We Are For the Dark

The rays of the setting sun fell over the shrine of Columba. Brother Peter looked up from his garden, moved as he often was by the simplicity of the stone cell, on which their own were based. The cluster of wooden buildings near him resembled a beehive, the swarm of monks inside full of a collective industry.

     Peter was a practical man, who enjoyed the physical aspects of monastic life. He hoed the ground of the fennel bed in front of him, turning the ground over, moist and fertile. He was used to toiling in the fields beyond the enclave, sweat pouring onto his habit. Before this life, he had been used to rougher work still, out on the pounding waves of the coast of Dalriada (Dalriada was an ancient western kingdom in Scotland, covering Argyll), rowing and sailing and catching and cursing on many a stormy night.

     But God had laid his hand on him, and drawn him to Iona. A retreat from the world of men it may be, but a very hard and demanding life, still, more pleasing to him than the way he had been. His wife had died the winter of the famine, and if it were not for God, he himself would likely have drowned from carelessness or grief or drunkenness.

     Peter paused, looking out to sea. The pain of that wound would never quite heal; it rose and fell like the tide on the white sandy bay, soft and pure. There were green pebbles there, said to be the tears of St Columba, or Columcille. Peter had had many tears, lost in the sea.

     The wind ruffled his hair. Instinctively he bowed towards the shrine, though it was not three hours since he had last been there. He bent his back to the rhythm of the hoe, moving on to the beds of sorrel and mint. Some were used in Markus the Brother Hospitaller’s physic to cure the sick. That and prayer were their remedies.

     Sometimes Peter wished he had their skill, the healers. He identified more with the potters: the wheel moving in its orbit, how he knew he was an unworthy vessel, cracked and ugly in its coarse body, yet filled and used. He was a thing of the earth, brown and shapeless. He winced when the pots got dropped, or smashed. As if they carried a part of his soul.

     Peter turned his back to the sea as he continued weeding. Ahead rose the hill of Dun Bhuirg, the remains of ancient fortifications frowning down from the crest. One of several wooden crosses on the island was positioned at his right, and to his left there was St Martin’s Cross, built of stone, one of the first High Crosses. The ring around the arms cast a long shadow. It marked the entrance to the shrine of Columcille. A series of wooden crosses led from there down to the bay, by the Street of the Dead, past the royal burial ground, the Reilig Odhrain, to the bay. The route marked a simple pilgrimage. Peter had done that and more, walking around the entire island.

     Brother Colm emerged from one of the simple wooden buildings as the chapel bell began to toll for evening prayers. The chapel was named after St Michael. They would need the Archangel’s protection against more than storms if certain rumours were to be believed. Peter rested on his hoe. The sunset was lighting up the bay in red.

     ‘Come,’ said Colm, a recent addition to the brotherhood, from a wealthy family. He was used to having his way in most things. Peter smiled, and bowed ironically. They proceeded past the shrine and the refectory, into the Chapel of St Michael, a simple oblong building.

     A comforting glow came from the candles, already lit for the service. Their fellow Brothers were lined in two rows before the basic wooden altar, the Precentor Duncan at its head. Seeing they were all present, he began to sing the first line of Psalm 51. The others responded.

     As before, Peter focussed on his surroundings as a means to lift his thoughts. He felt a brief regret he was not better at singing. The light through the small window facing him was fading now over the sea, scarlet fingers stretching inside the Chapel and lighting on the far wall. It touched Peter’s shoulder.

     He sang in Latin for the forgiveness of a sinful life, purified with hyssop, may the Spirit of the Lord not be taken from him. He looked up at the stylised image of the dove carved above the altar, the traditional likeness of the Holy Spirit. He remembered he should be concentrating on singing, and returned his attention to the floor, a rough earthen surface not much different to how it was when Columba landed.

     Peter’s recent order to transcribe part of the Book of Kells had filled him with fear. He had rough, chapped, untaught hands for such a thing of beauty. The only teaching he had had in his life had been since he had arrived on Iona. His knowledge of the meaning of the words and symbols was very recent, and he did not entirely understand either yet. He had been afraid of spoiling the delicate work the others had already done. Yet he had to copy the page of the first chapter of St John, with its talk of the Word and the life, and the words that brought life. Some of that he understood from his background, the sea a bitter grave for many of his family. He had sat in an isolated wooden cubicle writing in the Book while others were at the chapter house, listening to the Rule, wishing he could join them.

     Peter sensed the Psalm coming to an end, his conditioned responses echoing from him like a voice in one of the caves over on the west side. He exchanged a wry glance with Colm. He sensed the Abbot’s eyes on them, and straightened like a soldier. The assembled monks dispersed to their dormitory for the night, apart from the chosen night watchman.

     Peter’s head had barely touched his pallet than Colm was shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Rise,’ he said imperiously, ‘we have a visitor!’ Peter restrained what remained of his fisherman’s language and rubbed his eyes, stretching as he rose.

     He followed Colm’s retreating back out of the dormitory towards the infirmary, which completed the quadrangle of buildings. Within lay a half-naked man, soaked and shivering. He had one wound, which bled slowly, and many bruises, tended by the Brother Hospitaller, Markus. The stranger seemed very afraid. ‘They came,’ he said, staring intently at the ceiling. ‘Too many. God help us.’

     Colm turned to Peter, shocked. There had been no Norse incursions for several years. As if by common consent, they walked over to an alcove in the infirmary, which was said to be blessed by Columba himself. They knelt. ‘Hear us, oh hear us, hear us,’ said Colm, his teeth chattering. He drew a deep breath and said, without looking at Peter, ‘Do you think he speaks truth? He may be foolish, lost, not knowing what he says.’ Peter nodded fervently: how he wanted to believe it. He closed his eyes, prayed hard in silence and rose, leaving Colm a little reassured, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

     Peter went over and sat near the stranger. ‘God be praised you were not drowned,’ he said carefully, looking out at the night view through the arched window in the wall nearby. It was pitch dark save for candles burning near them. Markus was applying his remedies to the man’s body, some of it derived from the plants in the garden. Peter almost smiled to see the application of his earlier work. Markus was known to be under a vow of silence at present: perhaps that was why Colm had fetched him.

     ‘Where were you bound?’ said Peter, still not looking at the stranger directly. He did not like the man’s eyes. That kind of fear could be contagious. ‘I was in the fishing trade before God called me.’ The stranger seemed to relax a little. Markus finished rubbing on the unguent he had prepared from his stores, tied some bandages over the man’s chest and offered him a spare robe. The worst wound had stopped bleeding.

     ‘I drifted far, Brother. The storm took me, but it also saved me… from them. God be praised.’

     ‘If he has spared you to warn us, God be praised indeed. You saw… some others?’ The strange man nodded, clutching the proffered robe and pulling it over his head. In the corner, Colm kept wiping his sweating hands.

     ‘I am Thomas,’ he said. ‘My father… they burnt his homestead on Mull. Nothing… but desolation.’ His voice cracked and he spat on the infirmary floor before remembering where he was, and rubbed his mouth with the edge of the sleeve. He slumped back onto the pallet, staring up at the ceiling, seeming hardly alive. Markus pointed to the door. Peter and Colm returned without a word to the dormitory, and their cubicles. Peter gazed up at the timbered roof, and closed his eyes.

     There was the usual ringing of the bell for the first prayers of the day, at which Peter sighed and rose again. Around him, things had changed. Great stone arches towered up around him, vast and unreachable as a lost treasure. No-one else was present. He pushed at a heavy oak door, descending the steps to cloisters, great stone enclaves of a very grand abbey that seemed too high for him in every sense.

     He had little time to wonder: he was moving like something on the potter’s wheel, beyond his own will or strength. He ran down the Street of the Dead to the bay, and started praying hard for deliverance. He knelt on the sand, was filled with awe at the majesty of God in his surroundings, surely his people were safe here. History was here in power, with memories of Columba. Stone arches rose out of the sand beside him, and grew to frame the sky like great grey clouds.

     Hills, ruins, old crofts, a chapel, sheep, behind him. ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’ Peter felt some small stones through his coarse robe, as well as the sand. He was glad: wanted to stay awake, to prevent the imminent threat through prayer. He could see over to Ireland. The sea burst into fire. Fire on the water. It moved from the sea, and settled on his head. It did not burn him: it flickered with a curious gentleness. He knew it was the sign of the dove, as if he could understand everything for one precious watch of the clock.

     He looked out to sea, took in the regular rhythm of the feared prows, and his heart burned with pity. Bloodthirsty men within the ships, united in purpose, launched out in organised chaos to destroy his little world. Peter wished he could reach out to them, even be the means of healing them, of their lust for gold and land. Amen and Amen. They were moving very fast towards him, over the sea, a sea made of glass, murder and pain in their eyes. He knew they longed to be forgiven. Peter stood up, alone on the beach. He was unafraid.

     They were massive around him, they would be awesome were the scenery not more majestic still. Peter made the sign of the cross. He knew what he had to do. He reached out and touched the prow of the nearest longboat, drawn up on the beach, as if he could heal the ship of what it represented, bring its dead wood back to life. He felt the power of the Spirit. The leader was huge, blond, cuts and scars on his face, lined with the things he had done. Peter reached out and touched the edge of his fur-lined garment.

     Then there came a change. The great fierce men no longer held weapons: their ships were burning fiercely, like a pyre. Peter turned and led them towards a cave cut into the hill by the shore. The fire of the dove burning just above his head, he felt it still: he could speak their language; tell them the truth, the necessity of being saved. They followed him inside. They walked some way in the dark, lit only by the living grace of the fire resting on him, then reached a dead end, a wall of earth: but it did not matter, it was meant to be. Peter lay down, and the walls closed around him. The earth came down and filled his mouth.

     Colm was shaking him again. The dormitory was shaking, burning. Fire was everywhere. Peter sat up and saw the eyes of a bird looking at him through the fire. With a cry, he reached out his arms to receive it. The beautiful white bird.