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.
7
The ship rode at anchor in the river, waiting to bear us away-the same ship that had brought the bishop and his companions from Britain. It was a low, sleek vessel with a tall, slender mast. Knowing nothing of seafaring or boats, I thought it a fine thing-if somewhat small for thirteen monks.
Upon arriving at the settlement, the head man met and greeted us in the name of his lord. 'We have kept watch as you bade us,' he told Bishop Cadoc. 'I will send men to bring the ship now.'
'My thanks and blessings on you, Ladra,' answered the bishop. 'We will ready our supplies and await you on the wharf.'
Inbhir Patraic was little more than a handful of mud huts perched precariously on the Boann's steep northern bank, near to the sea mouth. A small holding, the women kept swine on the water meads, and the men fished from two sturdy boats, occasionally sailing down the south coast to trade with folk along the way-sometimes venturing as far as Atha Cliath. Therefore, the place was deemed of sufficient importance that the king had paid for a handsome wooden wharf to be built and maintained. While the head man and several of his sons rowed their small round coracles out to the ship, six of us younger monks set about unloading the wagon.
We had just begun this chore when Lord Aengus arrived with his queen, and ten of his warriors. He dismounted at once and embraced the abbot and bishop, saying, 'I am glad I reached you before you sailed, friends. My men told me of your journey and its purpose. I have come to bid you farewell, and beg your indulgence- for I, too, would have you carry a gift to the emperor.'
'Certainly!' cried Abbot Fraoch in a hoarse croak, delighted that King Aengus should honour the enterprise in this manner. 'Your gift shall be a most welcome addition to our undertaking.'
With that the king bade his wife approach. Dismounting gracefully-for all Queen Eithne was a most beautiful woman, dark-haired and fair-skinned as befitting a Sister of Brigid-she signed to one of the warriors who brought out a small, flat wooden casket from behind his saddle. This, he placed in her slender hands. The queen, back straight and head erect, carried the casket to where the abbot and bishop stood.
'Worthy men,' she said, her voice sweet and low, 'I am told the Emperor of the Romans is a man of great
