And this is the thought that moves in his brain, as a cloud filled
with thunder
Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the dust of the stars:
_What boots it the glory of Colum, since he maketh a Sabbath to bless
me,_
_And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air and the sea?_
And with that the fly passed from their vision. In the cell was a most
wondrous sweet song, like the sound of far-off pipes over water.
Oran said in a low voice of awe, “O our God!”
Keir whispered, white with fear, “O God, my God!”
But Colum rose, and took a scourge from where it hung on the wall. “It
shall be for peace, Oran,” he said, with a grim smile flitting like a
bird above the nest of his black beard; “it shall be for peace, Keir!”
And with that he laid the scourge heavily upon the bent backs of Keir
and Oran, nor stayed his hand, nor let his three days’ fast weaken the
deep piety that was in the might of his arm, and because of the glory to
God.
Then, when he was weary, peace came into his heart, and he sighed
“_Amen!_”
“Amen!” said Oran the monk.
“Amen!” said Keir the monk.
“And this thing hath been done,” said Colum, “because of the evil wish
of you and the brethren, that I should break my fast, and eat of fish,
till God willeth it. And lo, I have learned a mystery. Ye shall all
witness to it on the morrow, which is the Sabbath.”
That night the monks wondered much. Only Oran and Keir cursed the fishes
in the deeps of the sea and the flies in the deeps of the air.
On the morrow, when the sun was yellow on the brown sea-weed, and there
was peace on the isle and upon the waters, Colum and the brotherhood
went slowly towards the sea.
At the meadows that are close to the sea, the Saint stood still. All
bowed their heads.
“O winged things of the air,” cried Colum, “draw near!”
With that the air was full of the hum of innumerous flies, midges, bees,
wasps, moths, and all winged insects. These settled upon the monks, who
moved not, but praised God in silence. “Glory and praise to God,” cried
Colum, “behold the Sabbath of the children of God that inhabit the deeps
of the air! Blessing and peace be upon them.”
“Peace! Peace!” cried the monks, with one voice.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!” cried Colum
the White, glad because of the glory to God.
“_An ainm an Athar, ’s an mhic, ’s an Spioraid Naoimh_,” cried the
monks, bowing reverently, and Oran and Keir deepest of all, because they
saw the fly that was of Colum’s cell leading the whole host, as though
it were their captain, and singing to them a marvellous sweet song.
Oran and Keir testified to this thing, and all were full of awe and
wonder, and Colum praised God.
Then the Saints and the brotherhood moved onward and went upon the
rocks. When all stood ankle-deep in the sea-weed that was swaying in the
tide, Colum cried:
“O finny creatures of the deep, draw near!”
And with that the whole sea shimmered as with silver and gold.
All the fishes of the sea, and the great eels, and the lobsters and the
crabs, came in a swift and terrible procession. Great was the glory.
Then Colum cried, “O fishes of the Deep, who is your king?”
Whereupon the herring, the mackerel, and the dog-fish swam forward, and
each claimed to be king. But the echo that ran from wave to wave said,
_The Herring is King_.
Then Colum said to the mackerel: “Sing the song that is upon you!”
And the mackerel sang the song of the wild rovers of the sea, and the
lust of pleasure.
Then Colum said, “But for God’s mercy, I would curse you, O false fish.”
Then he spake likewise to the dog-fish: and the dog-fish sang of
slaughter and the chase, and the joy of blood.
And Colum said: “Hell shall be your portion.”
And there was peace. And the Herring said:
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!”
Whereat all that mighty multitude, ere they sank into the deep, waved
their fins and their claws, each after his kind, and repeated as with
one voice:
“_An ainm an Athar, ’s an mhic, ’s an Spioraid Naoimh!_”
And the glory that was upon the Sound of Iona was as though God trailed
a starry net upon the waters, with a shining star in every little
hollow, and a flowing moon of gold on every wave.
Then Colum the White put out both his arms, and blessed the children of
God that are in the deeps of the sea and that are in the deeps of the
air.
That is how Sabbath came upon all living things upon Hy that is called
Iona, and within the air above Hy, and within the sea that is around Hy.
And the glory is Colum’s.
III
THE MOON-CHILD
A year and a day before God bade Colum arise to the Feast of Eternity,
Pòl the Freckled, the youngest of the brethren, came to him, on a night
of the nights.
“The moon is among the stars, O Colum. By his own will, and yours, old
Murtagh that is this day with God, is to be laid in the deep dry sand at
the east end of the isle.”
So the holy Saint rose from his bed of weariness, and went and blessed
the place that Murtagh lay in, and bade neither the creeping worm nor
any other creature to touch the sacred dead. “Let God only,” he said,
“let God alone strip that which he made to grow.”
But on his way back sleep passed from him. The sweet salt smell of the
sea was in his nostrils: he heard the running of a wave in all his
blood.
At the cells he turned, and bade the brethren go in. “Peace be with
you,” he sighed wearily.
Then he moved downwards towards the sea.
A great tenderness of late was upon Colum the Bishop. Ever since he had
blessed the fishes and the flies, the least of the children of God, his
soul had glowed in a whiter flame. There were deep seas of compassion in
his grey-blue eyes. One night he had waked, because God was there.
“O Christ,” he cried, bowing low his old grey head. “Sure, ah sure, the
gladness and the joy, because of the hour of the hours.”
But God said: “Not so, Colum, who keepest me upon the Cross. It is
Murtagh, Murtagh the Druid that was, whose soul I am taking to the
glory.”
With that Colum rose in awe and great grief. There was no light in his
cell. In the deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the beauty of
his heart wrought a soft gleam about him, and in that moonshine of good
deeds he rose and made his way to where Murtagh slept.
The old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet breath he drew—he, young and
fair now, and laughing with peace under the apples in Paradise.
“O Murtagh,” Colum cried, “and thee I thought the least of the brethren,
because that thou wast a Druid, and loved not to see thy pagan kindred
put to the sword if they would not repent. But, true, in my years I am
becoming as a boy who learns, knowing nothing. God wash the sin of pride
out of my life!”
At that a soft white shining, as of one winged and beautiful, stood
beside the dead.
“Art thou Murtagh?” whispered Colum, in deep awe.
“No, I am not Murtagh,” came as the breath of vanishing song.
“What art thou?”
“I am Peace,” said the glory.
Thereupon Colum sank to his knees, sobbing with joy, for the sorrow that
had been and was no more.
“Tell me, O White Peace,” he murmured, “can Murtagh hearken, there under
the apples where God is?”
“God’s love is a wind that blows hitherward and hence. Speak, and thou
shalt hear.”
Colum spake. “O Murtagh my brother, tell me in what way it is that I
still keep God crucified upon the Cross.”
There was a sound in the cell as of the morning-laughter of children, of
the singing of birds, of the sunlight streaming through the blue fields
of Heaven.
Then Murtagh’s voice came out of Paradise, sweet with the sweetness:
honey-sweet it was, and clothed with deep awe because of the glory.
“Colum, servant of Christ, arise!”
Colum rose, and was as a leaf there, a leaf that is in the wind.
“Colum, thine hour is not yet come. I see it, bathing in the white light
which is the Pool of Eternal Life, that is in the abyss where
deep-rooted are the Gates of Heaven.”
“And my sin, O Murtagh, my sin?”
“God is weary because thou hast not repented.”
“O my God and my God! Sure, Murtagh, if that is so, it is so, but it is
not for knowledge to me. Sure, O God, it is a blessing I have put on man
and woman, on beast and bird and fish, on creeping things and flying
things, on the green grass and the brown earth and the flowing wave, on
the wind that cometh and goeth, and on the mystery of the flame! Sure, O
God, I have sorrowed for all my sins: there is not one I have not fasted
and prayed for. Sorrow upon me!—Is it accursed I am, or what is the evil
that holdeth me by the hand?”
Then Murtagh, calling through sweet dreams and the rainbow-rain of happy
tears that make that place so wondrous and so fair, spake once more:
“O Colum, blind art thou. Hast thou yet repented because after that thou
didst capture the great black seal, that is a man under spells, thou,
with thy monks, didst crucify him upon the great rock at the place
where, long ago, thy coracle came ashore?”
“O Murtagh, favoured of God, will you not be explaining to Him that is
King of the Elements, that this was because the seal who was called
Black Angus wrought evil upon a mortal woman, and that of the sea-seed
was sprung one who had no soul?”
But no answer came to that, and when Colum looked about him, behold
there was no soft shining, but only the body of Murtagh the old monk.
With a heavy heart, and his soul like a sinking boat in a sea of pain,
he turned and went out into the night.
A fine, wonderful night it was. The moon lay low above the sea, and all
the flowing gold and flashing silver of the rippling running water
seemed to be a flood going that way and falling into the shining hollow
splendour.
Through the sea-weed the old Saint moved, weary and sad. When he came to
a sandy place he stopped. There, on a rock, he saw a little child. Naked
she was, though clad with soft white moonlight. In her hair were brown
weeds of the sea, gleaming golden because of the glow. In her hands was
a great shell, and at that shell was her mouth. And she was singing this
song; passing sweet to hear it was, with the sea-music that was in it:
A little lonely child am I
That have not any soul:
God made me but a homeless wave,
Without a goal.
A seal my father was, a seal
That once was man:
My mother loved him tho’ he was
’Neath mortal ban.
He took a wave and drownèd her,
She took a wave and lifted him:
And I was born where shadows are
I’ the sea-depths dim.
All through the sunny blue-sweet hours
I swim and glide in waters green;
Never by day the mournful shores
By me are seen.
But when the gloom is on the wave
A shell unto the shore I bring:
And then upon the rocks I sit
And plaintive sing.
O what is this wild song I sing,
With meanings strange and dim?
No soul am I, a wave am I,
And sing the Moon-Child’s hymn.
Softly Colum drew nigh.
“Peace,” he said. “Peace, little one. Ah tender little heart, peace!”
The child looked at him with wide sea-dusky eyes.
“Is it Colum the Holy you will be?”
“No, my fawn, my white dear babe: it is not Colum the Holy I am, but
Colum the poor fool that knew not God!”
“Is it you, O Colum, that put the sorrow on my mother, who is the
Sea-woman that lives in the whirlpool over there?”
“Ay, God forgive me!”
“Is it you, O Colum, that crucified the seal that was my father: him
that was a man once, and that was called Black Angus?”
“Ay, God forgive me!”
“Is it you, O Colum, that bade the children of Hy run away from me,
because I was a moon-child, and might win them by the sea-spell into the
green wave?”
“Ay, God forgive me!”
“Sure, dear Colum, it was to the glory of God, it was?”
“Ay, He knoweth it, and can hear it, too, from Murtagh, who died this
night.”
“Look!”
And at that Colum looked, and in a moon-gold wave he saw Black Angus,
the seal-man, drifting dark, and the eyes in his round head were the
eyes of love. And beside the man-seal swam a woman fair to see, and she
looked at him with joy, and with joy at the Moon-Child that was her own,
and at Colum with joy.