When Cathal mac Art, that was called Cathal Gille-Muire, Cathal the
Servant of Mary, walked by the sea, one night of the nights in a green
May, there was trouble in his heart.
It was not long since he had left Iona. The good St. Colum, in sending
the youth to the Isle of Â-rinn, as it was then called, gave him a
writing for St. Molios, the holy man who lived in the sea-cave of the
small Isle of the Peak, that is in the eastward hollow at the south
end of Arran. A sorrow it was to him to leave the fair isle in the
west. He had known glad years there--since, in one of the remote isles
to the north, he had seen his father slain by a man of Lochlin, and
his mother carried away in a galley oared by fierce yellow-haired men.
No kith or kin had he but the old priest, that was the brother of his
father, Cathal Gille-Chriosd, Cathal the Servant of Christ.
On Iona he had learned the way of Christ. He had a white robe; and
could, with a shaven stick and a thin tuft of seal-fur, or with the
feather-quill of a wild swan or a solander, write the holy words upon
strained lambskin or parchment, and fill the big letters, that were
here and there, with earth-brown and sky-blue and shining green, with
scarlet of blood and gold of sun-warm sands. He could sing the long
holy hymns, too, that Colum loved to hear; and it was his voice that
had the sweetest clear-call of any on the island. He was in the
nineteenth year of his years when a Frankish prince, who had come to
Iona for the blessing of the Saint, wanted him to go back with him to
the Southlands. He promised many things because of that voice. Cathal
dreamed often, in the hot drowsy afternoons of the month that
followed, of the long white sword that would slay so well; and of the
white money that might be his to buy fair apparel with, and a great
black stallion accoutred with trappings wrought with gold, and a bed
of down; and of white hands, and white breasts, and the white song of
youth.
He had not gone with the Frankish prince, nor wished to go. But he
dreamed often. It was on a day of dream that he lay on his back in the
hot grass upon a dune, near where the cells of the monks were. The
sun-glow bathed the isle in a golden haze. The strait was a shimmering
dazzle, and the blue wavelets that made curves in the soft white sand
seem to spill gold flakes and change them straightway into little jets
of foam or bubbles of rainbow-spray. Cathal had made a song for his
delight. His pain was less when he had made it. Now, lying there, and
dreaming at times of the words of the Frankish prince, and remembering
at times the stranger words of the old pagan helot, Neis, who had come
with him out of the north, he felt fire burn in his veins, and he
sang:
O where in the north, or where in the south, or where in the east
or west
Is she who hath the flower-white hands and the swandown breast?
O, if she be west, or east she be, or in the north or south,
A sword will leap, a horse will prance, ere I win to Honey-Mouth.
She has great eyes, like the doe on the hill, and warm and sweet
she is,
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth, bend to me, Honey-Mouth, give me thy
kiss!
_White Hands_ her name is, where she reigns amid the princes fair:
White hands she moves like swimming swans athrough her dusk-wave
hair:
White hands she puts about my heart, white hands fan up my breath:
White hands take out the heart of me, and grant me life or death!
White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and
sweet:
O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!
O wild sweet eyes! O glad wild eyes! O mouth, how sweet it is!
O, come to me, Honey-Mouth! bend to me, Honey-Mouth! give me thy
kiss!
When he had ceased he saw a shadow fall upon the white sand beyond the
dune. He looked up, and beheld Colum the Saint.
"Who taught you that song?" said the white holy one, in a voice hard
and stern.
"No one, O Colum."
"Then the Evil One is indeed here. Cathal, I promised that you would
be having a holy name soon, but that name I will not be giving you
now. You must come to me in sackcloth and with dust upon your head,
with pain upon you, and with deep grief in your heart. Then only shall
I bless you before the brothers and call you Cathal Gille-Mhoire,
Cathal the servant of Mary."
A bitter, sad waiting it was for him who had fire in his young blood
and was told to weave frost there, and to put silence upon the welling
song in his heart. But at the end of the week Cathal was a holy monk
again, and sang the hymns that Colum had taught him.
It was on the eve of the day when Colum blessed him before the
brethren, and called him Gille-Muire, that he walked alone, brooding
upon the evil of women and the curse they brought, and praying to Mary
to save him from the sins of which he scarce knew the meaning. On his
way back to his cell he passed old Neis, the helot, who said to him
mockingly:
"It is a good thing that sorrow, Cathal mac Art,--and yet, sure, it is
true that but for the hot love the slain man your father had for Foam
that was your mother, you would not be here to praise your God or
serve the woman whom the arch-druid yonder says is the Mother of God."
Cathal bade the man eat silence, or it would go ill with him. But the
words rankled. That night in his cell he woke, with on his lips his
own sinful words:
White hands make better songs than hymns, white hands are young and
sweet;
O, a sword for me, O Honey-Mouth, and a war-horse fleet!
On the morrow he went to Colum and told him that the Evil One would
not give him peace. That night the Saint bade him make ready to go
east to the Isle of Arran--the sole isle, then, where the Pictish folk
would let the white robes of the Culdees go scatheless. To the holy
Molios he was to go, him that dwelled in the sea-cave of the Isle of
the Peak, that men already called the Holy Isle because of the
preaching and the miracles of Molios.
"He is a wise man," said Colum to himself, "and he was a pagan
Cruithne once, and a prince at that, and he knows the sweetness of
sin, and will keep Cathal away from the snares that are set. With
fasting, and much peril by day and weariness by night, the blood of
the youth will forget the songs the Evil One has put into his mind and
it will sing holy hymns. Great will be the glory. Cathal Gille-Muire
will be a holy man while he has yet his youth upon him; and he will be
a martyr to the flesh by day and by night and by night and by day,
till the heathen put him to death because of the faith that is his."
Thus it was that Cathal was blessed by Colum, and sent east among the
wild Picts.
It was with joy that he served Molios. For four months he gave him all
he had to give. The old saint passed word to Colum that Cathal was a
saint and was assured of the crown of martyrdom, and lovingly he urged
that the youth should be sent to the Isle of Mist in the north, the
great isle that was ruled by Scathach the Queen. There, at the last
Summer-sailing, the pagans had flayed a monk alive. A fair happy end:
and Cathal was now worthy--and withal might triumph, and might even
convert the heathen queen. "She is wondrous fair to see," he added,
"and Cathal is a comely youth."
But Colum had answered that the young monk was to bide where he was,
and to seek to win souls in the pagan Isle of Arran, where the Cross
was still feared.
But with the coming of May and golden weather, the blood of Cathal
grew warm. At times, even, he dreamed of the Frankish prince and the
evil sweet words he had said.
Then a day of the days came. Molios and Cathal went to a hill-dûn
where the Pict chieftain lived, and converted him and all the people
in the dûn and all in the rath that was beyond the dûn. That eve the
daughter of the warrior came upon Cathal walking in a solitary place,
among the green pines beyond the rath. She was most sweet to look
upon: tall and fair, with eyes like the sea in a cloudless noon, and
hair like westward wheat turned back upon itself.
"What is the name men call you by, young druid?" she said. "I am
Ardanna, the daughter of Ecta."
"Your beauty is sweet to look upon, Ardanna. I am Cathal the son of
Art the son of Aodh of the race of Alpein, from the isles of the sea.
But I am not a druid. I am a priest of Christ, a servant of Mary the
Mother of God, and a son of God."
Ardanna looked at him. A flush came into his face. In his eyes the
same light flamed that was there when the Frankish prince told him of
the delights of the world.
"Is it true, O Cathal, that the druids--that the priests of Christ and
the two other gods, the white-robed men whom we call Culdees, and of
whom you are one, is it true that they will have nought to do with
women?"
Cathal looked upon the woman no more, but on the ground at his feet.
"It is true, Ardanna."
The girl laughed. It was a low, sweet, mocking laugh, but it went
along Cathal's blood like cloud-fire along the sky. It was to him as
though somewhat he had not seen was revealed.
"And is it a true thing that you holy men look at women askance, and
as snares of peril and evil?"
"It is true, Ardanna; but not so upon those who are sisters of Christ,
and whose eyes are upon heavenly things."
"But what of those who are not sisters of your god, and are only
women, fair to look upon, fair to woo, fair to love?"
Cathal again flushed. His eyes were still upon the ground. He made no
answer.
Ardanna laughed low.
"Cathal!"
"Yes, fair daughter of Ecta?"
"Is it never longing for love you are?"
"There is but one love for us who have taken the vows of chastity."
"What is chastity?"
Cathal raised his eyes and glanced at Ardanna. Her dark-blue eyes
looked at him pure and sweet, though a smile was upon her mouth. He
sighed.
"It is the sanctity of the body, Ardanna."
"I do not understand," she said simply. "But tell me this, poor
Cathal--"
"Why do you call me poor Cathal?"
"Because you have put your manhood from you--and you so young, and
strong, and comely--and are not a warrior, and care neither for the
sword, nor the chase, nor the harp, nor for women."
Cathal was troubled. He looked again and again at Ardanna. The sunset
light was in her yellow hair, which was about her as a glory. He had
seen the moon as wondrous pale as her beautiful face. Like lilies her
white hands were. He had dreamed of that flamelight in the eyes.
"I care," he said.
She drew nearer, and leaned a little forward, and looked at him.
"You are good to look upon, Cathal--the comeliest youth I have ever
seen."
The monk flushed. This was the devil-tongue of which Colum had warned
him. But how sweet the words were: like a harp that low voice. Sure,
sweeter is a waking dream than a dream in sleep.
"I care," he repeated dully.
"Look, Cathal."
Slowly he raised his eyes. As his gaze moved upward it rested on the
white breast which was like sea-foam swelling out of brown sea-weed,
for she had a tanned fawn-skin belted and gold-claspt over the white
robe she wore, and that had disparted for the warm air to play upon
her bosom.
It troubled him. He let his eyes fall again. The red was on his face.
"Cathal!"
"Yes, Ardanna."
"And you will never put your kiss upon a woman's lips? Never put your
heart upon a woman's heart? Is it of cold sea water you are made--for
even the running water in the streams is warmed by the sun? Tell me,
Cathal, would you leave Molios the Culdee,--if--"
The monk of Christ suddenly flashed his eyes upon the woman.
"If what, Ardanna?" he asked abruptly: "if what, Ardanna that is so
witching fair?"
"If I loved you, Cathal? If I, the daughter of Ecta the chief, loved
you, and took you to be my man, and you took me to be your woman,
would you be content so?"
He stared at her as one in a dream. Then suddenly all the foolish
madness that had been put upon him by Colum fell away. What did these
old men, Colum and Molios, know? It is only the young who know what
life is. They were old, and their blood was gelid.
He put up his arms, as though in prayer. Then he smiled. Ardanna saw a
light in his eyes that sprang into her heart and sang a song there
that whirled in her ears and dazzled her eyes and made her feel as
though she had fallen over a great height and were still falling.
Cathal was no longer pale. A red flame burned in either cheek. The
sunset-light behind him filled his hair with fire. His eyes were
beacons.
"Cathal, Cathal!"
"Come, Ardanna!"
That was all. What need to say more. She was in his arms, and her
heart throbbing against his that leapt in his body like a wolf fallen
in a snare.
He stooped and kissed her. She lifted her eyes, and his brain swung.
She kissed him, and he kissed her till she gave a low cry and gently
thrust him back. He laughed.
"Why do you laugh, Cathal?"
"I? It is I who laugh now. The old men put a spell upon me. I am no
more Cathal Gille-Muire, but Cathal mac Art. Nay, I am Cathal
Gille-Ardanna."
With that he plucked the branch of a rowan that grew near. He stripped
it of its leaves, and threw them from him north, south, east, and
west.
"Why do you do that, Cathal-aluinn?" Ardanna asked, looking at him
with eyes of love, and she like a summer morning there, because of the
sunshine in her hair, and the wild roses on her face, and the
hill-tarn blue of her eyes.
"These are all the hymns that Colum taught me. I give them back. I am
knowing them no more. They are idle, foolish songs."
Then the monk took the branch and broke it, and threw the pieces upon
the ground and trampled upon them.
"Why do you that, Cathal-aluinn?" asked Ardanna, wondering at him with
her home-call eyes.
"That is the branch of all the wisdom Colum taught me. Old Neis, the
helot, was wise. It is a madness, all that. See, it is gone: it is
beneath my feet: I am a man now."
"But O Cathal, Cathal! this very day of the days, Ecta, my father, has
become a man of the Christ-faith, him and his; and he would do what
Molios asked, now. And Molios would ask your death."
"Death is a dream."
With that Cathal leaned forward and kissed Ardanna upon the lips
twice. "A kiss for life that," he said; "and that a kiss for death."
Ardanna laughed a low laugh. "The monk can kiss," she whispered: "can
the monk love?"
He put his arm about her, and they went into the dim dark greenness.
The moon rose slowly, a globe of pale golden fire which spilled
unceasingly a yellow flame upon the suspended billows of the forest.
Star after star emerged. Deep silence was in the woods, save for the
strange, passionate churring of a night-jar, where he leaned low from
a pine branch and called to his mate, whose heart throbbed a
flight-away amid the dewy shadows.
The wind was still. The white rays of the stars wandered over the
moveless, over the shadowless and breathless green lawns of the
tree-tops.
"What is that sound?" said Ardanna, a dim shape in the darkness, where
she lay in the arms of Cathal.
"I know not," said the youth; for the fevered blood in his veins sang
a song against his ears.
"Listen!"
Cathal listened. He heard nothing. His eyes dreamed again into the
silence.
"What is that sound?" she whispered against his heart once again. "It
is not from the sea, nor is it of the woods."
"It is the moan of Heaven," answered Cathal wearily: "_an acain
Pharais_."