Hi there, Happy Sunday
I nervously present to you, Chapter 1. Where we meet our angsty monk Shea and get a glimpse into his peaceful, monotonous life living on the island of Skellig. Let's find out if it stays that way...
Before we dive in, a quick note on pronunciation. Shea is pronounced ‘Shay’, Ruaidri is ‘Rory’.
Chapter 1
Shea felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow as he focused on placing the final piece of detail into the stone beneath his fingers. He pushed a calloused hand up over his forehead to force back yet another wayward strand of auburn hair that had fallen into his eyes, making a note to himself to ask one of the Brothers to cut it for him tomorrow. He took a long breath and returned his attention to his work. The ringing of the repetitive tapping of the chisel and mallet filled the otherwise empty work hut. They beat out a steady rhythm, falling into step with the whispering of the waves outside as beneath the guide of his hands, his vision slowly became reality. Long moments passed as he followed the pattern, until finally he allowed himself a sigh of relief and slowly placed his tools down on the bench. Flexing his sore fingers, he rubbed his thumbs across his palms to ease the cramp from them as he lent back to study to his work. Gently running his hand over the design, he let his fingertips trace over each line of the four pointed cross and the delicate swirls inlaid within it. Lingering there he gave the monument a small smile of satisfaction before standing to clean up the workshop.
Singing a quiet, chanting prayer beneath his breath he fell into the familiar routine. He swept the bench and floor of the dust and debris, taking care not to knock his newest creation as he did so. He pulled the leather apron over his head and folded it neatly at the end of the bench, placing the hammer and chisel alongside it. He stepped back to survey the area and check it was to his satisfaction, before giving it a nod of approval and hefting the carving into his arms. He placed it at the eastern edge of the workshop together with the other few pieces yet to be designated to a permanent resting place. He moved along the line of carvings, a hand gently brushing over the whirls of the patterns he’d laboured into them. He paused at the end of the row, savouring the connection to the stone beneath his skin. The smooth plane he’d honed into the surface stark against his own rough palms, inherited from the coarse grain as he had worked it from the pillar.
The sunlight was already fading as he let his chant trail off with a final prayer of thanksgiving and turned to leave the hut. Stepping through the small doorway, Shea was hit with a blast of salt and wind. He took a deep breath of the cold air and let it fill his lungs until they burnt. The sky was slowly bleeding into orange, the sun half sunken over the mainland already as he looked out from his vantage point high on the cliffs. The islands of Skellig, atop which their monastery stood, were a harsh line of steep of crags. Its only inhabitants aside from their order were sea birds; puffins and gulls that paid the Brothers no mind. The ridges rose severely up out of the ocean swell, like the fins of some great sea creature cresting up from beneath the waves. No beach met the shore, and no bay or marina existed to welcome the infrequent boats from the mainland. They had just a few small landings built by the monks for the currachs used to fish, each reached by long winding stairs that had been laid in stone. Despite its hostility, it held a beauty in Shea’s eye like nothing he’d ever found on mainland. To be so free from the distractions of society left only the clouds and the wind between him and God.
The workshop sat just past the walls of the main compound, allowing it an unbroken view out beyond the ridge. He watched the sun drift ever closer to the earth until it was almost complete dark, its descent coming quicker by the day as autumn drew closer to winter. He turned away from the horizon and made his way up to the main oratory, passing through the threshold into the dimly lit interior. There, a handful of the other brothers were already seated, taking their evening meals. Ruaidri’s eyes found Shea’s almost as soon as he entered and the young man raised a hand in greeting. Of the nine other monks who currently resided on the island, Ruaidri was the only one who still bothered to make an effort in speaking to Shea. The rest had long given up on garnering any conversation from him, but despite rebuffing his previous attempts Ruaidri refused to be deterred.
It would be a lie to say he had never been tempted to allow himself the indulgence of such an acquaintance. The gentle calm that emanated from the other man was often a welcoming comfort, but that was exactly why Shea was so determined to prevent such a relationship from forming. He was not here to seek comfort or companionship; his only purpose was the pursuit of his faith. He felt Ruaidri’s eyes follow him across the small chamber as he made his way over to the fire, calling out as he passed the point nearest the table.
“Brother, God go with you”
The other monks voice had a deep rasp to it, which Shea had long felt sat at odds with his kindly expression.
“And with you, Brother” he replied, dipping his head in acknowledgment.
“Won’t you sit and break bread with us? It’s been some time since we last shared a meal” Ruaidri said, shifting his position on the bench to begin making room for another.
“I thank you for your kindness, Brother, but I must decline. God calls me to solitary reflection” Shea replied, his voice trailing off to barely a whisper. He closed the distance between himself and the stove, fetched his bowl and moved to make a quiet exit.
To his surprise, Ruaidri spoke again. Except this time his voice was lacking its usual lightness. “I feel, Brother, that much of God’s wisdom can be gleaned through his presentation in others. He made us in his image, our bonds with each other are manifestations of our bonds with him. We all sought this island for its solitude, so that we might find a deeper connection with the Lord, but there is still His beauty to be found in our kinship as Brothers sharing such a path.”
Shea paused in his stride – he was almost at the door now – but did not turn back round to face the table.
“I always welcome your wisdom, Brother, and am honoured that you share it with one such as myself. But I must follow my calling, my path to His light lies only in absolute devotion”.
Without waiting, he stepped back out into the cool evening air, unaware of the sorrow that passed over Ruaidri’s features as he watched him go.
Shea made his way swiftly through the collection of stone clochans until reaching his own at the end of the cluster. When he first arrived here five years ago, he had shared the small hut with another of the monks residing on the island. The man had been well into his grey hairs, his clouded eyes unable to make out the birds in the distance. Each morning they would fish for their supper and each morning it would take the older man a little longer to climb back up to the compound. Finally, in the spring of this year he had taken the first boat of the season back to the mainland to retire to another monastery. Shea had vowed to himself as he watched the man go that he would remain until his final breath, no matter how long it took him to climb the stairs each day. His first two years of monastic life had been on the mainland, far to the north of Skellig near his birthplace in Louth. The time was not remembered fondly. He shook the memory from his head before it could threaten him and sat down on the bed with a sigh. Placing the bowl on a small table the monk lit his only candle, its faint glow filling the dim chamber as the last of the sun’s light began to slip away.
He picked the hunk of bread up from the bowl and broke a few chunks from it, his eyes wandering over to the small wooden basket across the room. Drawing himself back to his feet, he crossed the space to kneel before it. The little bird chirped in the delight at the prospect of food, hungrily taking the scraps from Shea’s fingers. Slowly, he reached out to place a hand over its soft head, feeling the warmth spread into his chilled palm. Letting out a long breath at the sensation, he noticed with a pang of relief that it was no longer holding it’s left wing tight to its body. Rather, it was flapping them both in excitement at its meal. Despite himself, a slight smile flickered over his face in response.
“A few more days and you should be able to return to your home, little one” he whispered, running his thumb over the bird’s head a few times before turning his attention back to the bowl of fish stew.
He composed his mind into a long-practiced emptiness as he uttered a prayer of thanks before making quick work of the meal. Laying the empty bowl on the table with soft clunk, he lent forward to blow out the candle. Silvery moonlight cloaked the room as Shea shifted from the bed to kneel in prayer before the small opening in the wall. The gentle murmuring of his worship filled the space, enveloping him as committed his soul to God. When sleep finally began to tug at him, he crossed himself and climbed into bed.
Laying in the darkness, rare thoughts strayed into his mind and sent it wandering. He found himself playing Ruaidri’s words back to himself. He could see the faint outlines the clochan’s stone roof, his eyes tracing the patchwork lines where the slabs interconnected. In the five years since he came to Skellig, he had barely allowed himself a moment to reflect on the path that had led him here. Yet now flashes of memory forced their way into his consciousness.
Being held in a gentle embrace, listening to a lilting song.
The smouldering remains of a village, the screams of a woman.
A long and lonely trek, a mirage of safety in the shelter of the monastery where he took his vows.
The blurred face of the Abbot there, distant and out of focus drifted into his mind's eye.
Countless days had passed since he had come to the realisation that faith in God was the only thing that mattered in life. Long since had he given this path his absolute devotion. But now in the quiet of the night, he felt a tug in his chest that he tried and failed to ignore. Where it was attempting to lead him he did not know, but he knew for certain he had no desire to find out. He crossed himself and forced his mind to clear, to think only of God. Eventually, he fell into the darkness of a dreamless sleep.
***
Shea woke to the familiar calls of gulls and the crashing of waves from beyond his hut. He rose slowly, groggier than he usually found himself on waking. Forcing himself from the sheets, he moved wearily across the small room to splash his face with water from his small pail. It was icy cold and sent a shiver down his spine but he relished the sensation. Kneeling before the small window he began his morning prayers: he took his time over the words, carefully reciting each passage and phrase with absolute determination to drag his mind fully into the present moment. The memories of the previous night still haunted the edges of his thoughts, threatening to pull him away from his hard-won tranquillity. He strained to fill his consciousness only with devotion and worship. Finishing the last sentence, he held himself still, breathing in the salt from the sea air and focusing his entire being on his connection to God. The cold from the floor had seeped up through his legs by the time he finally tore himself away to prepare for the morning's chores. He took the small chunk of bread he had kept aside from the previous evenings meal and broke it apart for his little companion, who chirped merrily at its breakfast. He sighed and moved his hand toward the bird's head when a cry interrupted him, his hand hanging in mid-air in shock at such a sound.
The words were unclear, muffled by the double layer of stone surrounding him. He leapt up and pulled his robe over his head, expecting to see flames or perhaps one of his brothers that had taken ill. Instead, he saw their Abbot waving his sword in the air, calling them to arms.
“Longboat! Longboat on the northern shore!”
Shea stood just beyond his doorway, frozen to the spot as he watched the commotion rise before him. It was a moment they had all known could come at any point: the raiders had been targeting monasteries all along the northern coast for months. It was only time and God’s grace that kept them away, but the Norsemen had finally found their way back to the Skellig islands. Shea's eyes followed the glint of the steel of the Abbots blade as it caught the light of the morning sun. The motion snapped him from his reverie. He turned, forcing his feet to carry him back into the hut, to his small chest atop which rested his own sword. He hefted it with both hands, its familiar weight helping to push away the haze that had begun to settle over his senses. He strapped on the belt and laid his hand over the hilt at his hip, tightening his grip on the leather wrapping until his knuckles went white.
The common folk called their order warrior monks, yet they did not fight in the corporeal sense. Their war was that of the soul, to protect the people from damnation. Here on Skellig however, they were warriors in both the spiritual and the physical battles of men. Their Abbot had long served on the island and witnessed the last raids of the Northmen. After that, he had declared that it was their duty to train their bodies as well as their minds so that they might better serve God and his flock. Thus, it had become a part of their morning routine that they would drill in swordplay each day before breaking their fast. Most of the Brothers found it an unwelcome task, they had not entered service to hold steel in their hands. Shea however relished the weight of the blade as he guided it through the motions the Abbot instructed them in. He was always the last to finish, welcoming the burn in his legs as he repeated move after move.
The drills felt like a childish memory now as he stepped back out into the crisp morning air. The rest of his Brothers had gathered in the centre of the compound, and though none greeted Shea as he approached, they shifted their position slightly so that he may stand within their small ring as the Abbot addressed them.
“My brothers in Christ, today we must fight not just the battles of the soul but also those of the flesh. Though we came here as warriors for the spirit, we will not shy away from the need to protect our holy lands from the heathen raiders.” His face was somber but there was no fear in his expression, his voice grim but steady. “If God calls us to return to him today then so be it, it is by his Grace that we live and we die”
They all nodded and crossed themselves as the Abbot turned and guided them out of the main walls. As he continued on the path towards the northern stairs, Shea realised with horror that he meant to lead them down toward the shore. He rushed forwards, calling out as he pushed his way through their small group for him to stop. They all turned to him in shock, having never heard him raise his voice in all his years with them.
“We must hold the top of the stairway” he tried to hold his tone, keep his voice even and controlled. “We must not meet them at the shore, where they hold the advantage.”
The Abbot regarded him for a moment before shaking his head.
“We cannot allow heathen feet to tread this holy ground. We must stop them as soon as they disembark.” He spoke quickly and left no time for further debate, turning sharply to continue down the stone steps. The other Brothers followed after him, but Shea’s feet seemed stuck to the spot. He hadn’t noticed Ruaidri standing behind him, almost jumping as the other man placed a gentle hand on his soldier.
“Do not be disheartened. The Abbot is right, our duty is to protect the sanctity of this place.” He stepped round to meet Shea’s eyes as he spoke. He tightened his grip on his shoulder, the only sign of fear he let show. “Come, we must not stay behind and leave them to fight without us. We all know you are our best with a blade.”
They hastened down the steps to find the Brothers positioning themselves along the rocky bases of the roughhewn landing, just in time to see the boat draw in. The morning sunlight sparked off at least 40 helmets and shield bosses. The boat reached the shallows and men began jumping out to into the water. Such a vessel was too big and unwieldy for their dock and the seamen knew they were better off making their own way to the shore. Shea drew his sword, the rasp of steel against scabbard echoing around him as his Brothers did the same. For a long moment he watched and prayed as the Norsemen hauled themselves up onto the rocks and began to make their way up the bluffs. He felt every beat of his heart in his chest, felt every drag of cold sea air force its way down his throat. The moment stretched on. He felt suspended in it, as though this waiting would become his eternity. A cry rose up from one of his Brothers, jolting Shea from his reverie as he watched Fergus, the oldest among them after the Abbot, sprint down towards the nearest man. Sword met axe and they held there, as if starting a dance before the music began. The raider shifted, lowering his body and turning his weight away from Fergus. It was enough to knock the monk off balance and the raider took his chance, bringing his axe down in a sickening arc that landed square in Fergus’ back.
With that, the brutal reality of battle erupted on the shores of Skellig. The monks held their ground and for a short time managed to best the first few raiders. Steeling a few fleeting glances amongst one another, they were momentarily encouraged by their initial success, but it was only a matter of time until the reality of the situation became apparent. For every attacker that was brought down, two more took his place. Gradually Brother after Brother fell and until only Shea, Ruaidri and the Abbot were left standing, panting for breath. Shea watched as a huge raider charged towards the Abbot and he rushed to intercept him without a second thought. Stumbling across the spray sodden rocks, barely holding onto his footing, Shea’s blade just managed to meet the raiders swing. He heard Ruaidri cry out, shouting something along with his name but the words were lost in the ring of clashing metal. The man before him took advantage of his distraction and surged forwards, making to knock him down. The raiders helmet crashed into Shea’s forehead but by some miracle of God’s grace, he managed to keep his balance. Twisting with the bigger man's movement, he brought his sword up and thrust it into the raiders gut. A mix of disgust and satisfaction flowed through him as he yanked the blade back out. He shifted, ready to move his attention onto the next threat - running his sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the blood and grime as a burst of pain exploded through his side.
He’d been so focused on the immediate confrontation that he hadn’t noticed another raider approaching from his left. He saw a blur of dark hair and rough spun cloth behind his attacker as Ruaidri closed in to come to his aid, but it was too late. Dark spots flooded his vision, the din of ringing metal and calling gulls drowned out by the rush of blood through his ears. Absently, he felt another twinge of pain as he fell to his knees.
Cold, wet rock rose up to rest against his cheek. The rushing in his ears faded to silence. He could no longer tell if the fighting was still happening. He wondered how long Ruaidri and the Abbot would manage to hold out as a brutal chill crept into his limbs. The blood pooling from the wound in his side was a stark warmth against the frigid ground. Slowly, he realised he should be praying. His mind fumbled for the right verse as he began to move his lips to form the words. He forced himself to close his eyes, told himself that all things were God’s will and he would go gladly into His embrace. That there was no better way to die than in the defence of Him.
He was not afraid; he would not try and fight the end. Numbness enveloped his body and he let the darkness take him.
***
In the dark, it was quiet. A muffled, smothering kind of silence; as though someone had laid a blanket over the world to stifle anything beneath it. Shea realised he could still feel his body, even though he couldn’t see it. He knew he was standing now – no longer lying on the wet rocky shoreline. He no longer felt the cold in his limbs or the salty wind on his skin. Everything here was still. He turned his head and tried to take a step, but there was no sensation of earth beneath his feet, he could see no change or shift in the darkness as he tried to move. Was this his final challenge before being greeted by God? Did he have to make his way through the darkness until he found His light?
He forced himself to place one foot before the other, as much as he could in this place of nothingness. Each attempt at movement was met with no response from the void around him, not even an answer of sensation within his own body. So, he went on, dragging his feet through a sea of never ceasing dark.
Next month, we find out where Shea is heading and meet a certain someone who will be making Shea ask a lot of questions about the world as he knows it.