Book of Conach

Chapter 15

Of some miracles wrought by Conach

On another occasion, winter was so long and harsh that even Conach and his servant were forced to take shelter in the village, for they had neither food nor fuel left in their cabins, and they the most frugal of men. The people welcomed them but warned that they too were in a parlous state, with most of their stores consumed and their animals left with no fat upon them. They were surviving on a little oatmeal mixed with the blood of cattle, which they let from the beasts in small quantities every day. Yet now they feared that this practice could not be continued, for the cows, which had some while since stopped giving milk, would be calving in the spring, and would need all their strength until then.

Then Conach said to the head of the house where they were, ‘Give me two pails,’ and to Talorg his servant he said, ‘Make your knife as sharp as you can, and give it to me also.’ They did as he bade them, and he said, ‘Let me be alone with your cow.’ So they left him alone with the beast and retired to the other end of the house, and for a long time they saw him not but heard him singing quietly, and it was neither psalm nor milking song but a strange chant in a tongue unknown. And then he called to them, ‘Come hither and take these pails, for they are too heavy for me.’ And they went and found him in the darkness, and the one pail was full to the brim with blood and the other was full to the brim with milk. And the cow was as fat as if she had been grazing all day in a spring meadow.

The people marvelled at these things, and one of them said, ‘With what did you feed her?’ He said, ‘With dreams of summer.’ And another said, ‘To release all this blood, how deep you must have cut her! She will surely die.’ Conach gave the knife back to Talorg and said, ‘Where have I cut her?’ And they searched and found no wound upon her. Even the scars where they themselves had drawn blood could not be discerned.

Then a third said, ‘We have not enough oatmeal for all this blood.’ Conach said, ‘Go to the girnel and fetch more.’ They knew it to be empty and none would go but one small child, and when she went she cried out, ‘The sides of the girnel are broken,’ because the meal therein was too much to be contained.

Conach performed many other miracles, which were attested to by honest witnesses, yet because their names, except that of his servant, are not recorded, some have questioned the truth of the events which I will next record. More questionable, though, is how such doubters will enter the Kingdom of God. For heaven’s gate opens only after death, but is forever closed to those who lack faith while they tread the dust of this earth, even if they be monks or priests. Therefore it is as fruitless to dispute the occurrence of miracles as it is to argue against the love of God and the life everlasting.

One day, some men were fishing the river with a net. They saw Conach walking on the bank and called to him, but he did not hear them. When he came closer he seemed to notice them for the first time, and said, ‘Friends, will you give me and my servant a fish?’ They said, ‘Father, we have been toiling all day and caught nothing.’ He said, ‘Cast your net further upstream, at the place between two rocks, and when my servant comes, give him what fish you can spare us.’ And he went on his way up the glen. So they took their net from the water and cast it at the place between two rocks, and in a while the net was so heavy with salmon that it took six men to haul it from the river. Then they looked about them, and saw Conach’s servant Talorg coming towards them. ‘Take these, the two biggest fish in our net, to your master,’ they said, ‘and give him our thanks, for without him we would have had nothing.’ Talorg said, ‘What has my master to do with it?’ They said, ‘He told us where to fish.’ Talorg said, ‘You are mistaken, for these last two days he has been deep in meditation in his cabin.’ They said, ‘He was here not an hour since, and you must have passed each other on the path.’ Talorg said, ‘I passed no one. I swear to you, it is two days since he came forth.’ And they were alike confused. But Talorg took the fish they offered, and went back up the glen.

When he returned to Conach he found him tending a fire, and told him what had happened. Conach said, ‘I was asleep, and dreamt I saw you carrying the fish, and I awoke and made this fire to cook them on.’

On several occasions Conach mended the wings of birds and the legs of animals by laying his hands upon them. He cured a man of the palsy by washing him in the river with his own hands, and he cured a woman of lameness by touching her with a stone plucked from the bed of the river. He healed children through prayer when their fever could not be touched by natural remedies. The people who saw these things knew him to be a holy man, and were eager to worship the God he worshipped. And Conach taught them and baptised them with oil, and when he had no more oil he baptised with water.

Thus it can surely be said that if Conach wrought one miracle he wrought many, not least the bringing of so many souls into the arms of Christ. The power of the Spirit was in him, and though he was not sanctified by the Church he was blessed by God, and especially because he was not free of sin, but stumbled in the dust and rose again.

Yet sometimes Conach grew weary, and was impatient with the people because they expected him always to be strong, and their belief wavered when he was not. ‘You must have faith even in adversity,’ he told them. ‘Indeed, I tell you, in hard times you need faith more than ever. When the tree sheds its leaves, only faith will restore them. When the land freezes, only faith will melt the ice. When disease carries off your mothers and fathers, only faith will convince you that you will not also die. When your enemies kill your sons and enslave your daughters, only faith will bring you more children.’ And if they still complained, he said, ‘How did you live before I came here? Did you not rise from the sickbed and labour again? Did you not make repairs after the flood or the fire? And will you live in less hope now that you know Christ and are assured of eternal life?’ And he left them, and was not seen among them for many a day.

Chapter 16

Of solitude and silence

These are the words of Conach as they were told to me by an old man, who learned them from his father, and he from his father, and seven generations before that.

‘When a prisoner breaks his bonds, the shackles are still about his limbs. When a dog snaps the chain that has tethered him, he drags a portion of it with him wheresoever he runs.

‘Thus when I left the monastic life and sought solitude, I took with me some of what I left behind, and not least I took myself.

‘When I arrived in this place I gave loud thanks to God, and sang psalms to Him, and praise-songs of my own making.

‘I went into the wilderness in search of solitude, and found that I was not alone. Birds and animals are always around me. The lowly toad and the mighty eagle are alike my companions.

‘So too I went in search of silence, but far though I am from the tumult of crowds there is quiet neither at night nor in the day; for a wolf and a stag, an owl and a madman call in the moonlight; birds sing from dawn until dusk; all manner of creatures make noise as they move through the forest; the forest itself rustles and cracks; and wind and water make constant music, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce.

‘Yet I perceive that this is solitude, though I share it with others. And truly this, though there be sounds within it, is silence. It is the silence of the bell that rings without its clapper; the silence of the slow, dark river’s flow; the silence of a deer grazing on the far hill. It is the silence that crowns all, the silence of God before He created the heaven and the earth. I have learned in these my old years that to pray aloud to Him is not to pray at all; that to sing praise-songs is not to praise Him. I have learned that the highest form of prayer is to listen in silence to God; that speech is as shallow as time, silence as deep as eternity. I have learned that I must be a deer grazing on the far hill, a slow, dark river flowing, a bell without its clapper. These I must become to enter the eternal kingdom.’