Her eyes locked on his. “I wish you will consider going to a special island, for say three years, and joining the community there. Then, if you still wish to see me, I will wait your return.”
“What is this island? What is its name?”
It is called Iona, off the coast of Dál Riata (South-west Scotland). Saint Columba, an Irish warrior monk, founded a mission there, many years ago. They do wonderful things. You could learn Latin, and read books.”
“Iona? I have heard of it. That is where monks live. You want me to become a monk?” Standing now, annoyed.
“Please Culann, please just think about it. You don’t have to decide now. Here, . .” she took a parchment from her blouse “give this letter to the head of the Iona mission. It will open all doors for you.”
He reached over and almost snatched the parchment. “And here is something for you milady” somewhat bitterly. He drew the golden torc from his satchel and tossed it on the table.
Fea reached out and picked it up. “It belonged to the man who was your persecutor and killed your father; Eogan mac Cairill.” said Culann, coldly.
Fea dropped it as if it were suddenly red hot. “And how did you get this? I suppose you went to his fortress and stole it.” Also angry now.
“No, five of us sought him out and I killed him myself.”
Really angry now “Can’t you men think of anything except killing. What is the matter with you? Who asked you to kill anybody?”
Culann, white lipped, seething, turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Fea collapsed onto her chair as the nun ran to give her comfort. “What have I done? Oh what have I done!” she sobbed.
Hooves clattered on the courtyard outside, the crack of a whip, then the sound of a chariot moving off, further away, much further, then silence.
And so ended the only meeting between Fea and Culann at St Brigid’s; so full of promise but ending in dregs of despair.
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* * * * *
4.1 Hot Heads and Hard Questions
Culann noticed the parchment lying on the ground. He carefully picked it up. It was addressed to someone, but the writing was in Latin. ‘Great I don’t read Latin.’ But he could understand one word at the bottom -
Iona
Culann didn’t steady his horse from the gallop until he was well out of sight of St Brigid’s. Even then he let it trot for some leagues. Finally, the horse’s sides lathered in sweat and his own emotions more under control, he stopped and let the horse graze while he stepped from the chariot and threw himself under a shade tree.
Fea’s last angry words burnt in his mind. “Can’t you men think of anything except killing!” "Well, she is totally ungrateful. After all I have done for her. But she is a woman, and what do women know about honor."
Culann had grown up with the Fianna, in the forests. There were no women in Fianna camps. He had no experience what so ever, in dealing with women.
His breathing slowed to normal. He became aware of birds flitting in the branches above. It would be so easy to be a bird, and not a warrior. But even birds have to deal with female birds, so I suppose they find it just as difficult.
What was he to do with his life? Go back to the Fianna? Most of his friends were dead.
He rolled over and punched his fist into the ground. "What else can I do? I’m only good as a warrior. But I have to admit I’m not even that good as a warrior. I’ve been lucky. Very lucky in fact." He sat up, suddenly sober.
What if Osgar hadn’t asked me to go for help? I’d be dead like the rest of them.
What if that unknown friend hadn’t helped me to escape from the tent at River Barrow? I’d still be there, or possibly dead, and Fea also.
What if the thunderstorm hadn’t happened at the very moment he rescued her from the tent at the camp? Those men’s cries could have brought any number of enemy warriors.
What if he hadn’t met the old farm woman. She tended Fea and then showed me St Brigid’s.
What if Liam and the Fianna hadn’t followed him and his four colleagues to mac Cairill's camp. Or hadn’t been there just as they were cut off by the chariots?
Dead, dead, dead.
Why was he so lucky? He remembered Breuse used to say ‘men make their own luck’. Well Breuse was dead now. Didn’t do him much good. Are we given just so much luck in life and when it runs out, we die? How much luck do I have left? Not very much I’ll wager.
Why was it, he was there, at the right moment for Fea to run into his life. He’d never have spoken to her otherwise. She wouldn’t even know he existed.
She would never have told him “You can turn the head of even a silly young princess. So much so that she doesn’t want to lose you.” His eyes watered, and a great pain started in his chest.
Then the thought struck him like a thunderbolt. My good luck started the moment I met Fea. She is the lightning rod for my good luck.
His back straightened, and he wiped his eyes, suddenly noticing the parchment lying on the ground beside him. It must have fallen out of his tunic while he thrashed about, feeling sorry for himself.
He carefully picked it up. It was sealed with red wax. It was addressed to someone, but the writing was in Latin. Great! I don’t read Latin. But he could understand one word however, on the bottom - Iona.
In life, sometimes everything becomes clear (if one is lucky). All the mists and miseries are washed away. The clarity of what he must do was suddenly self evident. He would go to Iona.
And that was how Culann changed his life, and others whose lives touched his, by going to Iona.
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* * * * *
4.2 The North Road
Next morning standing on the harbor jetty Culann said goodbye to Flann who had expertly guided them along mostly cattle trails to Derry Monastery. Culann wished his young companion ‘God Speed’ and gave him his prized horse and chariot.
Decision made, Culann drove his chariot back to the temporary camp of his Fianna friends. He told them of his resolve and asked if anyone knew the best way to get to the island of Iona. One younger member called Flann stepped forward and said his family came from the Northern Uí Néill clan. He remembered there was a monastery called Derry on Loch Foyle which regularly sent goods by curach [an Irish boat with a wooden frame, with animal skins stretched over the frame. Design is unique to Ireland & west coast of Scotland] to Iona. Both monasteries were founded by St Columba. He offered to guide Culann.
As many of the Fianna were now considering leaving because the traumatic events of the past month, collectively the small Fianna group resolved to disband. If it had stayed together most felt Culann would have been elected leader as apart from being the best swordsman, he had been a member of the group longer than anyone now living.
To show their appreciation of this fact, plus his determination to go to the Iona monastery (he did not tell the reason why he decided to go), it was decided to give Culann the horse and chariot he had driven to St Brigid's.
After a long afternoon of farewells and with the horse now rested, Culann and Flann set off to the nearest monastery, Killashee. They knew that the monks never refused anyone admittance to their guest houses and would offer meals to travelers free of charge.
The following nights found them at Holmpatrick, Clonkeen, Armagh, Donaghmore and Bodoney heading north. On the seventh day they reached Derry.
The monks at Derry were very pleased to arrange passage for Culann on the curach to Iona, which would be leaving the next morning. More good luck, thought Culann due to the young woman with sparkling green eyes and that wonderful smile
Next morning standing on the harbor jetty in the early light Culann said goodbye to Flann, who had expertly guided them along mostly cattle trails to the various monasteries.
Culann wished his young companion 'God Speed' and gave him his prized horse and chariot. He had a comfortable feeling that with this prestigious gift, Flann would n
ot only be highly regarded by all the warriors he met, but would also be regarded as desirable marriage material, if and when he decided to take a wife.
It was common in Ireland for the ordinary people to marry among equals and both husband and bride to contribute equally to their joint dowry.
Flann watched and waved as the boat bearing Culann drew away from the quay. It was eventually swallowed by the morning sea mist. He then turned and looked at the chariot with its enameled sides and elegant whip handle proudly harnessed behind the tail flicking horse. It was the most expensive and esteemed item he had ever owned. He knew what he must do.
Outside the Derry monastery was a large marketplace where most things could be bought and sold. Everything was bartered; there were no coins. After several hours of haggling one of the stall holders stood beaming beside his newly acquired horse and chariot.
In the distance one could see a young man cracking a fine whip to move his four milk cows along the track toward the distant hills. Flann was going home, the successful son returning to his family.
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* * * * *
4.3 The Enchanted Isle
Saint Columba, also known as Colm Cille founded the Celtic monastery on Iona in AD 563
Saint Martin’s Cross on Iona, a replica of the original 8th century Saint John’s Cross. A number of these exemplary crosses with the characteristic ‘Celtic’ ring around the intersection were sculptured on Iona
The small curach with its six oarsmen was barely making headway against the heavy swell and wind whipped waves, as it headed to its final destination, the rocky green island ahead. It had left Éire two days before, sheltering each night in coves on the islands of Islay and Colonsay.
The captain seated in the stern pulled heavily on the rudder oar to keep the light, timber framed boat covered in animal hide, on course. Culann sat in the middle amongst the packs and kegs, bailing water with a large cup, as required by any passenger.
The curach was the vessel of choice to move men and material along the coast of Éire, and the many islands comprising the Hebrides, off the west coast of Alba (Scotland).
The wind dropped and the swell diminished as they passed into the lee side of the island. The much larger island of Mull was on their right hand, clearly visible.
The curach pressed on past some rocky inlets and occasional rock strewn beaches. As the sun was about to slip behind the large granite hill the captain steered their small boat into a larger cove, between outcrops of rock. The sailors rowed hard until their curach grounded on the white sandy beach.
“Welcome to Iona laddie” the captain shouted as he stepped into the water above his knees, hauling the boat higher up the beach.
Culann clambered over the gunwale and onto Saint Columba’s island. He gazed in wonder at this small piece of land, surrounded by sea, that was the epicenter of Celtic Christianity.
A group of monks were hurrying down from the wattle and daub buildings, further up the inlet. The sailors unloaded the provisions in the boat onto the beach. They would stay the night with the monks, and set sail tomorrow at first light.
After securing the boat, sailors and monks carried the provisions to one of the barns. Culann was taken by one of the monks, to one of the many simple wooden buildings comprising the Iona monastery.
Abbot Cumméne looked up as the monk entered his abbot’s hut carrying a scroll. "We have a visitor Brother Abbot, from Éire."
"We have many visitors from Éire my son"
"But this one has an epistle [from the Greek epistole, meaning ‘letter’] addressed to you Brother Cumméne" the monk handed over the parchment sealed with red wax.
Abbot Cumméne opened the scroll and read the Latin text. "Well you had best show in this important visitor."
Culann was ushered into the timber hut, somewhat larger than the other huts and set on higher ground. "Welcome to our modest monastery my son" said the Abbot keenly sizing up his young visitor. "How can we be of service?"
Culann shuffled nervously under the gaze of the much older man, sitting at a wooden desk, parchments spread in front of him and folded bundles on both sides. "Well sir, I understand I am to learn Latin."
"Hmm, may I ask who recommended you come all the way to Iona?"
Under no circumstances was Culann going to admit it was the wish of a young Irish princess. "Well" slowly, and thinking hard " I had visited a monastery in central Ireland, and was given that scroll" pointing to the opened epistle on Cumméne's desk.
"And you dropped everything and made your way all the way to Iona to deliver this letter?" questioned Cumméne, a little incredulously.
"Not exactly. At first I had no intention of coming here. But later on I was laying under a shade tree looking at two birds, when this overpowering thought came to me; that I should come to Iona and learn Latin."
Cumméne straightened perceptively. "Well that puts a different light on it. It seems to me that you might have experienced some kind of divine intervention."
Culann said nothing, mainly because he had no idea what the old Abbot was talking about.
After reading the letter again in more detail Cumméne said "This letter is from the Abbess of Saint Brigid of Kildare. We know of her monastery. It is very famous. The Abbess says you have done her Abby a great service and we should accord your wishes, if possible.
"So what are your wishes my young man?" looking up expectantly. "Do you wish to enroll as a student or become a monk?"
"Which is more difficult" asked Culann.
"Why, becoming a monk of course." smiled Cumméne.
"Then I wish to become a monk, and learn Latin" said Culann seriously.
* * * *
Monks at the monastery spent their time praying, studying, copying earlier texts, praying again, and farming. They grew their own food and the Monastery was mostly self-sufficient. Each monk built his own little hut, from wood, or an individual rock beehive dwelling.
There was a kitchen; a refectory [from the Latin refectum meaning ‘refreshed’] to eat in, a scriptorium [from the Latin script-scribere meaning ‘to write’], where the texts were copied, with a library, a kiln, a mill, two barns, a smithy, and a modest church.
Irish monks were not interested in creating massive buildings, to the glory of God, as much later became the case in Europe. They were just as comfortable praying to their God in a rough wooden hut, or outside, under an oak tree.
Because of the growing stream of visitors, Irish, Scots, Picts, and even Angles, a guest house had also been built. Irish monks never refused hospitality to any guest.
Monks could often be found constructing monastic buildings, or tending the barley fields of Iona, fence building, grain threshing, fruit gathering or milking.
Culann was advised every monk had to do some communal work, besides studying and praying. "Most of us help with the farming. Would Culann be interested in farming?" asked Brother Bryan who had been assigned to mentor Culann, the new novice monk.
"Is farming is like being a gardener, only on a larger scale?" asked Culann.
"Yes you could say that." responded Bryan.
"Then I don't want to be a farmer." said Culann.
"Well then, what do you want to do? What are you good at?" enquired Brian.
"I'm good at fighting." responded Culann.
Brian smiled "Brother Culann, here we try to save lives, not to take lives."
"I was told Saint Columba was a warrior monk."
"Why yes, he has been described as such."
"Then I wish to become a warrior monk."
"I think I need to talk to Brother Abbot about this" said Bryan, perplexed.
* * * *
Brother Brian and Abbot Cumméne discussed this issue with some of the more senior monks.
'It is true that the founder of this monastery, Saint Columba, was regarded as a warrior monk. But that was over 100 years ago. Thin
gs were different then.'
'How were they different? Things are just as dangerous now as they were then.'
'Yes but he didn't kill anyone.'
'Not so, Columba was blamed for the battle of Cúl Dreimhne in 561AD, in which 3,000 lives were lost.'
'Yes, that was because of a dispute over a copied Gospel. Columba led his powerful kinsmen, the Clan Conaill, against King Diarmait's army, and defeated them.'
'Saint Columba also would have had armed monks with him on his journey through Alba, to meet King Bridei, of the Picti.'
'Probably, but we don't know that for sure.'
Finally, Abbot Cumméne, after listening intently to this discussion, raised his hand for silence and gave his decision. "I am not convinced we should encourage any of our monks to carry weapons to use on anyone, even if our lives are threatened.
"However all monks carry a strong staff. I see no reason why they should not be guided in the effective use of their staffs to protect the innocent, or defend any sacred objects with which they are entrusted, such as our gospels, needed to enlighten the poor souls who are not yet converted to Christianity.
"Perhaps our new Brother Culann may be entrusted in instructing those amongst us, who wish to avail themselves of this form of protection."
"Brother Culann also asked if he could continue to wear his sword." enquired Bryan, hopefully.
"Hmmm" mused Abbot Cumméne "I don't think it is wise for monks, who are men of peace, to be seen wearing weapons. However, knowing how highly Brother Culann is regarded by our sister monastery of St Brigid, if he wishes to wear his sword, he may do so - as long as I can't see it."
* * * *
Culann entered into the spirit of Iona with much enthusiasm. He began attending classes on Latin every morning after Lauds prayers with Brother Bryan. Later he watched in fascination as older books and manuscripts were copied from Latin into Irish codex [codex distinguishes a book, as we know it, from the more ancient scroll. It was made from mottled sheepskin. The taller than wide format, was determined by the shape of the sheepskin, which was more economically cut into double pages and when folded, to yield our modern book appearance] in the scriptorium, and attended the regular prayer sessions during the day and night.