[1] The Comfrey plant is erect in habit, rough and hairy all over. There is a branched rootstock, the roots are fibrous and fleshy spindle-shaped, an inch or less in diameter and up to a foot long, smooth, blackish externally, and internally white, fleshy and juicy. One of the country names for comfrey was ‘knit-bone’, a reminder of its traditional use in healing bone fractures. Modern science confirms that comfrey can influence the course of bone ailments. (Wikipedia)
Brother Baile looked at Marcus before replying.”We have discussed that, the wind is favourable and should get us to Eigg in half a day. We will probably have to row back, but the boat should be back later tonight. We could leave for Lios mór by first light tomorrow,”
Fea nodded and said a silent prayer, ‘Dear God, let them find Culann on the way.’
Fea joined Tamara at the bedside of Brother Bryan. There she updated Tamara as to the search for Culann and Fergus, combined with returning Brother Marcus to Eigg. Tamara said nothing. She didn’t hold any hope that the two travellers would be found.
Fea wiped Brother Bryan’s perspiring brow with a cool wet cloth and ran her fingers through his matted hair trying to comfort him. “We may have lost two very special people,” murmured Fea “but we must not lose Brother Bryan as well.”
* * * * *
The Lios mór curach had fair wind all the way to Eigg. Brother Marcus waved them safe voyage from the Eigg beach as they headed back along the route they traversed two days earlier. Cloud cover thinned and the sun shone fitfully as they reached the far shore and retraced their path up to the spot where they discovered the Iona group.
Brother Baile then conferred with the sailors and they struck straight across the bay to the far shore. It was not hospitable country and the curach prudently stayed a few boat lengths off shore to reduce the chance of being swept onto any of the outlying rocks. All eyes however peered carefully at the passing coves and inlets, looking for any sign of life as they headed back.
The light was failing as they neared the Point of Ardnamurchan “There’s a raft!” yelled the helmsman pointing to what seemed to be some logs and driftwood jammed onto a nasty looking reef that ran out probably ten boat lengths from a rocky shore.
“Are you sure?” queried Baile peering intently at the reef.
“Aye sir, I’m sure. Come on lads,” to the sailors “careful now, let’s get a little closer.” The curach was skilfully nudged closer to the reef so it was now side on to the remains of the raft.
“You can see the thicker pieces on either side, sir. There are scraps of material used to bind the smaller pieces of wood together.”
“Oh dear God,” murmured Baile “those binding strips look the same colour as our off-white habits. It must be their raft. Can we pull into shore Helmsman? They may be lying injured somewhere.”
The sailors skilfully guided the curach into a small sheltered beach a little further up the coast. Leaving two sailors to mind the boat, the rest of the sailors plus Brother Baile ran back to where the reef lanced out into the sea, yelling “Culann” and “Fergus” as they went.
The only sound they heard was the relentless waves smashing on the rocks. Baile peered up the featureless rocks to the low horizon. There were no trees; no vegetation; and no sign of life. As they moved back to the boat they scoured the waterline for any sign of bodies.
Nothing.
An air of despondency settled over everyone as the Curach slowly made its way around the Point of Ardnamurchan, and back to Ardslignish. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news.
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8.3 – Overland
Fergus and Culann rafting to get help for their stranded colleagues
Fergus and Culann soon established a good rowing rhythm and their little raft rode up and down the ocean swells quite easily. The rain squall that hit soon after leaving shore was an irritant but not dangerous. Both rowers were soaked, but by now they were used to sailing and the inconvenience of being wet most of the time. They reacted as usual by rowing a little harder to keep warm.
As the rain squall eased and they could once again see the far horizon it became obvious something had pushed them well inside the large bay. They were noticeably more distant from the Point of Ardnamurchan. Fergus turned to Culann “We seem to be further away from the point than when we started Culann. What’s wrong?”
Culann shrugged; he was not a sailor. “Is it the wind?” he ventured.
Fergus wet his finger and held it up. “No I don’t think it is strong enough. Wait. . . look at that,“ the young Pict pointed to a clump of debris floating past their raft. “Those leaves and stuff are going faster than we are; but they are going east. We have been paddling just south of west but we are being pushed further away.”
”What is causing it?” asked Culann who was resting on his oar quite puzzled.
“I think it must be similar to conditions I struck when swimming with the milk at Lindisfarne. Sometimes, particularly when the tide was changing, I would be caught in some very fast moving water. The locals called it a ‘rip tide’. I discovered it was best not to swim against it and just let it carry me along. It usually went in a sort of circle. I wasn’t in danger. It just dumped further up the beach than I wanted to go and I had long walk back home, that’s all. I think this must be similar, but on a bigger scale. Best we just let it take us. Eventually it will diminish or fade away and then we can continue.”
“Are you sure?” asked Culann, concerned.
Fergus grinned “No, but we haven’t any other option, have we.” Culann thought about it for a moment and shrugged in resignation. It was difficult for this former Fianna warrior to sit and do nothing in a crisis. He was a man (or rather now, a monk) of action. But he saw the logic of Fergus’ argument. “How long will it take?”
Fergus pondered the question for a moment and answered sagely “Probably until the tide changes.”
“And when will that be?”
“I really don’t know Culann. On the other coast it used to change twice a day. But each day it was a little later than the previous day. I guess it must be similar over here.” Culann slapped his oar down in the water in frustration. Then realising his childish action, lent forward and grasped Fergus on the shoulder
“Forgive me my friend. I am not used to floating or fighting on water. I much prefer dry land.” Fergus smiled and clasped the monks offered hand. “So do I Culann, so do I. But I suggest we relax for the time being. When this sea has finished with us we will need all our energy to get back to that point.
So the two hardy travellers sat on their bobbing raft and relaxed – for a while.
“What are all those birds doing?” asked Culann pointing to a group of seagulls wheeling over some white water further down the eastern bay.
Fergus shielded his eyes and peered ahead at the spectacle. “Uh oh, I don’t like the look of that.”
“What is it?” asked Culann.
“It looks very similar to that the Corryvreckan whirlpool. You remember, between Scarba and Jura. The sailors said it was dangerous. I think we better head over to that southern shore.”
“Good,” said Culann “I much prefer to do something than just sit here all day.” as he dug his oar savagely into the now white crested water.
“We need to both row on our left side,” shouted Fergus. “Make for the land directly opposite on the far shore. Don’t try to steer back toward Point of Ardnamurchan.”
The water became choppier and their little craft seemed to be speeding up. At first they didn’t appear to be making any headway against the current which was drawing them sideways, closer to the eastern bay and the dangerous whirlpool. This encouraged both men to increase their efforts with the oars. Time lost all meaning in situations such as this. It seemed to Culann he had been paddling forever. His arms ached. His chest had a tight band clamped about it. All he focussed on was keeping in time with Fergus as the young man’s oar bit into the water, up,
down, pull through, up again. Gradually Fergus noticed the troubled waters were more behind them than abreast. They were winning. The far shore now seemed definitely closer. Fergus held up one hand “Slow down. We’ve done it.”
Culann slumped forward, breathing heavily, totally exhausted. He looked up to find everything was becoming dark. He shook his head and discovered in fact the sun, still mostly hidden by clouds, was setting. Ahhh . . . thank goodness. I’m not losing my mind after all.
Fergus pointed to what appeared to be a small inlet on the rocky shoreline. “We need to make landfall over there.” Their raft glided into the rocky inlet. The narrow sandy beach was wedged between rocky outcrops and was barely two raft lengths wide. The exhausted rowers staggered ashore and dragged their raft to the top of the sand. Culann used his oar as a staff as they climbed up on a ledge which gave them some shelter from the now strengthening wind. Some rock pools of water were nearby and both travellers eagerly lay down and drank their full. Culann looked up and in the gathering twilight commented that there was little vegetation of any kind on the bare rocks that reached up to the skyline.
The light was rapidly fading. The far shore from where they had begun their journey was no longer visible. Either was the Point of Ardnamurchan which was somewhere off to the west. Our intrepid travellers had no flints and could not make a fire. There was precious little kindling to make a fire anyway. “We will have to continue our journey at first light tomorrow my friend,” said Culann. “Best try and get some sleep behind these rocks. Fergus nodded mutely and both travellers wrapped themselves in their cloaks and attempted to sleep. Food would have to wait another day.
Culann slept fitfully but there was no moon or stars visible through the heavy cloud cover and he couldn’t see anything. So he rolled over and drifted back to sleep. At least if we can see nothing, no one can see us, so we are safe.
Both woke as the sun feebly tried to penetrate the solid cloud cover. Fergus rose and stretched trying to bring life back into his arms and legs. He looked down to their raft.
The beach was under water and the raft was not there.
“Oh no,” he cried in alarm. “The tide must have come in while we slept. It has taken our raft.”
Culann leapt up and ran to the high point above the little inlet which had small waves lapping against the rocks. He searched in vain for any sign of their vessel up and down the shoreline. “But we pulled it up to the top of the beach,” he said, baffled.
“I should have thought of it,” said Fergus, bitterly disappointed with himself. “Now is the time of the full moon. The tides are always bigger then. They can vary as much as the height of man between low and high tide. I am so sorry Culann. It is my fault,” he sank despondently to his haunches, his head in his hands.
Culann satisfying himself there was no sign of their raft climbed down to the distraught Fergus and placing his hand gently on the youth’s shoulder said “There, there, lad. It’s not your fault. It seems to me that the Lord the monks pray to so often didn’t want us to row around the Point of Ardnamurchan anyway.”
“But what will we do now?” cried Fergus.
“Well we will walk. I much prefer walking anyway.”
“Walk? That will take forever. I can’t even see the point from here,” said Fergus in disbelief.
“Oh, we won’t walk around the point. We’ll take a shortcut – straight overland,” said Culann pointing toward the crest of the hill behind them. “If I remember correctly Ardslignish should be directly over this neck of land.”
“Do you really think so?” said Fergus with a glimmer of hope in his voice.
“Aye lad. I spent some time in Ardslignish some years ago. I’m pretty sure it’s located on a loch somewhere just over this strip of land. We might get a little hungry but we will have plenty of water in these rock pools. And we won’t have to worry about any more whirlpools.”
Their mood turned from despair to defiance. They would make it, come hell or high-water; (or rather, rock pools of water).
So our intrepid travellers turned, looked at the high ground ahead of them and began walking south, uphill. “I’ve run up higher braes (hills) than this,” muttered Fergus. Culann smiled and followed the young Pict, glad he had retained his oar which he now used as a staff.
* * * * *
All morning Fergus and Culann followed a dry gully as it wound generally south-west. There was no vegetation. It rained twice but they were shielded to some extent from the wind by the rock sides of the ditch. The sun was not seen. Clouds raced overhead sometimes obscuring the top of the hill ahead. They were able to slake their thirst easily by drinking from the numerous small rock pools.
They reached the crest of the first hill around Terce (mid-morning prayer). Ahead was another flat rock hill. The land dipped down a little then rose ever upward at a gentle rate. Their journey all afternoon consisted of climbing gently sloping hills of solid rock that followed one after another.
A particularly severe thunderstorm forced them to seek cover in a nearby rock crevice. The rain ceased. They continued, clothes now thoroughly drenched.
“Are you sure this is only a small strip of land Culann? I can’t see any end in sight,” said Fergus despondently. The light was fading and night was almost upon them.
Culann stopped and peered ahead to the next rock crest. “I thought there were more trees, but when we reach the top of these hills we will be able to see better. Perhaps we had better look for a place to camp for the night.” They finally selected a group of rocks that offered some protection from the south-west winds and rain if it did come through the night. And it did come. Once again; no fire and no food.
* * * * *
Day two of their trek began the same as yesterday. More rock hills; more rock waterholes, some now so large they had to detour around them; and more rain.
It was Sext (midday prayer, around noon) when Fergus suddenly called out “Hey, this track is not going uphill. It’s going downhill!”
“Ay lad,” responded Culann, shielding his eyes as he looked into the distance. “And there is water between those two hills. It must be Loch Sunart. Ardslignish is down there somewhere.”
Both travellers now headed toward the cleft in the far hills through which a sliver of dark water showed, a new spring in their step.
It was now three days without food. Culann in fact was very weary but he would not admit as such to his younger companion. The rain had ceased, at least for the time being. Small clumps of vegetation were now seen. The almost continuous rock formations had given way to thin patches of soil. They carried on. Even though weakened from malnutrition their pace quickened as the slope was now downhill.
Late afternoon, through one final pass and the grandeur of Loch Sunart spread out ahead of them. It took Fergus’ breath away. “Wonderful,” was all he could utter as he sank down on his haunches.
Culann helped his young colleague to his feet. “Are you OK lad?” asked the monk, concerned. “Do you need to rest?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” replied Fergus. “You take the lead. You know the lay of the land here. I will follow.”
Culann moved ahead but checked regularly that Fergus was following. He paused a couple of times to allow the young Pict to catch up. The light was fading but thankfully the rain had stopped. They pushed onward. The going was easier as the track they were following was mostly downhill.
It was sometime later that Culann pointed to wisps of smoke barely visible on the shoreline off to their right. “That’s either Ardslignish or the little farming village in the next cove lad. We’re nearly home.” He turned; delighted their arduous journey was almost ended. The trail behind him was empty. There was no sign of Fergus. “Fergus! Fergus lad; where are you?” cried Culann. The only answer was his own echo.
Culann strode back up the track he had just traversed, looking left and right and calling continually for his companion. Over the next rise he glimpsed Fergus’ crumpled figure lying face
down on a bare flat rock. Fergus was breathing, but did not respond when Culann tried to wake him.
It was now quite dark. Culann decided his only option was to carry his friend. He lifted the young Pict and draped him over his shoulders. Once more he headed downhill toward what he hoped was shelter and safety.
Twice he stumbled and had to rest for a short time before shouldering his burden and pressing on. It was too dark to see the waters of Lake Sunart and the smoke he had seen earlier had disappeared. To keep moving in the direction he believed Ardslignish lay he walked so the wind was in his face. At least that way he reasoned he wouldn’t end up walking in circles.
He trudged on. Would this never end? He noticed there was more vegetation now but the ground seemed flat. He bumped into a tree and staggered sideways. The world seemed to be spinning. One leg buckled and he fell heavily. Fergus lay on top of him. He had no strength left to rise. His last frustrating thought was Damn it - Fergus and my friends will all die because I’ve failed.
The two inert figures lay still, alone in the wilderness.
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Chapter 9 - The Eigg Episode
Abbot Morann was just commencing Compline (night prayer, which completes the day) in the small stone building which served as Ardslignish’s church when he was disturbed by a commotion outside. A group of villagers burst in “Father, Father, come quick. One of your monks and a Pict are in our hamlet. We think they are dying.”
The Abbot quickly completed a short prayer, rose and stepped outside. The villagers indicated he should follow them around the headland to the next cove where the Scotti village was located. A separate crowd carrying torches were gathered under a large tree.
Abbot Morann, who was now joined by some of his monks, made his way through the throng gathered around the tree. The flickering light shone on two bedraggled figures lying face down, one on top of the other.
“It seems the monk was carrying his friend when he collapsed, explained the village headman.