Byzantium

6

The circle of candlelight on the floor before me became a hole through which I could see a dim, formless expanse stretching in every direction to the horizon, without feature, without colour, cloud above and mist-wrack below. Alone in this empty firmament soared a great bird-an eagle-wings outstretched, keen eyes searching for a place to rest. But there was neither tree nor hill nor rock to be seen.

On and on, the eagle flew, searching and searching, but never finding; over wilderness and wasteland the bird soared. I could hear the wind's dull whine through the wide-spread feathertips as they swept the empty sky, and feel the bone-aching weariness dragging on those broad wings. Still that wonderful bird flew on, vistas of emptiness on every side, never a resting place to be found.

Then, even as those good wings began to falter, I glimpsed, far away to the east, the faint ruddy glow of the sun rising above the world-cloaking mist. Higher and higher rose the sun, growing gradually brighter, shining like red-gold in the fireglow of the craftsman's forge.

Dazzled by the radiance, I could not bear the sight and had to look away. When my sight returned, wonder of wonders! It was no longer the sun I saw, but an enormous, gleaming city, arrayed on seven hills, each summit aglow with splendour and richness beyond my most fevered imaginings. Radiant with the light of its own beauty, illumined by the fire of wealth and magnificence, this golden city sparkled like a jewelled ornament of unreckoned magnitude.

The weary eagle saw this city rising before it, and took heart, lifting its wings with strength renewed. At last, I thought, the worthy bird is saved; surely somewhere in such a city the eagle will find a place of rest. Closer and closer, the eagle flew, each wingbeat bringing it swiftly nearer, every stroke revealing a brilliance of wonders: towers, domes, basilicas, bridges, triumphal arches, churches, and palaces-all of glittering glass and gold.

Hastening eagerly towards the haven of the golden city, the proud bird, its heart quickening at the sight of such extravagant reward for long perseverance, descended, spreading wide its wings to land upon the highest tower. But as the eagle swooped lower, the city changed. Suddenly, it was a city no longer, but an immense, ravening beast possessing the hindquarters of a lion and the forequarters of a dragon, with a skin of scaly gold and claws of glass, and a vast, gaping maw of a mouth lined with swords for teeth.

The eagle twisted in the air and keened in alarm, beating its wings in retreat. But it was already too late, for the golden beast stretched out its long, snake-like neck and snatched the exhausted bird from the sky. The jaws shut and the eagle vanished.

The sharp echo of the great golden beast's snapping jaws brought me shaking from the vision. The room was dim; the scent of candle fat was strong in my nostrils. The candletree before me lay on the floor where it had fallen, the tapers either extinguished or guttering in pools of wax. Diarmot was prostrate on the floor beside the altar, arms flung out to either side, snoring softly, asleep at his prayers.

I rose slowly, stepped to the toppled candletree, and raised it once more. The sound of its fall had roused me from my dream, but how had it become upset?

The door bumped in the wind. No doubt I had forgotten to secure the latch and a gust of wind had toppled the candletree. I moved to the door and pulled it shut with the leather thong, making certain that the wooden latch dropped into its groove. I returned to my place and renewed my posture, then began the Kyrie once more. But the dream remained fresh before me, assaulting my mind with its dire warning, and I could not pray. I soon gave up and simply sat thinking about what I had seen. My dreams are never wrong, but they sometimes require considerable thought to derive the proper meaning. So, I turned my mind to the purpose, but the interpretation eluded me.

When daylight's first dull shimmer gleamed in the high windhole, I rose, stretched myself, and then paused to consider whether to rouse Diarmot. Even as I stooped over him, the bell tolled matin, and he came awake with a start. I moved to the door and stepped outside where I was hailed by several brothers as they mounted the hill to the chapel, their cloaks whipping around their legs in a stiff northern wind. I returned their greeting with good will and drew the cold air deep into my lungs: once, twice, three times.

As I turned back into the chapel for maiden prayers, the sun lifted above the misty valley away to the east. My heart seized in my chest at the sight, for in the same instant the meaning of my dream broke upon me. The knowledge turned my blood to water: the eagle was myself, and the city was Byzantium. The beast, then, was death.

I slumped against the chapel wall, feeling the rough stone against my back and shoulders. Lord, have mercy! Christ, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!

What I had seen would be. Certainty, bright and full as the sunrise even now bathing my face with light, removed even the smallest shadow of doubt. All my visions came trailing deep assurance of truth: what I had seen would happen. Time would prove it true. My death loomed before me as surely as the rising sun; I would go to Byzantium, and there I would die.

I endured prayers in a welter of dread and disbelief. I kept thinking: Why? Why now? Why me? But it was no good; I knew from long experience that I would get no answer. I never did.

Joining the others in the refectory after prayers, I broke fast on barley bread and boiled beef-a hearty meal to begin our journey. "Ah, Aidan, your last meal before you join the vagabundi, eh?" said Brother Enerch, the chief herdsman.

"Prudence, brother," advised Adamnan, sitting beside him. "When next we sit together, one of us will have supped with the emperor. Think on that."

"Think you the emperor dines with every ragged wanderer that presents himself at the Golden Gate?" wondered Brother Rhodri next to me.

Oh, they meant it for jest, but their words filled me with apprehension. Though they tried to engage me in pleasant conversation, I could not rise to their banter and quit the board after only a few bites, claiming that I must gather my belongings.

Leaving the refectory, I walked quickly across the yard to the scriptorium. The sky above had grown dismal grey; a cold, crabbed light leaked from an obscure heaven, and a fitful wind gusted over the stone walls to the west. A desolate day to match my own bleak mood, I thought.

Several of the abbey's piebald geese waddled across my path and, as if to emphasize my distress, I lashed out at the nearest of them with my foot. The geese scattered, raising an unholy squawk as they fled. I glanced around guiltily, and repented of my hastiness as the gooseboy came running with his stick, hissing and whistling to call them back into his flock. He threw me a darkly disapproving look as he darted past.

"Look you! Keep them out from under foot, Lonny," I shouted after him.

Alone in my cell, I sank to my knees in despair. "Christ, have mercy," I moaned aloud. "Lord, if it please you, remove this curse from me. Restore my happiness, O God. Save your servant, Lord."

I poured out my anguish, pounding my fists against my knees. After a time, I heard voices in the yard outside and, rising, gazed a last time around my room. Who would have this cell after me? I wondered. Taken by the notion, I prayed for the man who would inhabit my small, bare room. Whoever it might be, I asked God to bless him richly and bring him every good thing.

Then, taking up my bulga, I put the strap over my shoulder, left my cell, and joined the travelling party in the yard.

The whole abbey had gathered to bid us farewell and see us on our way. The abbot and Master Cellach, who would go with us as far as the coast, stood talking to Ruadh and Taum. The bishop and visiting monks were assembled and ready to depart. I saw Brocmal and Libir, standing nearby, so took my place with them. Brocmal regarded me with a sour expression as I came to stand beside him, then turned to Libir and said, "One would think that any monk fortunate enough to be chosen for such a journey-against all proper expectation, mind-that monk would at least see to it that he did not keep others waiting."

This obscure rebuke was, I suppose, meant to shame me. But, as I had learned to expect no good word from those two self-satisfied scribes, the remark passed without offence. Ignoring their scorn, I searched the crowd for that one face I longed most to see. But Dugal was not there. Sick dread came over me as I realized that now, in the moment of leaving, I would go without bidding my dearest friend farewell; and once gone, I would never see him again. The finality of this realization filled me with inexpressible sadness. I could have wept, if not for all those looking on.

"Thus the journey begins!" Fraoch called, and, raising his staff high, turned and led the way to the gate. The brothers cried farewell and lifted their voices in song. They followed us to the gate, singing.

I passed through the portal and beyond the wall, and out…out, my feet on the path now, leaving the abbey behind. I walked on, telling myself that I would not look back. After no more than a dozen paces, however, I could not bear leaving without a last look at Cenannus na Rig. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the curved bank of the ringwall and, rising above it, the tall belltower; the roof of the refectory hall, chapel, and abbot's lodge showed above the wall. Monks crowded the gateway, waving their arms in farewell.

I raised my hand in reply, and saw, just passing through the gate, the ox and wagon bearing the supplies for our journey. And who should be leading that ox, but Dugal himself. The sight brought me up short.

"Oh, do move along, Aidan," Libir said irritably, prodding me from behind. "We shall never reach Constantinople with you stopping every second step."

"Perhaps he is already tired and wanting a rest," quipped Brocmal. "You stay here and rest, Aidan. I daresay we shall find the way without you."

I let them pass me by, and waited for the wagon to draw near. God bless him, Dugal had wangled himself a place in the escort party so I might walk with him. In fact, we would have another two days at least-the time it took to walk to the coast-before parting forever. This single thought gave wings to my soul.

Dugal saw me. Smiling a sly, self-satisfied smile, he welcomed me as I fell into step beside him. "You never thought I would let you leave without saying farewell, brother?"

"The thought never crossed my mind, Dugal," I lied. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I thought it was better this way," he replied, the sly smile reappearing. "Cellach was more than happy to let me come along. Someone must bring the wagon back after all."

We talked of the journey then as we proceeded down into the valley and crossed the Blackwater at the ford, following the footway east into the hills. This path was an old, old highway, marked out with standing stones along its length, and shrinestones wherever two paths crossed. The hill path overlooked the low valley, eventually coming in sight of the wide river Boann, passing the Hill of Slaine, where kingmaking has taken place since the Tuatha DeDanaan came to Eire.

There were other hills, too; and every hill along this ancient trackway was sacred, each with its stone or barrow. The gods worshiped there in times past were best forgotten. The Cele De left the hills and their fading gods to themselves.

Our little procession stretched out along the way, the brothers walking in groups of two or three, led by the bishop and abbot. I strolled happily beside Dugal, who walked at the head of the ox. The mysterious Britons-Brynach, Gwilym, and Ddewi-had taken places just behind the bishop and abbot. We marched without pause until midday, and paused at a stream to drink. Dugal brought the ox to water downstream of the others, and I thought to tell Dugal of my dream of death. Indeed, I had almost worked myself up to the telling, when the abbot signalled for us to continue, and we moved on.

Though dull, the day was dry; all, save me, were eager to be away. I looked out on the green hills and misted valleys, and lamented my going. Alas, it was not Eire alone I was leaving, but life as well. Thus, my joy at being with Dugal soured within me, poisoned by the terrible knowledge of my dream. I ached to share with him my burden, but could not bring myself to it. Thus I walked, heavy-hearted, alone in my misery, each step carrying me closer to my doom.

After a meal and rest, we came in sight of the Hill of Slaine standing tall and proud above the Vale of Boann, a wide, low, smooth-sloped glen. The cloud thinned, allowing the sun to show itself now and again. Sometimes the other monks sang, but my heart was not in it. Dugal must have noticed my gloomy mood, for he said, "And here is Aidan, walking all lonesome and friendless. Why are you behaving so?"

"Oh," I said, forcing a sad smile, "now that it has come upon me, I am sorry to leave this place."

He accepted this with a knowing nod, and said no more about it. We walked until dusk and made camp on the trail. As the last of daylight failed, the dark-gleaming edge of the sea could be seen away to the east. After a meal of stewed beef and barley bread, the bishop led us in prayers, whereupon we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and slept by the fire. Strange, it seemed to me, to end a day without hearing the sound of the abbey bell in my ears.

Rising before dawn, we continued on our way along the Vale of Boann to Inbhir Patraic, with its settlement set back a little behind sandy hills on the coast. Here, it was said, that the sainted Patraic had returned to Eire, bringing the Good News with him. Though many doubt the truth of this-since many another place makes the identical claim-it does no harm to believe it so. The fiery saint had to come ashore somewhere after all, and the river estuary was wide and deep where the Boann met the sea-a good harbour for ships. Better, anyway, than Atha Cliath now that the Danemen were there.

We came to a standing stone which marked an ancient crossroads; here we paused to break fast and pray. After prayers, the trail descended out of the hills to the flatland of the coast. The wind had changed during the night and I could smell sea salt on the air-something I had experienced only two or three times before.

Thus, we drew near to Inbhir Patraic: twenty-eight monks, each with his own hopes and fears. Though none, I think, as trenchant as my own.