”

  “Seals, Dugal,” I said, shaking my head in wonder.

  Brocmal, standing nearby, snorted in derision and moved away. He had not altered his indignant countenance since boarding the ship, and glared at me with disapproval whenever I caught his eye.

  “They commonly go in packs,” Faolan informed me. “You know you are close to land when you see seals.”

  Within moments it seemed to me that the waters were asurge with seals—a score or more of the delightful creatures. We all gathered at the rail to watch them diving under the ship and sporting among the waves close to the prow. Sometimes they surfaced to watch us, glistening heads bobbing above the waves, their big eyes glittering like polished jet, before they turned tail-up and disappeared once more. Once or twice, they called to us with their rough, barking voices as they rolled and splashed in the water.

  Fintán called a command and turned the ship. When I looked, the cliffs now loomed over us and I could hear the wash of the sea over the rocks and on the shore. We began passing south along the coast. This part of the land appeared deserted. I saw no settlements or holdings, not even so much as a single farm or the dysart cell of a recluse monk.

  “There were people here once,” Gwilym told me when I asked. “But they are gone now—many years ago even. The settlements have moved further inland. Look in the glens and vales, that is where you will find them now.” He looked lovingly upon the l
and of his birth. “Only Ty Gwyn can still be seen from the sea,” he added proudly. “Come what may, that Fortress of Faith will not be moved.”

  “Will we see it?”

  “Oh, aye, tomorrow,” he replied. “We will stop there for additional supplies.”

  As the sun began dipping towards the western sea, Fintán, who had been searching for a sheltered bay for the night, turned the ship into what first appeared as nothing more than a cleft in the cliffside. But as we sailed nearer, the gap seemed to open wider and I saw that it was really a small cove.

  The water was deep and calm, allowing us to come near to the shore. Bishop Cadoc used the small coracle to reach land, but the rest of us simply slipped over the side and waded ashore. While the seafaring brothers made the ship secure, we began making camp. Dugal and I were sent in search of firewood while the others sought water and set about preparing the meal.

  “We will find nothing on this barren rock,” Dugal observed, glancing around at the hard slaty shingle. So, we climbed to the clifftop in order to find better pickings. Though there were no trees of any size, there were a number of dense thickets with many dead branches easily broken and gathered into sizeable bundles; these we toted to the edge of the cliff and threw down to the shore below. In a short while we had collected enough to last the night.

  “Come,” Dugal said, “let us spy out the land.” And so we walked along the clifftop to learn what we could of the wilderness hereabouts.

  Britain, so far as I could see, was no different from Éire: the same green turf and gorse over the same rock. And that was all. Still, after a day aboard ship it felt good to stretch my legs and feel solid ground beneath my feet.

  We returned to the shingle and retrieved the firewood we had collected, then made our way back to camp. Fintán and his crew, instead of coming ashore, had put out fishing lines from the side of the ship, and with very little effort had soon caught enough mackerel to feed us all. While Connal and Faolan gutted the fish, Dugal and I made the fire. The fish were spitted and the spits quickly set around the perimeter of the fire to cook. Presently, silvery smoke drifted into the dusky sky, thick with the aroma of roasting fish.