'Hideous deed, the World Creator was spat upon as death stole the light from his eyes.' Fraoch's voice cracked as the tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Thunder and wind did not constrain them, rain and hail they heeded not-neither the broken voice crying out: Abba, forgive them! They know not what they do!
'Up came the sharp-bladed spear, biting deep into your wounded heart. Water and blood poured down your gleaming sides-the wine of forgiveness spilled out for all-and the Beautiful One of God breathed no more.
'Then it is down from the cross-they cannot wait to have you away! Dragged through the streets, you were, tied in a sack! Common wrappings for the corpse of the High King of Heaven, never fine linen or soft furs.
'The rock-cut tomb becomes your home, Beloved. The solitude of the turf house is your new domain, there in the bone grove. Caesar's soldiers stand guard at the doorstone lest the murderers disturb your deathsleep.
'Do they fear you even yet? They have done you to death, Lord of All, and they stand guard, looking right and left, hands trembling. Darkness falls over the earth. How not? The Light of Life has been shut up in a grave, and the greedy night is full of demon smiles.
'Friends,' the abbot whispered, his voice small in contemplation of that awful night, 'the enemies of light and life held great celebration then. Their revelry resounded loud in the Halls of Heaven. And the Father God gazed down in his sore grief. 'See here, Michael!' he called to his Champion. 'They have killed my beloved son. That is bad enough, but they should not rejoice so. Can this be right, that evil should exult in the death of the Only Righteous?'
'And Michael, Servant of Light, replied, 'Lord, you know it is not right. Say the word, my king, and I shall slay them all with my fiery sword.'
'Oh, but the Ever Merciful lays a finger to his lips. And it is: 'Patience, patience, all in good time. I would not be God if disaster should find me unequal to the task. Only stand you back and watch what I shall do.'
'The High King of Heaven, his great heart breaking, gazed down into that bleak grove. A single tear from his loving eye fell into that dark tomb where lay the body of his blessed son, the Prince of Peace. That tear struck the Christ full on his battered face, and sweet life came flooding back.
'The Great King turned to his Champion and said, 'Why do you tarry, friend? You see how it is. Roll aside that stone and let my son go free!' Michael, striking like lightning to the earth, put his hand to the accursed rock and, with a flick of his finger, hurled the great millstone aside.
'Up you arose! Christ Victorious! You threw aside the sack and stood. Death, that weak, contemptible thing, lay shattered at your feet. You kicked the shards aside and strode from the tomb, brave soldiers falling on their faces, slain by the sight of such undiluted glory!'
Abbot Fraoch spread his hands wide. 'A thousand welcomes, O Blessed King! A thousand welcomes, Eternal Youth! Hail and welcome, Lord of Grace, who suffered all that death could do-for Adam's willful race, you suffered, yes, and gladly died. Firstborn of Life, it was ourselves you carried from the tomb, each and every one clinging to your broad back.
'So look upon the cross and rejoice, friends. Think of it, and praise Him who has the power to raise the dead to life. Amen!'
And everyone gazed at the high cross in the fiery sunset, and cried, 'Amen, Lord!'
Brothers with harps, awaiting this moment, began to play. We sang: hymns, of course, but other songs as well-ancient songs, older than any of the tribes or clans that claimed them, older than the wooded hills themselves. As night enfolded us, we sang, and heard again the age-honoured stories of our race.
We went to our rest that night satisfied in body and soul, and rose the next day to continue our celebration. Through the three days of the Easter feast, I tried to prepare myself for leaving. I saw Dugal but rarely; if I had not known him better, I would have imagined he was avoiding me.
It was late the third day by the time all the visitors had gone. At vespers, I joined my brothers for prayer for the last time. The sun had set and it was dusky within the abbey walls, but the sky was still pale blue overhead. Two bright stars gleamed low in the east. They say the sky in Byzantium is gold, Dugal had said. And the very stars are strange.
My heart writhed within me for I longed to speak a word to him. Tomorrow I would leave, and once beyond the abbey ringwall, I would never see my good friend again. The thought upset me so I determined to take the night vigil in order to set my heart at rest.
Accordingly, I went to Ruadh to request the duty. He seemed surprised at my petition. 'I would think it better for both body and soul to rest,' Ruadh suggested. 'Therefore, I counsel a night's sound sleep.'
'I thank you for the thought,' I replied. 'And I am certain you advise the wisest course. But it is also my last opportunity to hold vigil before the abbey altar. Therefore, I respectfully ask your permission.'
'And I give it gladly,' Ruadh allowed. 'It is Diarmot's duty tonight, however. You must find him and inform him of the change.'
'Of course,' I agreed, and made to leave the secnab's lodge. 'Thank you, Confessor.'
'I will miss you, Aidan,' Ruadh said, following me to the door. 'But I will pray for you every day at matins. Wherever you are, you will know that the day began with your name before the High King's throne. And each day at vespers I will beseech the Lord's mercy on your behalf. That way, wherever you are in God's wide world, you will know that the day ended with entreaty for your safe return.'
These words moved me so that I could not speak-all the more, since I knew that he would uphold his vow through all things. He put his arms around my shoulders and hugged me to his chest. 'Go with God, my son,' Ruadh said. I nodded, swallowing hard, and left him.
I searched for Dugal, but did not find him-one of the brothers told me Dugal was helping with the lambing away in the next valley-and so I returned unhappily to my cell and threw myself upon my pallet. Ignoring the call to supper, I dozed awhile and awoke when the bell rang compline, but could not bring myself to join the brothers for prayer. I lay in my cell, listening to the sounds of the abbey settling in for the night. And when at last I judged everyone had gone to their rest, I snuffed the candle and hurried out into the darkness once more.
The moon had risen as a hard, bright ball of ice glowing in the sky. The wind which had blown all day slept now, and I could hear dogs barking in the settlement beyond the river. Moving silently across the empty yard, my shadow sharp beneath my feet, I saw no one else about.
The chapel is a plain, unadorned square of stone with thick walls and high, steeply-pitched stone roof-a place of peace and the quiet strength that comes of long devotion. The fierce moonlight had transformed the dark stone into hammered metal-bronze or, perhaps, silver. Stepping to the entrance, I lifted the latch, pushed open the heavy door, ducked my head and stepped into the spare room with its squat stone altar below a high narrow windhole; a massive wooden bookholder stood in one corner, empty now; no book is required for the night vigil. Candles sizzled silently in the tall candletrees, filling the chapel with their warm, slightly rancid scent.
Pulling the door shut behind me, I replaced the latch and started towards the altar. Only then did I notice Diarmot. 'It will be my pleasure to hold vigil with you,' he offered with stiff formality. My heart fell.
'Brother, there is no need,' I told him. 'I have taken up this duty, and will bear it gladly. Forgive me, I meant to tell you earlier, but you are free to go.'
'Be that as it may,' Diarmot replied with smug satisfaction. 'It will be good for me to stand with you this night.'
I did not relish his company, but could think of no further objection, so let him have his way. 'It is not for me to deny you,' I told him, and took my place at the altar opposite him.
Night vigil is a simple service of prayer. No rites attend it, save those each celebrant brings with him. Many say the Psalms, genuflecting after each one; some pray the night away, either prostrate or cross-wise; others simply wait upon the Lord in silence, meditating on the divine name, or an aspect of the Godhead.
Most often, I chose to pray, letting my mind roam where it would, placing this contemplation before the High King of Heaven as an offering. Sometimes, however, when my soul was troubled, I simply knelt and gave myself to the Kyrie eleison. This is what I did now. 'Lord have mercy,' I prayed, repeating the plea with every breath as I knelt beside the altar.
It seemed that Diarmot, however, had decided on reciting the One Hundred-Fifty. He intoned the Psalms in a murmuring voice, bowing low as he began each one, and going down on both knees as he finished. Diarmot, like many of the brothers, was earnest and sincere-far more so than myself, I freely confess. Even so, I found it difficult to suffer him, for I had noticed that many of these monks, despite their diligence, always seemed more concerned with the appearance of a thing than its actual meaning. Sure, one heartfelt genuflection must be worth more than a hundred performed to punctuate a recitation. Most likely I am deluded in this, as in so much else.
