I looked where Ciaran was pointing and saw a narrow crack in the solid mass of grey. Through this crevice poured golden light in a broad, many-rayed band, piercing the night-dark sky with spears of bright morning light.
The crack opened wider allowing more sunlight to spill over the tempestuous sea. And it was almost as if the honeyed light was a balm poured onto the storm to soothe the troubled waters.
We stared at the shimmering shaft, willing it to expand and increase. But the sky closed again; the storm-clouds drew together once more, shutting out the light. Our hopes flickered out as the last ray disappeared.
Cold, exhausted from our long ordeal, we gazed forlorn and unhappy at the place where we had last seen the light. The wind gusted again and we shivered to hear it. And then, even as we hunkered down to weather the reawakened gale, the heavens split above us.
"Look!" shouted Clynnog, leaping up. "God's bow!"
I turned and saw a great arc of glowing colour shining in the air, God's promise renewed once more. Blue sky and rainbow-two of creation's most beautiful sights. We were saved. We turned our faces to the sky above, welcoming the sun's return with loud cries of joy and thanksgiving.
Fintan, the pilot, standing by the helm, called out, "Behold! The storm has flung us across the sea."
It was true. The clouds and mist had vanished, and away to the south I could make out the humped shape of land, floating on the horizon.
"Do you know the place, Fin?" asked Cadoc hopefully.
"I do indeed," the steersman replied, allowing himself a wide smile of approval.
"Then," suggested the bishop lightly, "will you yet tell us what land it is that we see there?"
"I shall," said Fintan. "Brothers, it is Armorica. Though the gales have battered us, they have performed a small service. Our crossing, though wave-tossed, has been made in half the time. We are wet and cold, truly. But God is good, he has delivered us to our destination."
"And this without a rudder?" wondered Connal.
"Yes, Con," replied Fintan, "the very hand of God was upon us, guiding us on our way. Now it is for us to do what remains." With that he began calling orders.
The muir manachi jumped quickly to their tasks. The oars were unshipped and we all set ourselves to rowing; without a rudder, use of the sail-even in a rapidly calming wind-would be useless, if not hazardous, and it was easier to steer by oar. The helmsman, meanwhile, took an extra oar and lashed it to the tiller post to serve as a rudder-enough of a rudder, at least, to help correct our rowing. The sea continued to run high and rough.
I watched the backs and shoulders of the men ahead of me-bending, swaying, hunching, to the rhythm of the song. I tried my best to imitate them, throwing the oar before me and drawing it back. I soon acquired a rough proficiency in the task, and was glad to do my part.
We rowed a goodly while, and the exertion, after three days of inactivity, roused both hunger and thirst. Gwilym and Ddewi left off rowing and began preparing a meal. It was then that they learned we had lost most of our drinking water. For, when Ddewi went to the ship's vat he found it all but empty, and that which was left tainted with salt water. The cover had come off during the storm and the good water dashed out by the rough waves.
This was not a serious problem, for we had yet a cask of water and several skins, but as these were meant to serve for our land journey it meant we would have to replenish them as soon as possible. Bishop Cadoc, Brynach, and Fintan put their heads together to determine what should be done. Since I was manning the last oar, I was near enough to overhear them.
"We must make land soon to repair the tiller," Brynach pointed out; "let it be near a stream."
"There may be a settlement," suggested Cadoc.
"Aye, there may," agreed Fintan, pursing his lips.
"Do you not recognize the coast?"
"No." The pilot shook his head. "Sure, I know it is Armorica," he added quickly, "but whether we be north or south of Nantes, I cannot say."
That was the first I had heard mention of any stopping place-and yet, on such a long trip as this, we must have numerous destinations. I realized with some chagrin how little I actually knew about the journey I was embarked upon-not that it mattered very much for all that. Upon reaching Byzantium, I would die. That much I knew, and it was more than enough to occupy my thoughts.
Still, I wondered. Why Nantes? From the little I had heard of the Gaulish abbeys-and it was very little indeed-the monasteries of Gaul were unlike any known in Britain and Eire. It was often said that the continental monks were not Fir Manachi, that is True Monks, much less were they Cele De! Why, then, should we look to such men to aid our purpose? What interest could they have in our journey?
