“I’ll tend to him myself. He is my friend too, remember: he was my mentor even before he was yours, and I still depend on his wisdom.” I turned to go. ”And Anselm, remember the weight of the yarn and how it impeded you. Don’t become enmeshed in this quest. Don’t let it entrap you. Oh, and Anselm?” I turned once again. Cunnian’s face was heavy with care. “It may be your task to right the wrong - but it may be to expose it to the light of day and allow others to stop it. Even the pagan kings abhor human sacrifice. They will be our allies in this. They have been before and they will be again. We are not many, even when you count all Christians together. The Light is a guttering candle, at times. The Evil One rides free in many parts of our islands so take care. I will pray for you.” I nodded my thanks and left the Abbott to his prayers and contemplation. Before I set off I wanted to take my leave of Padhraig so I made my way quickly across the yard to the Infirmary. He was sleeping peacefully, with Roghan sitting by him. I would rather have stayed and watched myself but I had my mission - or missions. I said a quiet prayer over the sleeping figure, blessed him and left the small, plain room. I felt sure, but tried to reject the feeling, that this would be the last time we would meet in this world.
My own cell was a short distance out of the rough courtyard. I lived close to the chapel now, although there had been a time, a few years ago, when I would rather have been further away, on one of the smaller islands, right away from the world, a complete hermit, as if solitude on its own would purge my guilt. It wasn’t the path for me. My faith still burned strongly - perhaps even stronger than it had in those early, zealous, desperate, tear-wracked and guilt-crushed days, after I had come out of the woods and been rescued from my madness as Lockeran. Now, I was more involved with the community, and with the world beyond it. I had also recognised a fear: fear of what I might find within myself when forced into my own heart, and fear that I wouldn’t be able to cope with the demons I would be faced with in solitude. I had a lot of blood on my hands. I could convince myself in daylight that each death had been necessary – from my cousin Coivin on to the nameless priest or ollamh I had left, forgotten, in the sealed psychic cell I created at Winwaed – but the night added darkness and dreams to solitude. I didn’t have it in me to become an Isolate. I was no longer Prince Ciaran, Damned or otherwise; I was now Brother Anselm, monk of the Irish Christian Church and my role was to go out into the world.
The cell was small and sparsely furnished inside its beehive shape. A bed, a small chest for my herbs and medicines, devotional works and a cross on the wall were all it contained. It was barely tall enough to accommodate my height and it didn’t need to be. I usually prayed outside the door, standing upright with my palms outstretched and turned upwards to accept whatever God would send me, in sunshine or rain, in calm or in furious Atlantic storm.
I opened the chest and considered the bottles and bags of medicines. The crash course in healing I had from my friend Ieuan so long ago had served me very well, down the years. My skills had gained me shelter and friendship and had saved my life on more occasions than I would like to count. There was a chain of people across Britain and beyond who had cause to be grateful for the risk my old friend and fellow-pupil Ieuan took when he passed on as much as he could of his knowledge. Whether a hot-headed young warrior brought low by a wound, a noblewoman suffering in childbirth, a chief’s young son with a raging fever, an ordinary villager in need - or even myself in the madness of my own despair; a lot of people had that young Druid to thank. Young! He was older than I was. It had been a long time since we had seen each other, and a lot fo years since I had thought of him. Did it mean anything, remembering him like that, out of the blue? Probably just a reminder to take my things.
I gathered up my herbs and a larger bottle of my own medicine and stored them in the small bag I carried everywhere out in the world. I added some materials for repairing clothing, some soap fat for washing and considered the worn, hooded white robe of pilgrimage and decided against it. I was travelling on the Church’s business but I was not a pilgrim, not this time. That would come later, when the Abbott allowed.
I had to take my leave of another, who had been with me for nine years, since before I became a monk. He had tracked me and drawn attention to me when I was lost in madness, in the woods of Rheged. It was he who had alerted Padhraig, who coaxed me out of the woods and drove my recovery.
“Wolf!” I called my wolfhound. No longer the youngster who had attached himself to me when his original family had been horribly murdered. He was full-chested, greying round the muzzle and still lively, but the years were catching up even with him. I explained to him that I was going on a journey and I could not take him with me, that it was too far. He whined and snorted dismissively, as if to point out that he had come this far with me, what were a few more hundred miles? He reminded me of ‘stuff and nonsense’ older people who were still under the impression that they were in the full bloom of their youth. I had to smile. “No, my friend, this journey is a bit too long even for you and your great heart. Stay here and look after the brothers. Especially Padhraig; he needs you.” Wolf let out a sad whine at this. He knew, as well as everyone else, that Padhraig was not long for this world. He lay his jaw on my lap for a moment and then accepted that he wouldn’t be coming with me, that he had an important job to do here. We walked together to the infirmary, where I had a quiet word with Roghan and asked him to make sure that Wolf was fed and looked after. It wouldn’t be a problem – all the monks liked him. He would not starve! The dog himself walked quietly over to Padhraig’s bed and lay down alongside it. If Padhraig’s hand dropped out from under the covers it would find Wolf’s head waiting for it.
Having taken my leave again – and finally, this time – I went over to the bakery and collected enough bread, fruit, cheese and goat’s milk for one day’s journey. Thereafter, I would be dependent upon the kindness of the people and - more often than not - upon the bounty of God’s Earth. We knew how kind the Earth could be and how unyielding, how beautiful and how harsh. Our Rule retained some elements of the mysticism and animism of our Druidic past.
From the bakery I went to the small harbour on the sheltered eastern side of the island, to find both that I was expected and that I would have company. Brother Conor was waiting patiently and I thought for a moment that Cunnian had decided to over-rule me and send a companion.
“I am going to Alba, to the land of the Picts. I was there last year and I think that King Nectan will convert this time. God be praised!” Conor said.
“Amen. I wish you joy and the grace of God.” For myself, I offered a small prayer for good weather, especially when I crossed the moors south of Glencoe, on the route to Loch Lomond. It was wild country and a storm could appear out of nowhere. My Sight enabled me to get an idea of the weather in the days ahead but I had absolutely no control over it; Beinn Dubh[1] and Rannoch Moor seemed to be a law unto themselves, in any case.