4 August 2008
Dear Professor Horn,
I write this letter to relate a recent discovery that I made at the Monastery of Buithe in the Irish county of Louth. Knowing of your archeological work at Skellig Michael, I believe my finding sheds some light on the enigma of the south peak ruins that you described in your lovely treatise, though I admit even greater mysteries are raised by my discovery. During our excavations at Buithe we came upon the tomb of one Brother Aidan Ó Rónáin, which we dated to the eighth century. Among his remains, we found a series of unbound sheepskin pages wrapped in crumbling leather. After careful extraction, we established the pages bore writings in Aidan’s hand. Remarkably, these appear to be an account of a pilgrimage to the island monastery of Skellig. It has taken a year to translate the faded Latin script, but the labor was well worth it. Rather than paraphrasing Brother Aidan’s words, I think it best to provide you the translation with minimum commentary. Precise dates were not recorded with the documents so I used the translation to organize the entries chronologically. I will be interested to hear your response. For myself, I am still haunted by the experience.
Sincerely,
Ryan Murray, Professor
University College Dublin, School of Archaeology
encl:
Here follow the words of Brother Aidan. I have taken some liberties to modernize the style, but I have made every effort to be true his meaning. (RM)
To witness the island’s approach quickened my heart. Its dark peaks loomed upon the waves like twin pyramids on the rolling sands of Egypt. I quelled my sinful excitement as best I could by remembering my purpose. I had vowed to serve a trial of seclusion on Great Skellig and my mind required fitting discipline.
The sea was unquiet when the boatman guided his currach into the tiny cove beneath the island’s shadow. The craft rocked so that I nearly fell into the icy water upon making the leap to the stone pier. There I was deposited with my tiny satchel of belongings. The boatman warned that there would be no brother to greet me and he only pointed to the steep stair carved into the side of the island. I said farewell to the man and tarried a while to watch his sail vanish among the waves. After taking a final gaze upon the distant green hills of Hibernia, I started my climb. As I mounted the steps, I felt humbled to think that the feet of Saint Fionan himself had touched that stair.
The Skellig stair became a lesson in faith. I counted six hundred steps when exhausted and shaking I reached the main terrace. Many prayers passed my lips on that climb for the view downward was terrifying. To lose footing would surely be rewarded with death upon jagged rock. After recovering my breath, my eyes welcomed the sight of the monastery’s humble assembly of stone buildings. Here was a place far from worldly distraction where a good man could know his god. Beyond the courtyard, I spied brothers preparing a vegetable garden and I shouted to gain their attention. They turned and one broke from the group to greet me while the others resumed their labors. A wan faced brother offered a grudging welcome and gave his name as Cummian. In turn, I presented myself and he guided me to the abbot for my disposition.
My audience with Abbot Conchad was uninviting. From a face the shape of a cruel ax, his eyes bore down on me like an avenging angel. He was disturbed by the time of my arrival. All of the hermitages on the island were presently occupied and I had come when food stores were limited. I explained that I was prepared for hardship and did not fear suffering, but he seemed skeptical and I feared he might send me swimming back to Hibernia. To my relief, he decided that I was to labor with the other monks until a brother returned from a hermitage. I was then to immediately begin my trial of seclusion. Finally, before releasing me to Cummian, he commanded that on no account should I scale the path to the south peak. Later when I queried Cummian regarding the restriction, he responded only with these words, “It is a dangerous path.”
After introductions to my fellow monks, Brother Cummian showed me to a sleeping shelf set in the wall of one of the communal quarters. Empty beds were available as only twenty monks were in residence and five of those were in seclusion among the island hermitages. That first evening upon sharing a meal and prayers with my brothers, I was impressed by their vitality considering their harsh life. Hardship and meager food often leave even the hail with rheum and boils, especially after a long winter. It seemed God favored the island monastery.
In the days after my arrival, I became acquainted with my duties and the rhythms of the monastery. In addition to tending to barley and vegetable plantings, much time was spent either fishing or scaling cliffs in search of fooran eggs. The labor was lightened by spectacular vistas which I took as a reminder of God’s ever present touch, but it was on the thirteenth day of my stay that I witnessed the miracle.
On that day Brother Fergus lost his footing while reaching into a bird’s nest. He fell a great distance, shattering a leg and arm. The poor brother screamed in pain as we hauled him to the monastery and did our best to set him down comfortably. Abbot Conchad soon arrived to examine the broken man. Immediately, the abbot ordered a brother to fetch a flask of holy wine and commanded the rest of us to drop to our knees and pray for our injured Fergus. The wine arrived shortly and a cup was quickly filled. From beneath his robe, the abbot withdrew a vial of fine Roman glass and removed its stopper. He let three red drops fall into the cup before returning the vial. He tipped the cup to Brother Fergus’ mouth and said “Let the blood of Christ heal you.”
Brother Fergus drained the cup. His face relaxed and glowed with pious joy. A moment later, he was asleep. Abbot Conchad then instructed us to cover Fergus with robes and return to our duties. That night I went to my niche doubting Fergus would live, yet to my amazement he joined us at morning prayers with no sign of injury. Never had I felt my faith so buoyed, yet my fellow brothers seemed to take this event in stride. I expressed my wonderment to Cummian and he only replied, “This is a place of miracles.” I had come to learn that Cummian was a man of sparse words.
When the terrace planting had been completed, I was permitted more time to prepare for my trial of seclusion. Each day I would seek a lonely crag to sit upon, spending the day in prayer and returning to the monastery just before nightfall. It was on a day when I selected a ledge beneath the forbidden south peak that I first heard the song. On Great Skellig the wind never rests. One becomes familiar with its eerie tones as it dances over the jagged rocks. But when my contemplation was interrupted by a song in the words of the ancient tongue of Hibernia, it captured my full attention. It was a woman’s voice and my ears strained to hear the words before they were lost among the Skellig’s perpetual blusters. Despite my efforts, I could only discern enough to know that the song was directed to the wind and fraught with melancholy. At first, I did not report this strange discovery, but rather returned to the same place the next day to assure myself that it was not a trick of the wind and sea. Again I heard the ethereal voice lilting from the south peak. The wind replied with a chorus of moans adding to the melancholic cry. As I listened my heart grew heavy with sorrow. The beautiful voice had taken me and like the wind I wanted to howl in outrage.
After evening prayers, I mentioned my mysterious discovery to Brother Cummian. His reply was a warning and less brief than usual. “Before Saint Fionan set foot on this island, the Tuatha De Danann worshipped here. Perhaps, their voices still echo among the peaks. Do not listen to them or you may succumb to pagan temptation.”
In spite of Cummian’s warning I could not ignore that song. Each day I returned to listen and gather its meaning. It was indeed an appeal to the wind, more precisely, instructions to bear the woman from her misery. My heart ached with sorrow and I felt driven to find the source of that unhappy voice. I looked up. A triangle of white gulls hung steadfast in the wind pointing to the forbidden peak. I took it as a sign from God.
It did not take long to find the footholds that marked the path to the south peak. I soon discovered that Cummian had misled me; the way was steep but no more dangerous than other climbs I had ventured. The path ended on a narrow terrace bearing a small stone chapel. Here, the wind was especially fierce as if it wished to tear the chapel from its foundation. My robes whipped around me as I approached the building. A heavy wooden door covered the entrance. No lock was affixed to it. Still, it required all of my strength to pull it open against the refusing wind and it slammed shut behind me when I entered.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, they were drawn to a glow in back of the room. Oddly, no altar, cross or other Christian relic obscured my view. I approached the glow, it cried out in alarm and then I saw her. She was a striking beauty in the spring of maidenhood. Only a gossamer gown covered her nakedness. Her waist long hair was raven black and her skin glowed like moonlight. Most striking, were her eyes, impossibly large and filled with despair. Shackles and chains of pure silver bound her ankles and wrists. It was then that I realized what I was witnessing. Like all children, I had heard tales of the faerie folk that spirited the hills, forests and wind. Only bonds of pure silver could hold them in the world of mortals. These were but obscene pagan myths, stories affronting the true Christian God, yet mine own eyes challenged my faith. While my mind battled, my heart was broken by the vision. A creature of immortal beauty imprisoned in an abominable hovel seemed an unforgivable sin.
When I kneeled to speak with the poor creature, she recoiled in fear. Then I saw the wounds, numerous cuts along the lengths of her forearms. I suppressed a howl of outrage for here was the source of the abbot’s miracles and the monks’ vitality. The blood of a faerie is said to heal the wounds of mortals and give them health. To calm the child, I used the old tongue to tell her that the wind had called me. She relaxed and allowed me to examine her shackles. I pulled at their moorings but to no effect. A key was needed, which was surely in the abbot’s possession. “I will return to free you.” I said in the old tongue. Tears wet my cheeks as I pushed my way into the angry wind.
With all haste, I descended the peak and returned to the monastery. I stormed into the abbot’s chamber with the wind at my back. Insulted, his axe-face turned on me with an expression of contempt. “Leave my chamber,” he commanded.
“I have seen her. Release her!” I shouted.
He called me a disobedient meddler. “She is a soul-less abomination,” he said.
“Yet you use her pagan blood in the name of Christ.” I accused.
“I use her blood as I would eat a fooran’s egg.” He said disdainfully.
Overcome with rage, I demanded the key to her bonds. When he reached a hand to his chest and refused, I knew then where he kept the key. With the wind still raging in my ears, I stormed forward, pinned the abbot against the wall and tore the chain from his neck. A silver key and a Roman vial dangled upon it. I shattered the vial upon the floor before rushing back to the south peak. Clangs of alarm sounded behind me.
It was near sunset when I reached the south peak chapel. I pulled the chapel door and this time the wind thrust it wide open. I rushed to the girl whose eyes were now filled with hope. In moments, I had freed her of her bonds. She stood to full height and said in the old tongue, “My name is Cliona. When you are in need whisper it to the wind.”
She then requested that I kneel and kissed my forehead as a queen would bless her subject. Instantly, my soul filled with pure light.
I followed her out of the chapel and she walked to a precipice overlooking the sea. She turned to me, gently touched a finger to my chest and said “You will sleep here tonight.” Then she spread her gossamer gown and the wind carried her away in a mist.
When the mist cleared, I saw long ships on the sea below, their sails reflecting the blood red sunset. I then understood that the clangs of alarm were not raised for me. The wind had carried Saxon raiders to Great Skellig. Yet, I was unafraid for a strange weariness came over me and I stumbled into the little chapel where I slept in the straw that had been Cliona’s cruel bed.
I rose at morning light to find that the long ships had left. Upon returning to the monastery, its few combustibles still smoldered among the dead abbot and other brothers who had not escaped to remote parts of the island. Even knowing the cruelty they had offered Cliona, I was grief stricken to find the mutilated bodies of men with whom I had prayed and labored. Those who survived regrouped to bury the dead and begin the reconstruction. The south peak was abandoned and in the years that followed I learned that wind and weather had destroyed Cliona’s prison.
I departed Great Skellig when the next currach arrived from the mainland. Upon returning to my home monastery, I put these words to vellum to be read only by myself that even in my dotage I would not forget Cliona. I dare not speak of it, but the memory of the faerie’s kiss has bore me through dark times where my Christian prayers have failed.
