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in the air as anything not tied down flew from the leather boat into the chasm below.
Agonizingly, she righted herself, spun, paused, teetered, and settled again before sliding
backwards to the gaping trough. She spun back to front, rose slowly on another
wave and began a gradual descent, backward, backward, backward. Brother Keallach
wrestled the rebellious headsail under control. The sail bellied out and the currach
leaped forward between mountains of water.
“Lord Jesus, save us.” Finten cried his prayers above the howling wind as if Christ,
Himself, might step aboard and calm the seas.
As the night wore on, the sea grew worse. Whenever a wave broke across her stern,
the torrent splashed in, soaking everyone as they bailed ceaselessly. Now that the pots
and buckets were gone, monks bailed frantically with bare hands, hour after hour.
“Christ calmed the sea. Blessed Columb calmed the sea. Father Finten, for the love
of God, do something,” cried the tearful cook.
Father Finten could only repeat his own terrified prayers, “Déus salutis méae.”
Brother Laoghaire tried desperately to steer the boat into the waves. The rudder
twisted, tore at Laoghaire’s arm, slackened, then pulled again, snapped, and was gone.
Ropes flew in shreds, snapping as they whipped currach leather and human flesh.
Laoghaire sat shaking at the helm. He tossed about with each spin and jerk,
slumped, spitting salt water. He counted the waves from one to eight as the tiny craft
rose to the pinnacle of each new roller.
“Six. Mother of God, pray for us sinners NOW.” The currach dropped to the base
of a terrifying mountain of churning water.
“Seven. Pater Noster…” Sideways, backwards.
“Eight.” The mast creaked, cracked loudly and splintered as it plunged with a roar
over the side, cracking Brother Laoghaire over the head as it went.
Rordan’s head began to ache and his eyes burned, not only from salt spray, but
also from the vision he knew was coming. The headache soon turned into a blinding
nightmare, worse even than the storm that battered them. He felt himself rise up and
sail in spirit far above the currach to struggle with a gigantic black eagle that dug
its talons deep into his arm when he raised it to protect his face. The bird seemed
to screech one word above the howling wind: “Tex-cat-lipoca.” Then Rordan’s spirit
fell back toward the currach and into his body, which lay submerged in oily water.
“Tex-cat-lipoca. Tex-cat-lipoca.” The words made no sense. Rordan raised
himself back onto the seat. He’d pierced his arm with a cooking fork that had
become lodged beneath the struts. He picked up the fork and tossed it over
the side. Then he tore a strip from the hem of his robe and tied it around his
bleeding arm. The headache was gone but the fearful vision persisted. He saw
the black eagle as an omen of evil, a portent of bad things to come. Yet, like with
past visions, he dared not tell anyone, not even his priest in the secrecy of sacramental
confession. People who had visions were looked upon with suspicion
and even condemned as witches and wizards. In the Novitiate, when he confessed
to the Novice Master of hearing his patron, Saint Joseph, whisper words
of encouragement in the chapel, Father Gofraidh, had forbidden the young
Brother to ever mention such “fantasies” to any of his confrères. The old priest
blamed the supposed voices on an over-active imagination, which needed to be
curbed with increased manual labour and sent Rordan to look after the oldest
monks, a task the young Brother actually loved.
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