into the water to be baptized, too. Harald demanded to be next, and was accorded this honour by the abbot, who summoned Ruadh and Cellach, and some of the others to help. The ceremony occupied us well into the day, and when we gathered at twilight for the Passion Day vespers, it was with the addition of thirty new converts. I translated the words of the prayers and the psalms for them, and they professed to find it all very pleasant, even enjoyable.
Throughout the evening meal, and the whole of the next day I was made to explain what it all meant as the neophyte Christians wanted to know if they would be invincible in battle now, and forever lucky in all their dealings.
'No,' I told them. 'Indeed, it is the other way entirely. If my life is any example, then you will be supremely unlucky and forever vulnerable to every harm under heaven.'
The thought sat ill with me, I believe, for I found it hard to sleep and could get no rest for thrashing about on my bed. Some little while before dawn I woke, rose, and left my cell to find that the abbey had vanished in the night. All around me I could see a featureless expanse stretching in every direction flat to the horizon, without feature, without colour, with neither hill, nor rock, nor tree-a desert place of howling wind and bone-aching emptiness.
What has happened to the abbey? I wondered. Where has everyone gone?
Even as I struggled to comprehend the enormity of this disaster, I heard high above me the sound of an eagle crying as it flew. I raised my eyes and saw, soaring alone in the empty sky, the great bird, wings outstretched, keen eyes searching for a place to rest.
Suddenly, I was with that eagle, looking, longing for a place to rest. On and on, searching and searching, but never finding; over wilderness and wasteland the bird soared with only the sound of the wind's dull whine through wide-spread feathertips for company. I felt the bone-aching weariness dragging on those broad wings as they swept the empty sky, but still that wonderful bird flew on, vistas of emptiness on every side, and never a resting place to be found.
Then, even as those great, good wings faltered, 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 heaven's forge.
My eyes were dazzled by the radiance of the sun; I could not bear the sight and had to look away. When I looked back, however, wonder of wonders! It was no longer the sun rising up, but an enormous, gleaming city, arrayed on seven hills: Constantinople-but as I had never seen it, alive with a brilliance of wonders: towers, domes, basilicas, bridges, triumphal arches, churches, and palaces-all of them glittering and gleaming. Each hilltop glowed with perfect splendour, radiant with the light of its own beauty, illumined by the twin fires of faith and holiness: Byzantium, the City of Gold, sparkling like a treasure of unsurpassed magnificence.
The weary eagle saw the New Rome rising before it, and took heart, lifting its wings with strength renewed. At last, I thought, the worthy bird is saved, for somewhere in such a city the eagle will certainly find a place of rest.
Closer and closer, the eagle flew, each wingbeat bearing it swiftly nearer to the haven of the golden city. The proud bird, its heart quickening at the sight of such an extravagant reward for its long perseverance, descended, spreading wide its wings as it prepared to land upon the highest tower. But as the eagle swooped lower, the city suddenly changed. Oh, it was not a city at all, but a giant, ravening beast with the hindquarters of a lion, and the foreparts of a dragon, its skin of scaly gold and claws of glass, and an enormous gaping maw of a mouth lined with swords for teeth.
The eagle twisted in the air and cried in alarm, beating its wings in retreat. But the golden beast stretched out its long, snake-like neck and plucked the weary bird from the sky as it fled. The jaws shut and the eagle vanished.
The sharp clash of the great golden beast's jaws brought me from the dream. I awoke at once, and could still hear the echo receding through the empty air. I looked around at the familiar surroundings of the abbey, my limbs shaking from the swiftly-fading sound. But it was not the snap of monstrous jaws that made me quake within myself; I heard instead the echo of Bishop Cadoc's dread admonition: All flesh is grass.
Everyone dies, Gunnar had said. All flesh is grass, said Cadoc. What did you expect, Aidan?
Did you really think that Christ would blunt the spear-points, deflect the lash, cause the chains to melt away when they touched your skin? Did you expect to walk in sunlight and not feel the heat, or to go without water and not grow thirsty? Did you think that all the hatred would turn to brotherly love the moment you strode into view? Did you think both storms and tempers would calm because of the tonsure on your head?
Did you believe that God would shield you forever from the hurt and pain of this sin-riven world? That you would be spared the injustice and strife others were forced to endure? That disease would no longer afflict you, that you would live forever untouched by the tribulations of common humanity?
Fool! All these things Christ suffered, and more. Aidan, you have been blind. You have beheld the truth, stared long upon it, yet failed to perceive so much as the smallest glimpse of all that was shown you. Sure, this is the heart of the great mystery: that God became man, shouldering the weight of suffering so that on the final day none could say, 'Who are you to judge the world? What do you know of injustice? What do you know of torture, sickness, poverty? How dare you call yourself a righteous God! What do you know of death?'
He knows, Aidan, he knows!
Gunnar, untutored barbarian that he was, had discerned this central truth, while I, for all my monkish learning, had forever failed to grasp it. In Gunnar, this understanding had kindled hope and faith, even as my lack of understanding had brought me to hopelessness.
Oh, but with the coming of the dawn on Resurrection Day, Holy Easter, my vision had been revived. And in the restoring of the dream, I was myself restored. I saw Byzantium once more, and knew that I would die there. This time, however, there was no fear. I believed-for now I knew what Lord Sadiq had said was true-that perfect certainty cast out fear, and that a man forearmed with such faith was truly free.
As the sun rose on our Resurrection Day celebrations, I knew the liberation of a soul set free. During the Service of the Sacraments, I translated Abbot Fraoch's words for the Danemen, and as they spoke the prayer of repentance for the first time, I also repented of my blindness, doubt, and fear. God had not forsaken me, but had upheld me even in my despair. This thought humbled me, and as the abbot raised the chalice from the altar I stood with contrite heart, thinking, Kyrie eleison! Lord have mercy…Christ have mercy!
Then, as our good abb offered the chalice for the renewal of God's eternal blessing, I renewed my priestly vows.
Epilogue
Aidan mac Cainnech returned to Skania, the land of his former captivity, and adopted it as his home. For nearly fifty years, he preached the Good News to the Danish tribes, establishing four churches during an active and eventful ministry. Of these, his favourite remained the church Jarl Harald and Gunnar built for him at Bjorvika, within sight of the sea.
In the third year of his sojourn among the Danes, Aidan was joined by his great friend and brother, Dugal, who served faithfully by his side for twenty-three years. The two monks spent many long northern nights together remembering their adventures as young men, and it was Dugal who persuaded Aidan to record his experiences for the amusement and edification of their kinsmen and friends in Eire and Britain.
Gunnar Silverbags and Ylva produced many fine children, contributing liberally to both the treasury and enrolment of Aidan's school at Bjorvika. Harald Bull-Roar, having returned from Byzantium with more wealth than he ever managed to spend, died at a theng from injuries sustained during a particularly exciting wrestling match.
In the year of Our Lord, 943, Bishop Aidan mac Cainnech made his third and final pilgrimage to Byzantium, accompanied by Abbot Ulf and his three sons, together with Harald Bull-Roar's grandson, Olaf Open-Hand, who had assumed command of his grandfather's sturdy fleet. Upon their arrival, all were warmly received by the Holy Roman Emperor Constantine Porphyrogenitus, a pious and godly man, who, in recognition of the venerable priest's long obedience, accorded him many honours.
