The iron lance

TWENTY-ONE

Jon Wing remarked often on the weather. Every two or three weeks, he proclaimed it a wonder. It was, he maintained, the best sailing he had seen in seven years-twice seven years, even. The days were bright and long, and the winds fair. 'This is a lucky omen,' he insisted. 'We will certainly make our fortune in Jerusalem.'

The vast treasure awaiting them in the Holy Land was something else Jon often remarked upon. At first, Murdo took this as a sign that they must be nearing their destination. Each day he waited for one of the crewmen to sing out with the news that Jerusalem was in sight; each day ended with Murdo closing his eyes on yet another strange and nameless lump of foreign coastline. Yet, despite the continual frustration of his expectation, Murdo awoke the next day all the more certain that this would be the day the Holy Land came into view. After all, how much further could it be?

But, as the days ran to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, and still Jerusalem failed to appear on the horizon, Murdo at last began to take seriously the suggestion that the voyage might indeed take longer than he expected. In the meantime, they continually scanned the wide and empty sea for any sign of King Magnus' fleet.

The king's ships proved as elusive as the Holy City, however; although they sometimes saw a strange sail or two there was never so much as a glimpse of King Magnus' fleet. 'It is fifteen ships,' Jon declared. 'Fifteen cannot sail as swiftly as one! We will find them yet.'

All the while, the seasons, and the seas, grew slowly warmer. The grey-green waters of the north gave way to the green-blue waters of the south, and spring gave way to summer, and then autumn, as Skidbladnir slipped down and down along the coast. They passed Normandy and Frankland, and then places Murdo had never heard of: Navarre, Leon and Castile, Portugal, and still on and on, south and ever south.

As the journey wore on, the daily routine became established habit and small diversions loomed large with the longship's crew and passengers. From the stories they told, and the amusements they contrived, it became clear to Murdo that Jon Wing and his men were used to lengthy sea voyages in strange, if not hostile, waters. Murdo listened to their talk and learned what manner of men his fellow pilgrims were.

Although the crewmen were Norsemen one and all, Murdo discovered that none of them had seen their homeland in many years. Five had lived in Eire: Hallvard, Hogni, Tiggi, Vestein, and Svidur; and five had lived in Scotland: Fafnir, Sturli, Raefil, Nial, and Oski; three had lived in Normandy: Olaf, Ymir, and Digri; and two had lived in both England and Frankland: Amund, and Arnor. All sixteen, including Jon Wing, had sailed with King Magnus on various expeditions, and spoke well of him. Murdo was impressed by the respect the king commanded, even in his absence.

He also began to unravel the complicated system of loyalties which bound the crew to one another, and to the ship-which they considered second to none in the king's fleet. Skidbladnir, he discovered, belonged not to Magnus, but to Jon Wing, who had agreed to provide his ship and crew to support the king on his pilgrimage, in return for the plunder they would receive. The crew and their master were not ordinary vassals of the king, but mercenaries who had taken oaths of fealty for the duration of the voyage.

When the crew discovered that it was Murdo's first voyage beyond sight of his island home, they undertook to teach him all they knew of the seaman's craft. They taught Murdo how to steer a longship-how to rig the sail, and which guide stars were most useful. And when Murdo proved a ready pupil, they delighted in teaching him other things as well: how to catch fish ten different ways, how to read the water for signs of trouble, how to forecast the weather by the smell of the air, and how to take care of his fair skin.

Unfortunately, this last lesson came only after Murdo had fallen asleep in the hot southern sun. He awoke feeling sick to his stomach, and as evening came on, began to experience a most remarkable agony. He felt as if hot pitch had been tipped over his back and shoulders and then set to the torch; he could not stand to have his clothes touch him, and the slightest movement brought rushes of pain cascading over him.

After the sailors had a good laugh over his calamity, they took pity on him and showed him how to take the fiery sting out of the sunburn with an unguent made from seaweed, and thereafter-until his skin developed its own protection-how to avoid getting another nasty burn.

Rarely out of sight of land, they put in to shore for fresh water as often as necessary, but seldom camped overnight; they much preferred lying at anchor in a calm bay or hidden cove. The few times they did sleep on solid ground, Jon made certain it was far from any human habitation; he said he did not trust folk from foreign lands. Once, however, after coming ashore for water they found themselves near a small farming settlement; after dark some of the crew went off for firewood, returning some while later with three sheep and a clutch of duck eggs.

The sailors claimed the sheep were strays they had discovered wandering lonely in the woods, but Murdo noticed that one of the men had a vicious gash on his leg not unlike a dog bite, and another displayed an unexplained lump on his forehead. Jon Wing seemed uninterested in further explanations, and everyone, even the mildly disapproving monks, enjoyed the mutton for the next few days.

As the endless succession of days stretched on, Murdo accustomed himself to the ceaselessly bouncing boat, and grew to enjoy sleeping under the night sky with its endless, wheeling canopy of stars. Often, when the wind was fine and the night good, Jon let the ship run through the night, steering by starlight and moonglow. The Norsemen took it in turns to stand the tiller, and Jon allowed Murdo to try his hand. Though the ship was larger than any he had sailed, Murdo found the skills much the same and soon became as accomplished as any of them, priding himself in his ability to keep the sail filled and the prow true.

To augment the nightly meal of porridge, hardtack, and salt pork, Murdo and the monks fished. At dusk, when the sun had sunk in a blood-red mist in the west, and the mackerel were flayed, spitted, and sizzling over the charcoal brazier, and night stained the far-off coastal hills in shades of purple and blue-that was the part of the day Murdo liked best. For then he would settle himself against one of the grain bags, drink his ration of ale with the monks and listen to their chatter as they cooked supper. Much of their talk was vaunted nonsense, so far as Murdo could tell: what was the proper hierarchy of the five senses; whether cherubs ever grew into angels; if the moon was full of devils… and such like.

Often, after their meal, Emlyn was prevailed upon to tell a story. He possessed a fine, expressive voice and a seemingly inexhaustible trove of tales from which he drew extraordinary stories-some of them lasting two or three nights altogether. They were, he said, just old stories of his people-some of which he had undertaken to put down in writing in the Abbey's scriptorium-and old they undoubtedly were. Yet, they produced a curious effect in Murdo, who felt drawn to them, and fascinated by them in a way he would have been embarrassed to admit to anyone aloud.

The Briton told them well, adapting his supple voice easily to the various tones of the tales-now hushed with fear or sorrow, now shaking with anger, or ringing with triumph. Emlyn also sang, and that was even more peculiar, for he sang the most beautiful songs in an impossibly obscure tongue; and though Murdo could not understand a single word, he found himself moved to his very soul by the power of expression alone.

If, when the song was finished, Murdo asked what it was about, Emlyn would say something like, 'Ah, that is Rhiannon's Birds…' or, 'That was Branwen's lament for the loss of her poor child…' or, again, 'That was Llew Silver Hand's triumph over the Cythrawl…' and Murdo would agree that yes, he had heard the birds, and plumbed the depth of Branwen's grief, and had indeed taken flight on the wings of Llew's exultation.

As the months passed, the intermittent songs and tales began to produce in Murdo a curious and potent longing-a yearning after something he did not know. It was as if he had been allowed the taste of an unimaginably pleasurable elixir, only to have it snatched away again while the cup was at his lips.

Occasionally, he caught the familiar echo of something his mother might have said, and then it was as if he had heard a call from the Otherworld-a voice reaching out to him from across the abyss of years, a distant shout, faint as a whisper and intimate as a kiss-and the shock of recognition made the hair stand up on the nape of his neck, and his heart beat faster.

One night, he listened to Emlyn sing a tale called Rhonabwy's Dreamy and for days afterwards he felt empty, yet oddly stirred. He felt restless within himself, and fidgeted so much that Jon Wing, noticing his agitation, told him he was merely growing impatient with the close confines of the ship. 'It will pass,' Jon assured him. 'It is best not to think about it.' But Murdo knew his disquiet had less to do with confinement than with the queer world Emlyn's stories described.

If anyone else was likewise affected, Murdo never learned. He kept his yearning to himself, hiding it deep within, clutching it tightly as a rare gem lest anyone try to steal it. He went about his chores as one bearing an illness that produced both pain and rapture in equal measure, gladly suffering the torment for the sweetness of the affliction.

On and on they sailed, further and further from the lands he knew, and with each sea league, the place described by Emlyn's songs became more real to Murdo, slowly usurping the features of his native homeland in his memory. Whether by day or night, Murdo looked out at the all-encircling sea and dreamed of that enchanted realm, the Region of the Summer Stars, of which the round-faced Briton sang. Slowly, Murdo began to feel that he belonged there.

One night, despite the clamour of the Norsemen for a song, Emlyn professed himself to be out of voice. 'Singen! Singen!' they insisted. 'We are wanting to hear the Battle of the Trees?

'Ah, now that is a fine tale-a splendid tale indeed. Tomorrow maybe I will sing it,' he told them, and said he must rest himself for a tale so exuberant and profound.

They let it go at that and, as the sailors returned to their ale cups, Murdo crept close to Emlyn, who was sitting with his feet propped on the rail, staring out into the west as the last glimmer of a violet sunset faded into twilight. He settled himself beside the monk, but said nothing. After a time, Emlyn sighed.

'Is it the hiraeth?' Murdo asked. 'The home-yearning?'

'Oh, you know it is,' he replied. 'And it has taken the heart out of me this time.'

Murdo nodded sympathetically. He had begun to feel something of the same thing himself. They sat in silence, listening to the smooth-rippling waves against the hull, and staring into the gathering gloom as night deepened around them. After a time, Murdo said, 'The clear light – what is it?'

The monk turned his round face towards Murdo. 'However did you come to hear of that?'

'You told me,' Murdo replied. 'You said you were the keeper of the clear light, remember?'

'Sanctus Clams-the Holy Light,' the monk corrected. 'We are the Keepers of the Holy Light, and Guardians of the True Path.'

'Yes, that was it,' Murdo agreed. 'But what does it mean?'

'Ah, well now,' answered Emlyn, 'it is not a thing we tell just anyone.' He paused, and Murdo feared he would say no more, then added, 'Still, I see no harm in telling you a little.' He settled back, folding his hands across his paunch. 'Where to begin, that is the problem.'

He thought for a moment, and then said, 'Before the sainted Padraic established his hut among the wild tribes of Eire, before blessed Colm Cille took the rock of Hy for his abbey, the learned brotherhood of Britain and Gaul have held to the Holy Light: the inspired teaching of Jesu the Christ. This teaching was kept by the apostles themselves, and passed down and down through the years from one generation of priestly believers to the next.'

'The teaching of the church?' wondered Murdo, his heart sinking. He had hoped for a better explanation than this.

'No,' Emlyn allowed. 'At least, not as any would know it in this benighted day and age.'

'Then, what -'

'Just listen, boy. Listen, now, and learn.'

Composing himself once more, the monk began. 'Padraic was not the first to learn of the True Path, no-nor was he the last. Far from it. But he was a tireless servant of the Holy Light, and he -'

'Is the Holy Light the same as the True Path, then?' wondered Murdo.

'No, the Holy Light is the knowledge-the knowledge derived from the teaching. The True Path is the practise, see-the use of that knowledge day by day. The first -'

'Why did you say it was a secret?'

'What, and we are to have endless interruptions now?' Emlyn huffed. 'I did not say it was a secret. I said it was a thing we do not tell those who are not ready to hear it.'

'I was just-'

'If you will but hold your tongue between one breath and the next, we will reach an explanation.' He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Murdo waited, itchy with expectation. After a moment, the monk said, 'This is the way of it: Padraic was not the first, and he was not alone. There were others before and after, as I say-men like the Champion Colm Cille, and the venerable Adamnan-men of courage and long obedience who kept the flame burning bright through many long and bitter years.

'But the Darkness is greedy. It is insatiable. Ever and always, it seeks to devour more and more, and the more it devours, the greater it grows, and the greater it grows, the more powerful it becomes, and the hungrier. There is but one thing strong enough to stand against this all-consuming darkness: the Holy Light. Indeed, it is the most mighty thing on earth, and therefore we guard it with our lives.'

Murdo could not let this assertion go unchallenged. 'If it is as powerful as you say, why does it have to be guarded at all?'

Emlyn clucked his tongue in disapproval. 'Teh! To even ask such a question shows how little you understand of the higher things. Still, I am not surprised. How could you know? For you have spent the whole of your young life in error and confusion. You, like all the rest, have been led astray, like those poor sheep wandering lost in the night.'

'Those were stolen,' Murdo pointed out.

'Yes,' agreed Emlyn absently, 'I suppose they were. But they were lost just the same. Tell me, are the sheep to blame if their shepherds are lazy, ignorant, and deceitful? If the sheep could keep from wandering, there would be no need for shepherds.'

'And if sheep could fly,' suggested Murdo, 'we would call them birds.'

'Scoff if you must,' Emlyn replied, 'I expect no less. We of the Cele De have grown accustomed to mockery. Derision is the refuge of threatened ignorance, after all.'

Murdo, chastened by this rebuke, apologized for his outburst. 'All this talk of sheep and shepherds-it seemed funny to me. Please, tell me about the True Path. Why do you call it that?'

'Because it is a path,' the fat cleric insisted, 'a path of truth and understanding, leading back and back to the beginning-to the very first day when Our Lord called the Twelve to be his faithful servants. From that day, the teaching of Our Lord has been passed from one servant to the next in a single, narrow, unbroken line of succession.

'As it is written: "O, my people, hear my teaching; listen to the words of my mouth. I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter hidden things, teachings from the creation of the world-what we have heard from our fathers." And also: "When Jesu was alone, the Twelve asked him about the parables. The Lord told them, 'The secret of the Kingdom of Heaven has been given to you. But to those on the outside everything is said in parables so that they may be ever seeing, but never perceiving, and ever hearing, but never understanding.' " Thus, it has been since the beginning. The path stretches back and back, unbroken to this day.'

'But what is this teaching?' asked Murdo; he was intrigued, but growing impatient with the monk's vague explanation. 'It does not sound much different from what the bishop says back home.'

'That is where you are wrong. For, unlike so many of our dear brothers and sisters in the faith, we do not wander in error and confusion. Yet, the teaching can only be given to one who is willing to hear, and I do not think you are ready to receive it yet.' Murdo opened his mouth to protest, but Emlyn said, 'Still, I will tell you something about it, and perhaps discernment will begin to grow. The darkness is greedy, as I have said, and it is insidious. Even in those first days it was seeking what it might devour, but the presence of Our Lord kept it at bay.

'When he ascended to Heaven to begin his eternal reign, the Great Darkness sought out the weak and unwary, those it would destroy, it first led astray. Thus, even as the faith itself began to blossom and grow, darkness sowed its own seeds of error and confusion as well. Many have been deceived, and many destroyed.

'Alas! The holy church, the great fortress of the faith, has been breached, and all its bulwarks desecrated. Those who shelter within its walls – whether sheep or shepherds,' Emlyn cast a sidelong glance at Murdo, 'leaders or followers, from the highest patriarch to the most lowly scribe-all have been tainted by the darkness, and all are bereft of the Holy Light. The eyes of their hearts have withered and they glimpse the truth but dimly if they even see it at all.

'Listen to me, I make no selfish boast. Do you think I rejoice in the certain destruction of my fellow churchmen? Do you think I could derive any pleasure from the sight of the multitudes these blind guides lead astray? The loss of dear friends and the waste of souls is more bitter to me than anything I know.

'Yet, not even for their sake could I give up that which has been entrusted to me-even if that were possible. We are Keepers of the Holy Light, and we serve Him, and Him alone, who makes the light to shine. For so long as we live, we hold to the Holy Light, and we protect it against the darkness until the Day of the Redeemer.'

The monk fell silent, and after a moment Murdo asked, 'Why is it that you three are the only ones who know about all this?'

'Few, we may be,' the monk allowed, 'but not that few. No, we are not the only ones; although, with each passing year there are fewer, it is true. But your question is a good one: why us and not someone else?

'I think God has chosen the Cele De to be the keepers, because we are different from all our brothers in certain respects. The sainted Padraic used to say that God chose the Celts to guard the True Path because we live on the edge of the world-far away from the pitiless intrigues of the east.

'I have often thought about it, and I believe Old Padraic was right. The faith was first taught by Our Lord to the humble people of this world; poor folk-shepherds and farmers and potters and fishermen were blessed of God to be first to hear and believe. Only much later was the faith taken up by the kings and princes of this world the high and mighty, the governors and rulers of nations.

'So, when God began to look around for someone to be his Keepers and Guardians, his eye fell naturally upon the Celt-a race as much like those who first heard the faith as makes no difference: simple people who live close to the land and close to one another. Our homes are huts of mud and twig built in green and sheltered valleys, not great golden cities filled with hosts of strangers. Our lords are our own clansmen, men of our own tribe, not governors appointed by an emperor in a glittering palace far away. Our church is the simple expression of a naturally noble people, a folk who know nothing of religious philosophies, or ecclesiastical hierarchies, but feel in their hearts the joy of a song well sung, and the beauty of a mist-covered mountain in the pearl-like dawn of a new day.'

Murdo felt a thrill ripple through him as the cleric spoke these words-the sensation produced by the sudden recognition of a truth long suspected but never uttered aloud.

'Thus,' the priest continued, 'the Good Lord saw to it that the blessed spark was passed to the Celt, and we have kept it burning ever since. For all, we are a crafty and a cunning race, and tenacious in the deep matters of the heart and soul. Though our mother church has not escaped the ravages of the Great Darkness, her youngest offspring – tucked out of sight on the edge of the world, and beset on every side by barbarian strife and troubles such as would make the very stones weep-the youngest of our Great Mother's unruly brood has grown strong in the service of the light. The rest of the church that bears Our Lord's name may fall into disrepute and ruin, brought low by schemes and plots and scandals of every kind in the futile struggle for power and position, but we, the true Cele De, remain steadfast, holding still to the True Path.'

Emlyn paused, and after a moment sighed. 'Ah, fy enaid,' he said, his voice sinking into the night. 'I fear I have said too much.'

'Not at all,' Murdo assured him. 'I begin to understand-I think. But what if you are wrong? What if there is no Holy Light, no True Path?'

'I, too, have wondered this,' the cleric replied thoughtfully. 'I have pondered long and hard over it. And I think it comes down to this: if we are wrong in our belief, what is the worst? Well, at worst a handful of misguided monks have deluded themselves into thinking they had a special duty, nothing more.'

This reply did more to endear the rotund priest to Murdo than anything he had said, or could have said. He had never heard a cleric admit even the least shadow of doubt or uncertainty. Here was a monk who not only acknowledged it, but reckoned the likelihood in his thinking.

'But if we are right, what then?' continued Emlyn. 'Then the future of the faith and the souls of mankind are in our hands-given to us for safekeeping. So you see, whether we are right or wrong, we dare not lay aside our charge.'

'I see,' Murdo replied. 'But if no one will show us the True Path, how will anyone ever become ready to receive the teaching? And why must it remain secret?'

'We are neither high nor mighty in the eyes of the world, and that is both our blessing and our curse,' the monk declared. 'Our weapons are the weapons of the weak: wit, stealth, and secrecy. These we possess in prodigious supply, and have become proficient in their many uses. Make no mistake, our enemies are mighty and they are many-the Pope in Rome chief among them. For almost six hundred years, Rome has sought the death of the Cele De, yet we remain -a remnant only, it is true, but enough to ensure the continuation of our line. Secrecy is our protection, and we cling to it.'

Murdo thought about this for a moment, then asked, 'If this secrecy is so important, why do you tell me?'

'I have told you only as much as I would tell anyone who asked and was willing to listen. It is the teaching itself that is secret, not the means or purpose.'

Murdo regarded the monk sadly. Whatever else they might be, the Cele De were madmen, obviously-roaming the wilderness reaches of the world with their shabby little secret, bending the ear of anyone idiot enough to give them a listening. He liked Emlyn, and felt sorry for him. Still, all this talk of paths and lights and secret teachings made him tetchy and impatient; and he regretted having become entangled in such a futile conversation. Also, he felt foolish for allowing the monk to beguile him into the hope, however fleetingly glimpsed, that there might be something in what he said, something important, something real, something worth giving his life to learn and protect.

Even as he framed the thought, he remembered his own shabby little secret-that he was no crusader at all. He had not taken the cross, and had no intention of fighting for the liberation of the Holy Land. He thought of this, and softened his harsh opinion somewhat. After all, if he regarded his own secret as too precious and dangerous to be told, he could at least appreciate how the monks must feel.