Byzantium

I stepped to the door. "God keep you this night, Secnab," I said. Suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, I yawned and decided not to request the night vigil after all.

Turning his head to look at me, Ruadh said, "Rest while you may, Aidan, for the night is coming when no man can rest."

I walked out into the darkness and raised my eyes to a sky bright-dusted with stars. The wind had died away and the world lay hushed and still. On a night such as this, any talk of danger and hardship was surely exaggerated. I returned to my cell and lay down on my pallet to sleep.

4

The next day was Passion Day, and no work is done-save that strictly necessary for the maintenance of the abbey and its inhabitants. Most of us renewed our tonsure, so to be clean-shaven for the Sabbath, or Resurrection Day.

The tonsure of the Cele De is distinctive; the front of the head is shaved from ear to ear, save for a thin line that forms a circlet, called the corona-symbol of the crown we hope one day to receive from our Lord's hand. This must be refreshed from time to time, of course, as the hair grows back in short, prickly bristles. Renewing the tonsure is a service we perform often for one another. Thus, we are all accomplished barbers.

As the day was warm, Dugal and I took it in turn to sit on a milking stool in the yard while the other performed the rite of the razor. Our brothers were likewise occupied, and we filled the yard with pleasant, if idle, chatter. I was just drying my new-shaven head with a cloth when Cellach summoned me.

"They are calling for you," he said, and I heard the weary resignation in his voice.

"Forgive me, master, I thought we were finished."

"So did I," he sighed. "But there will be no peace until they are happy. Go to them, son. See what you can do."

Well, our part of the book was completed. Nevertheless, Libir and Brocmal, still labouring over their long-finished leaves, insisted on reviewing all the work one last time. They beseeched Master Cellach with such zeal that he gave in just to silence them, and I was obliged to help.

I arrived to find that the two scribes had carefully laid out all the leaves, placing two or three on each empty table in the scriptorium. Then, beginning at the top, they moved from table to table, inspecting the leaves, heads down, noses almost touching the vellum, sharp eyes scanning the texts and pictures for invisible flaws. I followed, hands behind back, gazing at the wonderful work and stifling little cries of delight. Truly, it is a blessed book!

Not far into their inspection, however, the two demanding scribes found a blemish. "Aidan!" Brocmal cried, turning on me so fiercely that my first thought was that the mistake, whatever it was, had been mine. "Ink is needed!"

"This can be saved," Libir intoned solemnly, his face nearly pressed to the table. "A line or two…See? Here…and here."

"Christ be thanked," Brocmal agreed with exaggerated relief, bending over the suspect leaf. "I will prepare a pen." He turned and, seeing me looking on, shouted, "What is this, Aidan? The bishop arrives at any moment. We need ink! Why are you standing there like a post?"

"You did not say what colour is required."

"Red, of course!" he snapped.

"And blue," added Libir.

"Blue and red," Brocmal commanded. "Away with you, sluggard!"

We worked through most of the day this way, for having repaired one fault, they soon found others requiring instant attention-though I saw none of the supposed errors they so cheerfully discerned. We removed ourselves from the daily round, and from the midday table as well, in order to mend the damage.

It was just after none, and I was standing at the mixing table, pounding red lead and ochre in a mortar, when the bell sounded. Laying aside my tools, I quickly pulled on my mantle, gathered my cloak, and hurried into the scriptorium. "The bishop has arrived!" Brocmal announced, although Libir and I were already racing to the door. Out into the yard we joined the throng making for the gate.

Ranging ourselves in ranks to the right and left of the gate, we began singing a hymn to welcome our guests. Bishop Cadoc led the party, striding forth boldly for all he was a very old man. Yet, his step was strong and his eye keen as the eagle on the cambutta in his hand. This sacred symbol, fashioned in yellow gold atop his bishop's staff, gleamed with a holy light in the midday sun, scattering the shadows as he passed.

There were many monks with him-thirty altogether. I watched each one as he passed through the gate, and wondered which among them were The Chosen. I wondered also who carried the book. For, though I saw more than one bulga dangling from shoulder straps, I did not see any which I thought grand enough for the Book of Colum Cille.