"I will miss you, Aidan," Ruadh said, following me to the door. "But I will pray for you every day at matins. Wherever you are, you will know that the day began with your name before the High King's throne. And each day at vespers I will beseech the Lord's mercy on your behalf. That way, wherever you are in God's wide world, you will know that the day ended with entreaty for your safe return."
These words moved me so that I could not speak-all the more, since I knew that he would uphold his vow through all things. He put his arms around my shoulders and hugged me to his chest. "Go with God, my son," Ruadh said. I nodded, swallowing hard, and left him.
I searched for Dugal, but did not find him-one of the brothers told me Dugal was helping with the lambing away in the next valley-and so I returned unhappily to my cell and threw myself upon my pallet. Ignoring the call to supper, I dozed awhile and awoke when the bell rang compline, but could not bring myself to join the brothers for prayer. I lay in my cell, listening to the sounds of the abbey settling in for the night. And when at last I judged everyone had gone to their rest, I snuffed the candle and hurried out into the darkness once more.
The moon had risen as a hard, bright ball of ice glowing in the sky. The wind which had blown all day slept now, and I could hear dogs barking in the settlement beyond the river. Moving silently across the empty yard, my shadow sharp beneath my feet, I saw no one else about.
The chapel is a plain, unadorned square of stone with thick walls and high, steeply-pitched stone roof-a place of peace and the quiet strength that comes of long devotion. The fierce moonlight had transformed the dark stone into hammered metal-bronze or, perhaps, silver. Stepping to the entrance, I lifted the latch, pushed open the heavy door, ducked my head and stepped into the spare room with its squat stone altar below a high narrow windhole; a massive wooden bookholder stood in one corner, empty now; no book is required for the night vigil. Candles sizzled silently in the tall candletrees, filling the chapel with their warm, slightly rancid scent.
Pulling the door shut behind me, I replaced the latch and started towards the altar. Only then did I notice Diarmot. "It will be my pleasure to hold vigil with you," he offered with stiff formality. My heart fell.
"Brother, there is no need," I told him. "I have taken up this duty, and will bear it gladly. Forgive me, I meant to tell you earlier, but you are free to go."
"Be that as it may," Diarmot replied with smug satisfaction. "It will be good for me to stand with you this night."
I did not relish his company, but could think of no further objection, so let him have his way. "It is not for me to deny you," I told him, and took my place at the altar opposite him.
Night vigil is a simple service of prayer. No rites attend it, save those each celebrant brings with him. Many say the Psalms, genuflecting after each one; some pray the night away, either prostrate or cross-wise; others simply wait upon the Lord in silence, meditating on the divine name, or an aspect of the Godhead.
Most often, I chose to pray, letting my mind roam where it would, placing this contemplation before the High King of Heaven as an offering. Sometimes, however, when my soul was troubled, I simply knelt and gave myself to the Kyrie eleison. This is what I did now. "Lord have mercy," I prayed, repeating the plea with every breath as I knelt beside the altar.
It seemed that Diarmot, however, had decided on reciting the One Hundred-Fifty. He intoned the Psalms in a murmuring voice, bowing low as he began each one, and going down on both knees as he finished. Diarmot, like many of the brothers, was earnest and sincere-far more so than myself, I freely confess. Even so, I found it difficult to suffer him, for I had noticed that many of these monks, despite their diligence, always seemed more concerned with the appearance of a thing than its actual meaning. Sure, one heartfelt genuflection must be worth more than a hundred performed to punctuate a recitation. Most likely I am deluded in this, as in so much else.
Resigning myself to Diarmot's noisy presence, I knelt with bowed head, breathing my simple prayer, "Lord have mercy!…Christ, have mercy!" As I prayed, I fixed my eyes upon the gently wavering circle of light on the floor before me; light and shadow seemed to be tussling for the supremacy of the stone flagging beneath the candletree. I willed the light to triumph, but there was so much darkness round about.
Diarmot's Psalms became less a devotion than a babble as his voice droned on and on, not words at all, a sound only, a meaningless gurgle like that of a burn in full spate. The sound filled my head even as the gently wavering circle of light filled my eyes.
I entered a waking dream. It was then I saw Byzantium, and my death.
