Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time
It is afternoon when others come to drag the chipped tombstone away, probably to a service for the burial of the dead. The hermit and the three of us broken beings wait quietly inside while people are talking outside this cell. First, crunching footsteps, now a solemn hum of chanting — a familiar psalm in the language of St. Jerome. In the language of these people comes shared grief because it seems the one who has passed on was one of their own.
The first man who had come here arrives to assess the project of moving the stone. He must be the abbot or maybe a bishop here. He seems unctuous, always praying aloud.
I hear his prayers in the Roman language, the familiar words repeated over the cut stone, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” And now the Father, Son and Holy Spirit is repeated again, spoken in the local language.
“an tAthair
an Mac
an Spiorad Naomh”
It is a little old yet familiar to me, having been a follower of the Celtic missionary called peregrinus — Father Columbanus.
Maybe this failed journey to Iona found its destination anyway. Maybe I have found what I was seeking — a community where prayer is usual, and the rule is Celtic – putting obedience to God first before the demand for obedience to the hierarchy of bishops and the pope.
It’s my gift alone, or call it my oddity, that keeps me in a time warp – too often hoping for things long passed in newer times. I am always awakening into a far future world from wherever I was. And in my last wakings I’ve often feared humankind had become godless and crude, following men who rule but ignore the silent, constant presence of Spirit.
I see our little circle of sky has turned from afternoon to dusk. The little monk is still outside with the others, and the canine who was quivering in fear of the voices outside, has turned herself around three times, and settled into a little circle of warmth on my feet. Sleep now sweet Trinity.
***
“I can’t help you! I can’t help you!” I hear myself screaming as I wake from the dream.
Lazarus Ink 