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Rain beat on the stone window ledge. Abbott Sean Dermott stared out the narrow, unglazed casement in his cell at St. Feckin’s church. His woolen robes fluttered in the breeze when he looked out over the seaside village. The once peaceful gray sky, which had followed him on his week-long trek from St. Columba’s monastery in Kells to the coastal church in Termonfeckin for his long-awaited sabbatical, grew dark with ominous clouds carried by gale winds. The clouds released pounding rain that swept over the monastery, then thundered east to the sea. A flash of lightning lit up the skyline for an instant, revealing glimmering wet stonewalls of the nearby round tower. A flicker of a distant memory came and went through his mind, leaving him motionless.
An abrupt brush of silky fur against his ankle startled him back to the present. Sean reached down and gently picked up the calico cat, whose purr deepened while he scratched its ears. He smiled.
He pulled the heavy woolen tapestry of the crucifixion over the open window frame to keep the storm from blowing out the candle on the corner of the small wooden writing desk.
“I have work to do, Simon, and so do you,” Sean said, releasing the cat to the floor. “Now, go find some mice.” He observed the feline slowly saunter away before he settled on the narrow oak seat next to the desk.
From the drawer, he brought out a new page for his transcription of events. His journal was a weekly record that he was required to keep as part of his position as Abbott of the Monastery. This book would be sent to the Catholic Church in Rome at the end of the year, as part of their contribution to the church for sharing the Catholic doctrine with the people. Even on sabbatical, he wrote important events in the journal.
The parchment was set alongside the treasured bible he’d illuminated upon since he was a young scribe. He sharpened the quill with the small blade, dipped the end into the gall inkwell, and began to write.
“With such a storm raging outside, I feel that we, my fellow monks and I, can rest easy this night. No Norseman would be out to raid during such a storm, or would survive its fury, to terrify the coast of Hibernia.”
Sean paused, wondering whether he should write about the radiant star with the giant tail he had seen the night before. He remembered reading a similar passage of a brilliant star near the beginning of the ceremonial bible. The same bible he’d illustrated the Lord’s words in, next to his parchment on the small desk. Making a mental note to himself to find that passage again after his required journal entries, he struggled to continue his writing.
The thought of the mysterious star would not leave his mind. Putting down the quill, he opened the precious book, perusing the pages until he found the passage with the illustration of the luminous star.
Finding only a date from seventy-six years prior, late spring, next to the star drawing, he searched through the book again.
He spied the first page he’d illuminated in the bible. His eyes closed, and he thought back thirty years to when he first was a novice scribe, at St. Columba’s Monastery, on the Island of Iona.
* * *
AT ONLY SIXTEEN, SEAN had been given the exceptional opportunity to be the caretaker of the ceremonial bible Abbot Matthew had been working on since Matthew was a young scribe. The large book was held together with a leather cover and decorated with a jeweled binding. Abbott Matthew kept the special book in a golden shrine, except when he was busy scribing and illustrating upon the vellum.
The Abbott had observed Sean’s work in the scriptoria, along with over a hundred other scribes. Matthew appraised every scribe for his quality of an exact replica of the document they were given to copy, from bible gospels to Greek comedies and tragedies.
Nothing special, Sean remembered, all scribes were to make their manuscripts exact. Only the lead scribe had caught him drawing a bird in one of the margins of the parchments. The page with the doodle was immediately brought to the attention of the Abbott.
Sean went to Abbott Matthew for further instruction from that day on.
Sean remembered how the Abbott watched him practice the fine details transcribed into the work along with the other novices. The Abbott remarked on how well he made the letters in accordance to the first book, although Abbott Matthew admonished Sean for the little eccentricities he made with color and details of the gospels.
Since he was a young scribe at the time, Sean asked for indulgence to add detail with illustrations. He explained to Abbott Matthew that these illustrations would stand out as a visual representation, enhancing the passage described, especially for those who could not read.
Late one night, while the Abbott Matthew watched Sean transcribe a passage, Matthew explained the history of the book to Sean.
In 760 A.D., Abbott Stephen began transcribing the special book of gospels that Sean now held. After years of careful depiction, Abbott Stephen had given the book to Matthew to continue.
Matthew drew his own special illustrations on this manuscript while a novice scribe. The addition of illustrations by Matthew angered Abbott Stephen, for it changed the book from Stephen’s own concept. Afterwards, any elaborate illustrations by Matthew were kept to a minimum apart from the original text.
In one of their conversations regarding the book, Sean remembered Abbott Matthew say, “Over the years, as a scribe and now Abbott, I took pride in my work on the book, even though that trait is one of the seven deadly sins. I also knew that someday I’d have to pass it on to another promising scribe.” Then he stared straight into Sean’s eyes and said, “Don’t disappoint me.”
Months passed, and Sean observed how Abbott Matthew’s hands ached from stiffness in his joints, preventing him from holding a quill. Only the honey mead the monks brewed and stored in the tunnels underneath the monastery helped relieve some of the pain.
Then it came, the sound of doom. He shuddered to himself.
He remembered how the peaceful rainstorm outside suddenly exploded into nightmarish horror. It began with thunderous pounding against the bolted door of the monastery.
Sean witnessed the terror in the eyes of the Abbott as Matthew made the sign of the cross over himself and muttered, “Not again! Lord, help us all!”
The wood door finally shattered, smashed open by a battering ram.
Sean sat frozen while the raiders screamed curses of death and charged into the room, terrifying the monks.
“Norsemen! Run!” Matthew screamed and pushed Sean forward off the wooden stool.
Sean’s eyes filled with shock when he glimpsed the large double-bladed bloodied axes silently slashing through the air in wide strokes.
Sean remembered he was responsible for the Abbott’s book. Keeping low to the ground, away from the slaughter, he scrambled back to the table. With a slow, shaking hand, he slid the book from the desk. It teetered on its binding and landed on the floor with a clatter that echoed through the screams.
He peered around the desk legs to see if anyone noticed, grasped the book to his chest, and quietly crept away. He slid along the wall to keep hidden and out of range of the deadly blows by the Norsemen.
Passing several of the slaughtered men who lay in a heap of blood, he felt nausea begin to take over. At the sight of Abbott Matthew lying with his head clinging to his body by only the skin at the back of his neck, he crossed himself, backed away and vomited.
Sean scanned his surroundings again and spied a fire blazing bright from the room behind one of the raiders. He noticed that the man was covered with a leather jerkin, only spotting the darkened image of a wolf on his chest as the man turned towards him and sneered.
With the book clutched in his arms, he quickly scrambled under rickety scribe desks and over chairs to escape from the carnage behind him.
Running down the path, he spied the hatch to the tunnel that stored the mead. He quickly opened it, stumbling downward, and dragging the door closed behind him.
The gloomy darkness enveloped him as he paused near the door catching his breath. The blood coursing through his body, made it hard to hear anything but the rush of fluid in his ears. When it appeared no one had followed him, his breathing calmed.
Sean rushed through a tunnel, slammed into the side of a mead barrel, and dropped the book. He cursed himself silently. Now he had to find the book again without the aid of any light.
He stopped moving when the door hinge squeaked. His heart pumped harder as he searched for a place to hide. Sean accidentally kicked the book in the dirt at the end of the cask.
His eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he watched a Norseman enter the room. The raider seemed to be heading straight towards his hiding place. Sean quickly grabbed the book and took off running.
He followed the tunnels to the exit door, pushed open the door and fell into the gardens. His tired legs could move no more. He dragged his body forward with his arms, coming to rest behind one of the beehives, waiting silently, watching his warm breath hover before his face in the cold autumn night air.
When he heard approaching footsteps, he clutched the book and prayed silently.
A sword sliced through the square box holding the hives, missing the top of Sean’s head by mere inches. Just over the top of the jagged ends of the wooden box stood the tall blond man he’d seen earlier. Sean noticed a faint buzzing coming from the opened box. The bees were slowly waking because of the temperature.
He held the book tight to his chest and slowly stood in front of the Norseman. He tilted his head back to see the face of the man who stood a head taller than his own height of five and a half feet. Sean took note of this man’s appearance before he was to meet God.
The Norseman’s face was framed by long blonde hair, a mustache and beard that went down to his chest. Brilliant sapphire blue eyes stared at Sean. The snarling red wolf design on the man’s leather jerkin appeared poised to attack.
The Norseman withdrew his sword and pointed it toward the book Sean held.
Trembling, Sean shook his head in defiance. He would not willingly give up the prized book.
The man turned away for a moment, then the back of his hand came back around and hit Sean across his cheek, knocking him to the ground. The book slipped from his grasp.
Momentarily stunned, Sean peeked through half-closed eyelids. The man snatched the book from the ground. Sean tried to keep his body from trembling when he heard the Norseman’s throaty grumble.
Sean remained motionless as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.
The faint crinkling of pages of vellum being flipped through, tensed Sean’s nerves further, then the book slamming closed almost made him jump out his skin.
The buzzing came closer. Sean opened one eye. The man was cautiously surveying the surrounding area. Then, the Norsemen plucked the jewels from their setting on the bookbinding, and tossed them in small drawstring satchel at his waist.
“Ow!” the man yelled.
Sean’s eyes flew open. The man whirled around, trying to combat the bees. He flung the heavy book at the attacking insects. It crashed to the ground near Sean. Moving quickly, Sean snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and dashed towards the bushes near the apiary. He silently thanked God for sparing his life while he watched the Norseman run back towards the monastery, bees close behind.
For the rest of the night, Sean remained in hiding, a silent witness, while books and manuscripts were heaped into a pile, and set ablaze.
Swift as the Norsemen arrived, they clamored back to their long ships, taking with them all the monastic treasure they could carry, finally departing the shores of Iona, while black smoke filled the air.
* * *
“MEOW.”
Sean gasped when he heard the soft call of his furry friend, bent his head down and smiled to see Simon at his feet. Sitting upright, Sean placed the lid over the inkwell. Glancing at the book, he examined a bird he drew soon after the raid, noticing he used unique blue ink for feathers. The rare and prized ultramarine ink used to highlight special areas of the manuscript reminded Sean of the Norseman’s eyes that fateful night. Closing the book, Sean hoped his work on the book did not disappoint Abbott Matthew, even if only in his memory.
The tapestry fluttered against the open casement once more, and Sean pushed his wooden chair back from the table. He picked up Simon, cradling the cat in his arms while he shuffled over to the heavy oak door and opened it slightly.
While stroking the cat’s neck, Sean listened. The rain continued to beat hard against the door, sounding like the bodhrán, a goatskin drum the people of the island use during their celebrations. Three nights before, he had silently wandered to a protected grove to witness the Samhain festival at Brugh Na Bóinne. He observed the rituals performed by the Priestess, as he remained hidden, although he could not hear what she said from his vantage point.
Sean noticed only a small number of women attended this celebration given that the decree of Pope Gregory IV, two years before, had proclaimed a Church Holiday of ‘All Saints Day’ on the first day of November.
Although the local King converted, Sean knew he maintained some traditions and allowed his High Druid his fire festivals, as precaution against anything that would make crops fail and the prized cattle starve.
A splash of rainwater against his cheek startled him to the storm outside. The cat sprang from his arms and ran back into the room, shaking the water from his head. Sean inhaled the air that blew in. He gazed outside once more, then pushed the door closed behind him and slid home the large square-cut wooden bar, just in case he was wrong about the storm.
