At first, I considered that my dolorous feelings derived from some failure on my part-though, try as I might, I could not determine what this failing might be. Then it came to me that it was God who had failed, not me. I had done all in my power to remain a faithful servant; I had borne all my misfortunes with as much courage and grace as I possessed, and had even tried to advance the knowledge of his lordship in the world. Others might have dared and achieved more in this regard, I do freely confess it, but I had done what I could-even to the extent of laying aside any care for my life for his greater glory.
This, I believe, was what cast the shadow over my soul. I had been willing to die, had faced the day of death without fear or regret-but I did not die. Strange to say, this brought neither relief nor joy but seemed instead a cruel deception for if my life was not required, why did God allow me to dream so? And if he had decided to spare my life, why had he forced me to endure the slow torment of imminent death without granting me the comfort I would have gained from knowing my life was no longer at hazard?
None of this made sense to me. No matter how I thought about it, God always came out seeming churlish and small, and wholly unworthy of my devotion. I had been willing to give-indeed, had given to the utmost of my ability-heart and mind and soul to him. I had dedicated the whole of my life to God, and he had not so much as acknowledged the gift. Far from it! He had ignored it completely.
This thought made me feel more alone than ever I had been in my life up to now. I was a lost man-the more since I had formerly consoled myself thinking that I was about some holy purpose, and that God cared for me. Truth, they say, is a cold and bitter draught; few drink it undiluted. Sure, I drained the cup this time.
I had once imagined myself a vessel made for destruction. I knew now that the destruction I feared was complete. I was undone. Even the bleak hope of a martyr's death was denied me. I had been willing to die, and to suffer the Red Martyrdom would have been a noble and godly thing. But no more. All holiness, all consolation of faith, all grace was refused me. In desperation I ran my hands through my hair, which had grown long now; my tonsure was gone. I looked down at my clothes-little more than rags. My transformation was finished: I looked like Scop!
In the bitterness of this hateful realization, I heard again the old Truth-Sayer's words-hateful words, mocking words, but true: "God has abandoned me, my friend, and now, Aidan the Innocent, he has abandoned you!"
This, finally, was the cause of my despair: God had abandoned me among strangers and barbarians. When I ceased to be of use to him, he had cast me aside. Despite the glorious promises of the holy text-how he would never leave nor forsake his people, how those who worshipped him would be saved, how he cared for his children and answered their prayers, how he raised up those who honoured him and cast down the evil-doers…and all the rest-he had forsaken me.
The grand promises of Holy Scripture were empty words, mere sounds in the wind. Worse, they were lies. Evildoers prospered; the prayers of the righteous went unanswered; the God-fearing man was humiliated before the world; no one was saved even the smallest torment: good people were made to suffer injustice, disease, violence, and death. No heavenly power ever intervened, nor so much as mitigated the distress; the people of God cried to heaven for deliverance, but heaven might as well have been a tomb.
Oh, I saw it all clearly now. I saw, stretching out before me as wide and empty as the sea, the same stark desolation Scop had seen. Bitterness and confusion looped serpent coils around me; joy and hope turned to ashes in my heart. Had I lavished my devotion on a lord unworthy of veneration? If that was true, I did not see how I could live. Nor indeed, why I should want to continue drawing breath in a world ruled by such a God.
If only I had met my death in Constantinople, I would have been spared the agony of the torment I now felt. I might have died an ignorant man, but I would at least have died a happy one.
The Danes could not understand my distress. When duty permitted, Gunnar, and sometimes Tolar and Thorkel, came to sit with me at the prow. We talked and they tried to cheer me, but the black rot had taken hold of my soul and nothing any of them said could ease the pain. The rest of the barbarians took no interest in my plight whatsoever. Harald and his karlar were delighted with their new and highly-paid prominence as defenders of the empire. Accordingly, the Sea Wolves remained continually wary, for they had it in mind to seize any ships that tried to attack, hoping to augment their pay with plunder. But, aside from a swift-disappearing flash of sailcloth on the seaward horizon, we saw no marauders. All eleven ships arrived safely in port sixteen days after leaving Constantinople.
