The Secret of Kells (10 page)

Pangur never seemed to get any older. But the years passed and Brendan grew up, until he was no longer a boy but a young man. And Aidan grew older too, until he became very old and very tired, and one spring morning he did not wake up. Brendan found him in his bed in his little cell, a smile on his face, and Pangur curled at his feet.

A
fter he had prayed over him, Brendan took Aidan’s body from his cell and made a bier of green branches. With the help of those who had come to mourn with him, he carried him to the coast. There he placed him in the currach that he and Aidan had built to go fishing in the sea. He pointed the prow westwards and sent it out with the tide into the light of the setting sun. He felt the tears fall as he watched the tiny boat go further and further away from him.

But even as Aidan’s body was pulled away from him, Brendan felt a presence beside him. He looked towards the west and the light of the evening sun dazzled his eyes, but he thought he could see a familiar figure standing at his side. He was holding something out to Brendan. It was the Book.

He heard Aidan’s voice on the wind:

‘The Book was never meant to be hidden away behind walls, locked away from the world that inspired its creation. Brendan, you must take the Book to the people, so that they may have hope. Let it light the way in these dark days.’

And then the wind rose, and the sun was lost behind the line of the ocean, and the shadowy figure was gone.

Brendan was lonely without Aidan’s company. Sitting in his cell, he thought of Aidan’s words and wondered where he should bring the Book. The Northmen still raided the monasteries and villages, although not as wildly as they had done during the years before. They had even begun to settle down in some places, planting crops in the soil and marrying and trading with the Irish. But where would the Book be safe from their wilder cousins, who still landed quietly in the night and pillaged the holy places? He thought of Clonmacnoise and Cashel and Glendalough, all of them great monasteries with master illuminators who would look after the Book well. But in the
end, he realised that there was only one place for the Book to go. That there was only one place where he himself wanted to go to. He gathered his few possessions into the same leather satchel that held the Book long years before. He looked at Pangur as she dozed by the fire, with one eye open, watching his every move.

‘I’m sorry, old cat,’ he said. ‘You are too old for this journey. Stay here with your children and grandchildren. The villagers will look after you.’ Pangur did not even miaow her protest. She simply jumped onto his shoulders and dug in her claws, determined as always not to be left behind.

After many weeks travelling, they came at last to the edge of the great forest. Brendan looked at it in dismay. It was a tangle of undergrowth, of branches and furze and nettles and thorns.

‘I’ll never be able to find my way through this,’ he said to Pangur.

Pangur did not look too worried, but merely lay down under a convenient oak tree and closed her eyes. And so Brendan, who had no better ideas as regards what to do next, did the same.

Brendan woke up. While they had slept, the moon had risen and was shining brightly. The light seemed to show a path through the thickety undergrowth. He was sure that the path had not been there when he went to sleep. Brendan thought he heard a child’s laughter. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind. Was he dreaming? Was this his imagination? Along the path grew a drift of snowdrops. And on the path, so far away that Brendan could not be altogether sure of what he saw, there seemed to be the figure of a girl with long white hair. He started up, hardly daring to believe his eyes. But as he watched, the figure grew taller. It was no longer a child but a beautiful white-haired woman. He blinked, trying to see more clearly, and now it had changed again, changed into an old, old woman, stooping low over the flowers. All of this happened within seconds.

‘Aisling,’ he tried to say, ‘it is you, isn’t it? Won’t you talk to me? Won’t you let me see you and hear you the way you did before?’

But it seemed as if his voice was no longer
working, for no words came out. There was only silence and stillness in the forest. This can’t be real, he thought to himself. This can’t be happening.

Then a further change came upon the figure. It was no longer human. A white wolf stood before him, watching him, its eyes bright green, shining in the moonlight. Brendan drew back, holding his breath in wonder. Aisling had indeed come to lead him through the forest.

‘Aisling,’ he said again, and now he knew he was awake because he could hear his voice in the darkness. ‘Can’t you speak to me?’

But the white wolf did nothing but incline her head in the direction she wanted Brendan to follow. Brendan gathered Pangur up and followed her lead deep into the dark wood.

A storm was breaking over Kells. Black clouds raced across the sky and the wind howled through the broken stones and lashed the ivy against the crumbling walls. Rain came down in sheets and lightning flashed, illuminating the frail figure that stood at the window of the Round Tower, looking out into the darkness. The great Abbey of Kells
now housed only a handful of monks and villagers. The stones that had been piled up, one on top of the other, with so much thought and with so much labour by the Abbot and the brothers, had almost all fallen to the ground. The gate hung loose on its hinges, and vines and green brambles covered the walls. The forest had reclaimed Kells. Indeed, it was hard to tell where the forest ended and the monastery began.

But there were still some signs of life. Smoke rose from the huts that circled the chapel, now rebuilt as a smaller but solid little building. There were vegetable plots scattered around the enclosure; cattle and sheep lowed in the pens, and pigs grunted as they scrabbled in the mud. A goose flew by, with a small boy in pursuit, determined to catch it so it could be put inside, safe from the storm. The bird stopped for a moment on the broken cross, then flew on towards the roofless Scriptorium. Doves nested there, and during the day they flew in and out, carrying food for their young from the forest. But tonight the doves were huddled in their nests.

Brother Tang, older now and even wiser, went to
the window and placed his hand gently on the shoulder of the man who stood there.

‘Please rest now, Abbot,’ he said.

‘How can I rest when I think of what we have lost? Of our most precious treasure?’ asked the Abbot. But he finally allowed Tang to lead him back to bed. There he tossed feverishly, still unable to sleep. Tang looked at him anxiously. He knew that Abbot Cellach would not be much longer in the world, and he wished that his old friend could find some peace before he left them.

‘There is no time,’ said the Abbot feebly. ‘Oh, I don’t want to die, Tang. Not yet. I could go happily if only I knew I had done some good in the world. But all my life, everything I tried to do has been a failure. I could not save my brothers nor my people. I could not save Brendan. I could not save the Book. Oh, if only Brendan could have been saved!’

‘Do not fret yourself,’ said Tang softly. ‘Try to rest.’

But the Abbot sighed deeply and said, his voice fading to a whisper. ‘We are lost.’

A hooded figure moved forward out of the shadows at the top of the stairs. Tang looked up, aware that someone had entered the tower.

The Abbot drew back in terror. ‘Angel of darkness!’ he called. ‘Not yet! Do not take me yet! I need more time!’

The figure moved forward.

‘Oh, let it not be the angel of death!’ said Cellach again. ‘Or some fairy creature come in from the forest!’

With a start of joyful recognition, Tang moved towards the cloaked figure with the small white cat at its side. The stranger put his finger to his lips, motioning Tang to stay silent. Then he moved forward towards the bed.

‘You always said there was no such thing as fairies, Uncle,’ said Brendan, throwing back his rain-soaked hood and laughing. The moon came from behind a cloud as he clasped his uncle’s hands in his.

‘Holy God and all his angels!’ said Brother Tang.

But the Abbot could say nothing. His mouth moved but no words came out. He held onto Brendan’s hands as if he would never let them go. Finally, he found his voice. ‘Brendan!’ he said. ‘It is a dream.’

‘This is no dream, Uncle,’ said Brendan. He himself was finding it hard to believe that his uncle had not been killed; that he and Tang had survived and stayed in the Abbey, keeping a light burning in Kells through all the long years since the Northmen’s raid.

‘My boy!’ Cellach whispered. ‘You survived! And have grown up so tall. How did you manage it?’

‘How did I manage to grow up?’ Brendan laughed again. ‘I didn’t have to do much, it just happened!’

But now Abbot Cellach was moving restlessly again, his memories of the raid bringing back the guilt that had tormented him for many years.

‘So many dead … so many innocent lives lost. All of it my fault.’

‘Please, Uncle,’ said Brendan, ‘Don’t distress yourself.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said the Abbot. ‘You were right. About Kells. About Aidan. About the Book. I shouldn’t have acted as I did.’

He opened his hand and showed Brendan what he held in it.

‘This is all I have left,’ he said. ‘This is the only comfort I have in the world.’

Brendan looked closely and saw that what he held was the tiny piece of vellum which Brendan had been illustrating just before the Northmen raided. The piece of the Book that his uncle, in his anger, had tried to destroy. Cellach had kept it, treasured it as a memory of Brendan and as a small piece of beauty, ever since that dreadful time.