Byzantium

"Your pilgrimage, Aidan-what did you expect to find in Byzantium?"

"Truly?" I asked, provoked by his subtle insinuation that I was somehow to blame for my misery. "I expected to meet my death," I answered, and told him of the vision I had dreamed the night before I left.

"A curious dream, certainly," Ruadh conceded mildly. He thought for a moment, gazing at the wooden cross on its stone shelf. "Pilgrimage is called the White Martyrdom," he mused. "Yet, we say the pilgrim seeks not the place of his death, but the place of his resurrection. A curious thing to say," he observed, "unless the pilgrim was in some way already dead."

He let the words do their work. Then, directing his gaze to me, he said, "I have heard from Bryn and Dugal most of what happened. Naturally, they know very little about your sojourn with the Sea Wolves and Sarazens, but I think I understand enough from what they have told me to know how it was with you." He smiled unexpectedly. "Aidan, you have experienced a life which your brothers can scarce begin to imagine. You have seen more than most men could see in ten lifetimes. You have been richly blessed."

"Blessed!" I choked on the word. "Cursed, you mean."

Disregarding my outburst, he continued, "So I ask you again, what did you expect?"

"I expected God to honour his word," I replied. "That, at least, if nothing else. I thought I could depend on the truth. But I have learned there is no truth. The innocent are everywhere slaughtered-they die pleading for God to save them, and death takes them anyway. Faith's own guardians are inconstant liars, and Christ's holy church is a nest of vipers; the emperor, God's Co-ruler on Earth, is a vile, unholy murderer."

"Life is a school of the spirit, Aidan," Ruadh intoned with gentle insistence. "Learning is our soul's requirement, and suffering our most persuasive teacher."

"Oh, aye, it is a school," I agreed, feeling the throbbing ache of futility. "It is a terrible school wherein we learn harsh and bitter lessons. We begin by trusting, and learn there is no one worthy of our trust. We learn that we are all alone in this world, and our cries go unheeded. We learn that death is the only certainty. Yes, we all die: most in agony and torment, some in misery, and the fortunate few in peace, but we all die. Death is God's one answer to all our prayers."

"Do not blaspheme, Aidan," cautioned the secnab sternly.

"Blaspheme!" I challenged angrily. "Why, I speak the very heart of God's own truth, brother. How is that blasphemy? We put our trust in the Lord God, and were proved fools for believing. We endured slavery and torture and death, and God lifted not a finger to save us. I saw our own blessed Bishop Cadoc hacked to pieces before my eyes and God-the God he loved and served all his days-did not so much as lift a finger to ease his suffering."

Ruadh regarded me severely, his brow creased in disapproval. "As he did nothing when His beloved son died on the cross," my anamcara pointed out. "We are closest to Christ when sharing the world's misery. Think you Jesu came to remove our pains? Wherever did you get that notion? The Lord came, not to remove our suffering, but to show us the way through it to the glory beyond. We can overcome our travails. That is the promise of the cross."

"A promise worth as much as the empty air," I said. "Thirteen monks left this abbey, and only four returned. We paid a fearful price-and all for nothing! All our torment accounted for nothing, and accomplished no purpose. No good came of it. The only fortunate ones, that I can see, are the barbarians: they went out for plunder and came back wealthier than they could have imagined. At least they got what they wanted."

Ruadh was silent for a time. "Aidan, have you lost your faith?" he asked at last.

"I did not lose my faith-it was stolen from me," I growled. "God abandoned me!"

"So this is why you wish to leave," the secnab observed. He did not try to dissuade me, and for that I was grateful. "Do you have any idea where you might go?"

"No," I said. "I only know that there is no place for me here any more."

"I think you are right," agreed my wise anamcara gently. "I think you should leave."

Again, his attitude surprised me. "Truly?"

"Oh, yes-truly. Anyone who has suffered as you have, and who feels the way you feel, should not remain here." He regarded me with fatherly compassion. "Winter is a hard time, however. Stay at least until the spring-until Eastertide, say."

"And what shall I do until then?" I wondered.

"Until then," he replied, "you can use the time to think about what you might like to do when you leave."

"Very well," I agreed. It seemed a sensible plan, and I had no other. "I will stay until the Eastertide."

Having made the decision, life became easier for me in some ways. Sure, I did not feel such a Judas. I began looking to the coming spring and thinking where I should go and what I should do. In the end, I decided to return to my own people. Even if I did not stay with them, I could at least remain there until I found a better place. I was still a nobleman of my clan, after all; though it had been many years since I had visited the settlement, they would not turn me away.

Slowly, the days dwindled down, and like a slow, white tide the long winter receded. Spring came and, with the approach of Eastertide, I began to think what I would tell Dugal; he knew nothing of my decision to leave the abbey. Yet, as often as I prepared myself to raise the subject with him, when the moment came I found better reason to refrain.

Nevertheless, as the land warmed to a mild and pleasant spring I determined that come what may, I would tell him at the first opportunity. Three days before Easter, I went looking for him, but I could not find him anywhere. One of the brothers told me he thought Dugal was following his seasonal custom, helping the shepherds with the lambing in the next valley.

I found my friend there, sitting on the hillside, watching the flock. He greeted me warmly, and I sat down beside him. "Brother," I said, "I have a burden on my heart."

"Speak then," he said, "if it would lighten the load for sharing." I noticed he did not look at me, but kept his eyes on the sheep as they grazed. Perhaps he already sensed my leaving in the way I had behaved towards him all winter.

"Dugal, I-" the words stuck in my throat. I swallowed hard and pushed ahead. "Dugal, I am leaving. I cannot-"

I broke off just then, for Dugal leapt to his feet. "Listen!" he cried, pointing across the valley.

Looking where he pointed, I saw the figure of a man-a monk, one of the shepherds-flying down the hill as fast as he could run. He was shouting as he ran, but I could not make out the words. "What is he saying?"

"Shh!" Dugal hissed urgently, cupping a hand to his ear. "Listen!"

The shout came again and I heard it this time. "Wolves!" I said. "He has seen a wolf."

"Not a wolf," Dugal replied, already turning away. "Sea Wolves!"

Together we raced back to the abbey, stumbling over the winter stubble in the unploughed fields. We arrived breathless to raise the alarm; within three heartbeats the entire monastery was in well-ordered upheaval as monks scurried everywhere in a grimly determined effort to hide the abbey's treasures: the cups and plate used for the Holy Sacraments; candleholders, the altar cloth; the manuscripts and those books precious to us whether or not their covers had any value.

Fortunately, the warning was timely so that when the dread raiders came in sight, we were ready. Abbot Fraoch would meet them at the gate, and offer the cattle and grain, if they would but leave the buildings unmolested.

Accordingly, he summoned me to him. "You can speak to them in their own tongue, I believe," he said.