He tore himself back from his angry thoughts and tried to return to consideration of the best course of action. He took himself to his small travelling altar opposite his bed, and knelt to pray.
He prayed for guidance, for the way forward. He was convinced that the Celts were heretics and lost sheep, and he wanted desperately to bring them back to the fold. In his arrogance, he saw, he wanted to be the shepherd who brought them back, smiling and happy, accepting the plaudits of the crowds who would clap and cheer when he succeeded. He would look with kindness on his new flock, and they would be his people, and do his bidding.
God’s people. They would be God’s people. They would be God’s people. They were His sheep, and he would be His servant only, carrying out his duty with joy and devotion. How best to proceed?
An image of Wilfrid holding a crowd enthralled, as he had seen him do only a week ago, came to his mind.
One more day. He would give his strategy one more day. If he failed, if he lost again tomorrow, he would hand over to Wilfrid before all was lost.
And who would decide if he had lost the day, who would be certain of making a disinterested judgement?
He prayed for the wisdom to make the right decision and the image of Wilfrid came into his mind again.
He would not be proud, or vain, or unable to make an honest judgement. He prayed he would not, he begged for Solomon’s gift. If he failed again tomorrow, or did not succeed enough, he would hand over to Wilfrid.
He concluded with his night offices and prepared himself for bed. His opponents had been happily asleep for more than an hour by the time the mind of the venerable old man, who had travelled all over the continent of Europe, had faced innumerable perils and fought physical and psychological battles with implacable enemies, who had confronted danger and hardship at a time when being a Christian missionary was still, most likely, a route to early death, and all for the sake of his Church and his God, not his own ambition, finally gained rest.
22
A Reassessment
A forest, a thicket, a tangle of briars and brambles. Around me was the murmur of voices, debating, disputing and sometimes raised in argument. I was enmeshed in the voices, they entangled me and scratched at my robe and my flesh. I should break free, I was trying to break free. The more I tried to escape the more I became entangled. The more I became entangled the more I struggled and the more I struggled the more the words lacerated my skin. I was a mass of cuts. Blood trickled down my skin. It collected at my feet in a pool. If I stopped struggling, the cuts would stop and I would contain the wounds. I must not let my lifeblood ebb away. No. I had to get out, no matter what the damage. There was something I had to do. As I struggled the pool of blood at my feet grew and then set off with a mind of its own. It knew where it was going. It flowed eagerly along the ground, picking up speed. I looked to see where it was heading and I saw, beyond the hedge of briars and words and brambles and speech, all tangled up into an impenetrable mass, a naked child was playing with a ball. The little one chased the skein of wool - for I could see that it was wool, not a ball - and caught it and stood up. He turned to offer it to me.
Where his eyes should have been there were gashes. Fresh gashes, still glistening with warm blood. From his sternum to his groin there was a gaping wound. Blood flowed out of his injuries and flowed to the ground, where it mingled with the stream flowing from my cuts. It mingled and grew and flowed on into the lake, which was blood and was a sea and an ocean, tossing with red-flecked foam. A boat was coming across the sea, rocking and tossing but ever upright and making steadily for the shore.
“One more to come. He is on his way. He responds to your call.”
I woke up and reached immediately for my bag and the medicine within it, and took a short draught. My brothers were stirring, some were already up and about and talking together in quiet voices. I was disturbed. This latest Vision was telling me that I had a much, much more important task to fulfil and this involvement in the Synod was interfering with it.
But still, what was that task? If I could see clearly what I was meant to do, I would do it. And who was the other one who had been summoned? I’d sent for no-one else.
I would have to speak to Colman after the morning prayers in the chapel.
After the service the Irish walked back to the refectory, as we had the day before. The procession of the Romans, which came up the hill as we went down, was less grand than yesterday. Although there were altar boys, and the Cross, and the clerics arranged in ascending order, Agilbert was dressed more simply and there was no incense. Colman, Cedd, Chad and even Cuthbert - poor, distracted Cuthbert - and I walked just off to the side of the Irish group, in line astern between the two parties, ready to intercept any zealous monk who seemed inclined to remind the Romans of their failure the day before. Our mere presence seemed to be enough and all that crossed the ground were amused, but still hostile glances.
As we went in for breakfast, I pulled Colman to one side. I related the Vision of the night before, and my fear that I was neglecting the true task I’d been set.
“This is a heavy burden that’s been placed on you, my friend. Do you know where the trouble is?”
“I am pretty sure it’s in Strathclyde. Other Visions, including one I had while I was in my coma, indicate that it’s there.”
“Do you know where, exactly?”
“No, I don’t. Other than the Glade, of course.”
“And you have no physical proof, or evidence to bring to the King, other than a glade that will fall into disuse as soon as Owain mounts a guard on it?”
“Only this.” I showed him the amulet of Cromm Cruaich and Colman crossed himself. I briefly reminded him of the background and my suspicion that a disciple of Lucius was somewhere, in hiding. The Abbott replied that he’d heard nothing of any such fugitive.
“Are your Visions always a obscure as this? Do you ever get a clear message?”
“Sometimes, the meaning is clear - either immediately or soon afterwards, something will trigger a recognition in me. But normally they’re quite difficult to interpret for a while,” I smiled, completely without humour. “It’s common for the meaning to become clear only when events have started to unfold.”
“And you have no leads at this time? Nothing has triggered recognition?” Something niggled at the back of my mind: two things, in fact.
“There is something I can’t put my finger on,” I looked around as if it would spring up in front of me. “And it is here, somehow. And the other thing is the door that was present in one of my earlier Visions. I’m sure that the answer lies behind it, but I’m too frightened to open it. Truth and madness lie behind it, I think.”