The eagle twisted in the air and keened in alarm, beating its wings in retreat. But it was already too late, for the golden beast stretched out its long, snake-like neck and snatched the exhausted bird from the sky. The jaws shut and the eagle vanished.
The sharp echo of the great golden beast's snapping jaws brought me shaking from the vision. The room was dim; the scent of candle fat was strong in my nostrils. The candletree before me lay on the floor where it had fallen, the tapers either extinguished or guttering in pools of wax. Diarmot was prostrate on the floor beside the altar, arms flung out to either side, snoring softly, asleep at his prayers.
I rose slowly, stepped to the toppled candletree, and raised it once more. The sound of its fall had roused me from my dream, but how had it become upset?
The door bumped in the wind. No doubt I had forgotten to secure the latch and a gust of wind had toppled the candletree. I moved to the door and pulled it shut with the leather thong, making certain that the wooden latch dropped into its groove. I returned to my place and renewed my posture, then began the Kyrie once more. But the dream remained fresh before me, assaulting my mind with its dire warning, and I could not pray. I soon gave up and simply sat thinking about what I had seen. My dreams are never wrong, but they sometimes require considerable thought to derive the proper meaning. So, I turned my mind to the purpose, but the interpretation eluded me.
When daylight's first dull shimmer gleamed in the high windhole, I rose, stretched myself, and then paused to consider whether to rouse Diarmot. Even as I stooped over him, the bell tolled matin, and he came awake with a start. I moved to the door and stepped outside where I was hailed by several brothers as they mounted the hill to the chapel, their cloaks whipping around their legs in a stiff northern wind. I returned their greeting with good will and drew the cold air deep into my lungs: once, twice, three times.
As I turned back into the chapel for maiden prayers, the sun lifted above the misty valley away to the east. My heart seized in my chest at the sight, for in the same instant the meaning of my dream broke upon me. The knowledge turned my blood to water: the eagle was myself, and the city was Byzantium. The beast, then, was death.
I slumped against the chapel wall, feeling the rough stone against my back and shoulders. Lord, have mercy! Christ, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!
What I had seen would be. Certainty, bright and full as the sunrise even now bathing my face with light, removed even the smallest shadow of doubt. All my visions came trailing deep assurance of truth: what I had seen would happen. Time would prove it true. My death loomed before me as surely as the rising sun; I would go to Byzantium, and there I would die.
I endured prayers in a welter of dread and disbelief. I kept thinking: Why? Why now? Why me? But it was no good; I knew from long experience that I would get no answer. I never did.
Joining the others in the refectory after prayers, I broke fast on barley bread and boiled beef-a hearty meal to begin our journey. "Ah, Aidan, your last meal before you join the vagabundi, eh?" said Brother Enerch, the chief herdsman.
"Prudence, brother," advised Adamnan, sitting beside him. "When next we sit together, one of us will have supped with the emperor. Think on that."
"Think you the emperor dines with every ragged wanderer that presents himself at the Golden Gate?" wondered Brother Rhodri next to me.
Oh, they meant it for jest, but their words filled me with apprehension. Though they tried to engage me in pleasant conversation, I could not rise to their banter and quit the board after only a few bites, claiming that I must gather my belongings.
Leaving the refectory, I walked quickly across the yard to the scriptorium. The sky above had grown dismal grey; a cold, crabbed light leaked from an obscure heaven, and a fitful wind gusted over the stone walls to the west. A desolate day to match my own bleak mood, I thought.
Several of the abbey's piebald geese waddled across my path and, as if to emphasize my distress, I lashed out at the nearest of them with my foot. The geese scattered, raising an unholy squawk as they fled. I glanced around guiltily, and repented of my hastiness as the gooseboy came running with his stick, hissing and whistling to call them back into his flock. He threw me a darkly disapproving look as he darted past.
"Look you! Keep them out from under foot, Lonny," I shouted after him.
Alone in my cell, I sank to my knees in despair. "Christ, have mercy," I moaned aloud. "Lord, if it please you, remove this curse from me. Restore my happiness, O God. Save your servant, Lord."
I poured out my anguish, pounding my fists against my knees. After a time, I heard voices in the yard outside and, rising, gazed a last time around my room. Who would have this cell after me? I wondered. Taken by the notion, I prayed for the man who would inhabit my small, bare room. Whoever it might be, I asked God to bless him richly and bring him every good thing.
Then, taking up my bulga, I put the strap over my shoulder, left my cell, and joined the travelling party in the yard.
The whole abbey had gathered to bid us farewell and see us on our way. The abbot and Master Cellach, who would go with us as far as the coast, stood talking to Ruadh and Taum. The bishop and visiting monks were assembled and ready to depart. I saw Brocmal and Libir, standing nearby, so took my place with them. Brocmal regarded me with a sour expression as I came to stand beside him, then turned to Libir and said, "One would think that any monk fortunate enough to be chosen for such a journey-against all proper expectation, mind-that monk would at least see to it that he did not keep others waiting."
This obscure rebuke was, I suppose, meant to shame me. But, as I had learned to expect no good word from those two self-satisfied scribes, the remark passed without offence. Ignoring their scorn, I searched the crowd for that one face I longed most to see. But Dugal was not there. Sick dread came over me as I realized that now, in the moment of leaving, I would go without bidding my dearest friend farewell; and once gone, I would never see him again. The finality of this realization filled me with inexpressible sadness. I could have wept, if not for all those looking on.
"Thus the journey begins!" Fraoch called, and, raising his staff high, turned and led the way to the gate. The brothers cried farewell and lifted their voices in song. They followed us to the gate, singing.
I passed through the portal and beyond the wall, and out…out, my feet on the path now, leaving the abbey behind. I walked on, telling myself that I would not look back. After no more than a dozen paces, however, I could not bear leaving without a last look at Cenannus na Rig. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the curved bank of the ringwall and, rising above it, the tall belltower; the roof of the refectory hall, chapel, and abbot's lodge showed above the wall. Monks crowded the gateway, waving their arms in farewell.
I raised my hand in reply, and saw, just passing through the gate, the ox and wagon bearing the supplies for our journey. And who should be leading that ox, but Dugal himself. The sight brought me up short.
"Oh, do move along, Aidan," Libir said irritably, prodding me from behind. "We shall never reach Constantinople with you stopping every second step."
"Perhaps he is already tired and wanting a rest," quipped Brocmal. "You stay here and rest, Aidan. I daresay we shall find the way without you."
I let them pass me by, and waited for the wagon to draw near. God bless him, Dugal had wangled himself a place in the escort party so I might walk with him. In fact, we would have another two days at least-the time it took to walk to the coast-before parting forever. This single thought gave wings to my soul.