Book of Conach

Chapter 4

Of his disputes with the abbot and his decision to become a hermit; of his servant Talorg

This was the manner of Conach’s departure from the land of Drest.

Faithful though he was to the Church, he was yet more faithful to the teachings of Christ and sometimes he disputed with the abbot of the house on matters of theology, or on the proper duties of men of their calling. The abbot desired him to be silent and to content himself with the gentle life of the monastery.

Then Conach said to him, ‘Father, are we put upon the earth to lie on it and not to till it? Are we put among the poor and the hungry to be comfortable and fat? Are we to shelter in safety when so many are in danger?’

The abbot, who was a man of great girth, chastised Conach and said to him, ‘Do we not labour? Do we not tend the sick? Do we not take in and feed the stranger? Is it the vanity of your blood that makes you quarrel, or do you claim to know God’s will better than I do?’

Conach said, ‘It is not vanity but humility that makes me as I am. For Christ said that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first, and that a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven.’

The abbot said, ‘Brother, we are not rich.’

Conach said, ‘The poorest, most abased man is closer to heaven than we are.’

Then the abbot was angry and turned away from him. From this moment Conach determined to betake himself to the eremitical life, to become a despiser of the world, a voice crying in the wilderness, and by harsh martyrdom and pain in mind and body to repel the temptations of the Devil and bring himself closer to God. For he took literally the word of Christ, who said that everyone who did forsake houses or brethren or father or mother or lands for His sake would inherit an hundredfold and have everlasting life.

Not long after this, Conach asked a young man called Talorg, a servant to the brothers who was much loved by Conach, to go with him to the river to fetch water. So they carried pails to the river and filled them, and there they spoke of the coming spring.

‘It is a good season to make a journey,’ Conach said. He told Talorg that he felt not only spring but old age approaching and that he needed to change his ways before he died.

Talorg said, ‘Master, you are healthier and stronger than men half your age.’

‘That means nothing,’ Conach said. ‘A man can die at any moment, however old he is and however strong. You yourself are half my age, Talorg. Do not pretend that I am healthier and stronger than you. See how my skin is rippled like the sand on a beach when the tide goes out. See how my fingers are knotted like old wood. When you came among us ten years ago you were a hand’s length shorter than me. Now you are a hand’s length taller. Look at my feet, how the toes are crushed and bent, and the flesh hard and veined as marble. Who knows how much longer they will support me?’

Now Talorg had often looked at Conach’s feet, and thought them so ugly that they should rightly belong to some creature that was not human. But he had said nothing, being ashamed of his thoughts.

Conach told Talorg that ten years was a long time to a youth, but little more than a short sleep to an older man, and less than the blink of an eye to God. He said that he had looked into a dark, still pool of the river recently, and had been surprised to see an old man staring at him whom he did not recognise. He told Talorg that his work in that place was done and he was going away, and that the abbot would not be sorry when he went. And he offered Talorg a choice: either to stay in the monastery, or perhaps find himself a woman to be his wife, and have children and live a life that was blessed by God though it were outside the Church; or to go with Conach as his servant. But if he chose the latter, Conach could offer him nothing but hunger, cold and discomfort, and beyond these things only the certainty of death through white martyrdom or, if they fell among enemies, the possibility of red martyrdom.

And Talorg said that he would go with him. ‘I fear nothing if I am with you, Master,’ he said. ‘You have taught me that this life is short and death but a moment, and that after these comes eternal life.’

‘You are a brave young man,’ Conach answered, ‘and I will be glad to have you beside me when my strength and courage fail.’

When Talorg remonstrated against these words, Conach stopped him. ‘Such a time will come to pass. We are weak because we are human. I will know fear, and so will you. Fear is the greatest weapon of the Devil. But trust in God and even though you stumble, even though you quake to your heels and to the emptying of your bowels, He will not let you fall.’

At that part of the river there was a bank of pebbles, and the water as it ran over them made a constant sound as of laughter. Conach said to Talorg, ‘Hear how the river mocks the cares of mankind. Yet one day this land will be a dry, dead desert, and the river will not laugh then.’

‘When are we to leave, Master?’ Talorg asked. ‘And where are we to go?’

Conach said that they would journey south, to the other side of the great mountains, where the ruler was Oengus, or Unust, as was his name of old, a cousin of Drest. Conach was acquainted with Oengus and had stayed among his people on some of his earlier travels. He intended to ask Oengus to give him a lonely place where he could devote the rest of his days to the contemplation of God. Long had he taken the Word to people across the land but he would do so no more; yet if they came seeking him in that remote place he would not turn them away.

‘See on that bank of stones,’ Conach said, ‘a heron stands, patient and unmoving. I have a premonition about that bird. She has been waiting, but she will wait no longer.’

Even as he spoke, the heron flapped its wings and rose from the stones in an arc of gleaming spray. She flew over their heads, in a southerly direction.

‘There is no sustenance for her here,’ Conach said, ‘so it is her time to leave. Take up the pails, Talorg, and we will return to the monastery, but only for a little while. It is our time to leave too.’

Chapter 5

How Conach and Talorg came into the land of Oengus

When Conach came into the land ruled by Oengus, cousin of Drest, he was guided by the hand of God over the mountains into the glen that to this day bears his name. He, with his servant Talorg, left the north country in the late spring, when the weather was bright and mild. They walked hour after hour together, singing psalms, and were not afraid of the high hills, still with snow on their peaks, that rose before them. As I have said already, Conach wore only the one robe that he possessed, and no shoes upon his feet, and he supported himself with a stout staff of hawthorn. Talorg had sandals made of deer hide, and bore a sack of tools, food and other necessities upon his back. Each day Talorg gathered a bundle of wood as they walked, so that wherever they rested at night they could build a fire. Water was always close at hand, and Talorg mixed water with oatmeal and made porridge in the little iron pot he carried. Also, they ate dried pig meat, which Talorg kept in another, smaller, bag. They chewed pieces of this meat until their jaws ached. Afterwards they lay curled round the fire like dogs, and before going to sleep they lay together to keep warm. Talorg shielded his master’s back from the cold and damp, and Conach told him stories about Columba and other saints and heroes. And the voice of his master rolled like a river against the bank of Talorg’s chest until he fell asleep.

I have learned that one story which Talorg never tired of hearing was that of Columba and the heron. One day on Iona, Columba told one of the monks that on the third morning thereafter, at the ninth hour, he must wait on the western shore of the island for a heron, a stranger blown from Ireland by strong winds. It would be hungry and weak, and would lie down on the beach in front of the monk.

‘Take the bird to a house nearby,’ Columba said, ‘and there let it be nursed and fed for three days and three nights. After this time the pilgrim bird will not wish to bide with us but, restored to strength, will fly back to its home in Ireland. Treat the heron kindly because that is our own native place too.’

So the brother did as he was instructed, and on the third morning, at the ninth hour, the bird arrived on the beach just as Columba had said it would. The monk took it up in his arms and carried it to a house nearby. He fed it and left it in the care of those who dwelt there. When he returned to the monastery, Columba, without asking anything about what had happened, blessed the monk for his kindness. And after three days and three nights, the bird, restored to strength, took flight and set its course for home.

At daybreak, Conach offered prayers to God, thanking Him for sparing them during the night. During this time, as I have been told, the mind of Talorg was filled with questions. As the shape of the land began to reveal itself in the growing light, Talorg remembered the stars and the stories of the night, and he thought of strangers also looking out on the world, in places of which he knew nothing. Who were those people, and what were those places? And how was it that he was where he was, and not somewhere else? But Talorg held these questions in his mouth because he feared to interrupt his master’s prayers.

Then they continued on their way without having anything to eat, for it was too cold to linger. And although they were master and servant they laughed with one another, making comments about the condition of their feet, and each seeking to outdo the other in absurdity since they were both in pain from the arduousness of their journey.

‘Your feet, Talorg,’ Conach said, ‘are like two deer running across the hills, barely touching the ground. Mine are like an old man and his wife who have nothing left to say to each other but cannot be separated.’

They rested, and bathed their feet in the icy water of a burn. ‘My feet, Master, are salmon swimming upriver in search of their birthplace. Yours are two rocks over which they have to leap. How can a holy man like you have such feet?’

‘How can a fool like you serve a saint like me?’ Conach replied. And Talorg was ashamed, until his master laughed, and said that he considered neither Talorg a fool nor himself a saint.

Sometimes on this long journey there was a path, but more often there was none. Sometimes Conach led the way and sometimes Talorg did. Sometimes rain or snow fell. For two days and more they saw no other person. ‘Only a saint and a fool would be up here at this season,’ Conach said. ‘Who else would believe that God would keep them safe?’

Chapter 6

Of a pair of sandals and Conach’s lie

One morning, when Talorg was some distance in front of his master and approaching a narrow passage in the rocks through which they must go, he heard men’s voices coming towards him, and the sound of iron and leather. He turned and ran back, signalling to Conach that they should hide. Conach acknowledged the warning, and Talorg hid behind a boulder, but his master kept on walking. Six men with two horses came through the passage. The men had swords and axes, and Talorg, not knowing who or what they were, was afraid of them. He remained hidden while his master walked towards the men. On Conach’s shoulder was the bag containing all his worldly possessions, a book and a flask of oil; around his neck, on a leather thong, was a bronze cross; in his right hand was his hawthorn staff.

When Conach was but a few paces from the men, he laid his staff and bag on the ground and made the sign of the cross. Then he opened his arms, extending them towards the earth, and turned his face to the sky. Thus he made himself defenceless. The leader of the band opened Conach’s bag and took from it the book and the flask. He unwrapped and inspected them, showed them to his companions and then carefully returned them to the bag.

Talorg watched as Conach and the men began to talk, even to laugh, and he was jealous. He saw the leader fetch something from one of the horses and give it to Conach. Conach blessed the man, touching his brow with his fingers. Likewise, he blessed all the others. Then the men journeyed on to the north, and Conach watched them go.

Talorg emerged and ran to his master, prostrating himself on the ground and kissing his feet.

‘What are you doing?’ Conach said.

‘Forgive me, Master. I failed you,’ Talorg wept. ‘I deserted you as you have told me Peter deserted Christ in the garden.’

‘No, Talorg,’ Conach replied, ‘you did not desert me. Get up at once. You warned me, and I chose not to hide. I was worthless to those men but they might have enslaved a strong young man like you, or even killed you. But they did not search for you because they thought you were only a child of six years.’

Talorg arose, saying that he did not understand.

‘They asked me if I was alone,’ Conach said, ‘and I said that my grandson had run away at sight of them, and was probably halfway down the mountain wetting his legs. They thought it a great jest. They are Picts like us, traders from the coast, so despite our different accents we understood one another. They gave me a gift, which I pass on to you.’

He handed Talorg a pair of new sandals, better than any he had ever worn. The leader of the band had looked at Conach’s feet and decided he needed them. Conach’s gift in return was the blessing of Christ. This, Conach told his servant, was a good exchange, for although the men were pagans, God smiled upon them, and in time they would be brought into the light.

Talorg was ashamed, both because he had run away and because his master had pretended he was a little boy.

‘I understand that you told them what you did to save me from danger,’ he said. ‘But was that not a lie, Master? And have you not always said it is a sin to lie?’

‘Sometimes there is good in a lie,’ Conach replied, ‘although usually there is not. God knows the difference. It is not for us to judge the judgement of God.’

And Talorg gathered this into his heart and pondered upon it, and trusted his master’s words. For he could do nought else.

Chapter 7

Of a storm and Talorg’s lie

A great storm arose while they were on this journey, even as they descended from the mountains. Thunderbolts shook the hills, a mighty wind brought destruction to the forests, and beasts and trees alike were swept away by sudden floods. Night fell, and it was so dark that they could not see their hands in front of their faces. Talorg was frightened, and said that they should have remained high in the hills where the ground was firm; for the lower they came, the more they floundered in bog and the more they were obstructed by fallen trees and rushing streams. But Conach was resolute. ‘We cannot go back,’ he said, ‘and we cannot stop here to rest, so we must go onward.’

Soon after this, they came upon a large flat rock like a raft in the sea of mud around it. They climbed up and lay on it while the rain fell heavily upon them.

‘God is watching over us,’ Conach said, ‘and has guided us to this rock.’

Then Talorg said, ‘If He has found somewhere better to shelter from the rain, I wish He would tell us so we could join Him.’

At this, his master fetched him a mighty blow to the head, that left one ear ringing like a bell.

‘Do not blaspheme,’ Conach said.

‘It was but a joke,’ Talorg replied, nursing his ear.

Then Conach struck him on the other side of his head, saying, ‘That is a lie, for you know better than to defend blasphemy.’

Talorg, with his ears ringing, was left to ponder the nature of a lie, and fell asleep with the rain falling on his eyelids.