The First Day of the Visit

IND sprinkled dried leaves and hay across the rudimentary path leading to the chapel. A boy fervently swept at the unwanted mess with a straw broom, but more and more leaves quickly followed them. The wind was relentless today. Although the dawning of Spring was celebrated several weeks ago, the season appeared to hesitate in making itself known.

Voices filtered through the air, and the boy, Mongan, turned to see a small group walking down the pathway. Two monks escorted a regal woman, her long red hair tumbling down her back. Mongan only saw women from the distance, unless the rare female straggler appeared at their doorstep, begging for sanctuary from the warring tribes. She walked with purpose and poise, and she hardly glanced at the two men beside her. They escorted her to a small cart where another lady and man waited for her. The woman turned towards the two men and bowed her head slightly.

“Thank you, Abbot Domnhall, and Brother Cillian. These past three weeks have been a pleasure to visit St. Columcille’s, and devote myself to the Lord. One can hear the call of Christ in your halls.”

The wind carried her voice over to Mongan.

Mealla conversed with the abbot. She was nearly as tall as him and quite formidable. An older man—Mongan guessed sixty years or so—Abbot Domnhall’s dark grey beard swept against his hearty chest. The elements cut and etched patterns into his skin, and his nose glowed red from daily exposure to the salty cold. Despite being the primary scribe, Domnhall still devoted hours of work to the garden, as all hands were necessary to keep the little village from hunger.

“Abbot Domnhall, you should be pleased with your work. I remember my first visit here, only four summers old, and falling in love with this land. It is an honor to have my foster son living here and learning from the most devoted monks in Munster,” she said. Her eyes settled on a redheaded novice with similar features to his aunt, and he inclined his head respectfully.

“Foster-mother, my lady, thank you for allowing me to study here and earn my place. St. Columcille’s owes much gratitude to your contributions from clan O’Connell,” Ruadhán, the redhead, said.

His voice was loud and musical, and Mongan could feel the surge and emotion from where he stood. Even in formal settings, Brother Ruadhán could not refrain from expression.

Mealla’s eyes turned from her kin, and they landed upon Abbot Domhnall once again.

“Your provisions will aid us in times of need,” Abbot Domnhall said slowly, “and allows us time to commit more fully to the word of God. We will spread your praise throughout the land as we travel to the Gaul country.”

“Godspeed to you, and safe travels!”

Mongan knew the abbot had pieced together his words carefully, like a horse treading on a rocky cliff. They breathed a sigh of relief to see her leave—Mealla required much attention from the monks, as well as the lone cell that stood apart from the main grounds. The monastery benefited greatly from her annual contributions. Two years ago, her donation of extra barley helped them survive a brutal and unforgiving winter.

Abbot Dohmnall helped Mealla up on her cart next to her lady-in-waiting and her yeoman. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to protect herself from the nagging wind. She raised her hands to the monks, who bowed in return, and her yeoman nudged the horses forward. The cart trod down the path past Mongan in front of the chapel, their eyes glancing at him without thought.

After supper, Mongan and Abbot Domnhall sat near the fire, a codex laid out between them like a fallen dove. The other monks, six in total, were dispersed about the room. Some studied as well, crouched over a codex or scroll, another mended some garments, and another stared passively into the fire, his whittling forgotten. It was a bitter night.

“Try again,” Abbot Domnhall repeated firmly. Despite his patient tone, Mongan could see frustration etched between his brows, his dark eyes fatigued. “We learned this yesterday, Mongan. Have you forgotten your lessons already?”

Mongan didn’t respond. He kept his head bent over the codex, his index finger tracing the muddled Latin words. They swam together, like tiny fish beneath a surging creek. He tried to make out the various letters, piece them together to form a sound, which then formed a word, which then formed a sentence. So the Abbot claimed. 

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Abbot Domnhall moved Mongan’s finger up to the left corner. “Now, think of it as music. Song comes naturally to you. Imagine you are singing.” 

Baffled by the rare compliment, Mongan opened his mouth, his feet awkwardly kicking the table legs.

“Do you hear that?” Ruadhán interrupted, frowning at the door. The monks straightened up, craning their neck and ears. Mongan heard it too—a sound similar to a bird, outside. It drew closer and closer, bouncing against the wind. Someone was whistling.

A few of the monks exchanged glances. It was not uncommon for a traveler to stop at the monastery, asking for refuge from nature on their way to and from the coast. A warm meal and some ale. The men prided themselves on their hospitality and generosity.

A loud knock rapped on the door.

Abbot Domnhall nodded to Ruadhán, and he quickly opened the door. The cold wind slipped in between their legs, and Mongan heard the jubilant voice.

“Good evening! I apologize for bothering you, Father.” 

The voice was rich and melodious, like the mead Abbot Domnhall gifted Mongan on Christmas day. 

“The weather is quite bitter outside, and I was wondering if you had any extra beds to spare? Or perhaps a barn I could camp in for a few nights?”

“Call me brother,” Ruadhán waved him in, and the visitor stepped into the light.

The first thing Mongan noticed was the man’s eyes—green, large, and protruding slightly from his face. They sparkled with mischief, like the cat that knocked over your waste bucket while you slept. He was tall with long limbs, and even Ruadhán was twice as broad despite coming up only to his shoulders. 

His eyes raked over the scene, and his lips curled into a deeper smile, as if thinking, ‘Well, what have we here!’

Abbot Domnhall stood up. “Greetings, stranger. What are you needing?”

“Lodgings for a few nights. I’ve been on the road for quite some time, and I could use myself a nice, quiet place to sleep. I’ll be more happy to help out around your quaint village, or perform for the brothers.” The visitor gestured over his shoulder to one of his knapsacks.

“Perform?” The Abbot frowned. “Are you a poet?”

“Aye.” The slender man whipped his hat off his head and bowed respectfully. Any other person who bowed so grandiosely would have appeared impertinent to the abbot, but the gesture appeared genuine.

“My name is Tadgh and I hail from Ulster. Currently I travel the lovely land of Ireland sharing the stories of our land.”

He stood upright, a smile still on his face. He met Mongan’s eyes, and the boy swore there was a slight wink.

Or was it a shadow from the fire?

“We have lodging for you here, but we expect you to help around and attend services. What instrument do you have there?” asked the abbott.

The smile deepened, and the man smoothly reached around and pulled out a small harp.

“A harpist. Some say the fairest one to come from Ulster yet!” His long fingers reached out and wiggled in front of the strings. 

Mongan’s eyes widened. Mongan had never seen anyone so theatrical, so confident before. Nor had he seen a harp in person, only heard of the sound in tales and poems.

It wasn’t the first time a bard had stayed in the monastery—one visited two summers ago, but he’d brought only a lute and stayed one night.

The harp was small, perfect for perching on a lap—one side was thicker than the other, and it appeared to be made from either willow or poplar. And it was beautiful. Intricate designs danced upwards on the larger side of the instrument, and the wood gleamed in the firelight like a horse’s flank.

Abbot Domnhall grunted and turned to his monks. “Brian!” 

A bald man jumped up.

“Prepare this man a mat! Make sure he has a waste bucket available.” He turned back to the bard. “We ate supper already, but can I offer you some ale for your room?”

“Ale would be lovely. Much appreciated, Father…?”

“Father Domhnall. Your lodging will be ready shortly. You’ll sleep with Brian and Cillian for now.”

The visitor sat back down. Tadgh inched closer to the fire and spread his fingers out to catch the warmth. Mongan saw the fatigue etched on his bony face but was surprised to see that he was still young—a little older than Ruadhán, perhaps. There was a hint of scruff on his face, probably the closest the man would get to growing a beard. The bard felt the boy’s gaze and looked down at him. Mongan quickly looked back at his codex, but it was too late.

“What’s that you got there, lad?”

Mongan’s foot jiggled nervously. He shrugged. Tadgh stepped closer, his boots scuffing the ground.

“Words I see there! What language is that?”

Abbot Domnhall nudged Mongan.

“Latin,” he mumbled shyly.

“Latin! The language of the Church, the language of Christ! Can you read it?”

Mongan shrugged again. “Not really.”

Tadgh laughed heartily. “Well, I’m sure you can read more than I can. I can’t read stories myself, but I can sing them from up here.”

Mongan looked up as Tadgh tapped his head. “All my stories come from within me, passed down from generation to generation, remembered by song.”

Brian poked his head in the room, head gleaming with sweat. “Mat’s ready, sir.”

Tadgh’s eyes lit up again. “Excellent! If it’s alright with you, father, and brothers,” he nodded to the other men. “I’ll go and turn in for the night. It’s been a long day on the road, and I am weary with travel.”

“Good night, bard,” Abbot Domnhall nodded once, and the man gingerly tucked his harp away. Mongan’s eyes followed him as he left the room, Brian leading the way to their cell.

The room felt much emptier without his presence. Ruadhán frowned and stepped before the Abbot.

“Father, I don’t wish to overstep,” he hesitated. “But I worry about this man. Do you think it’s wise for us to lodge him?”

Abbot Domnhall stared at the fire. “And why do you think it unwise?”

“Well . . . forgive me for passing judgment, but do you think he is honest about his profession?”

“I think he’s more than likely a drunk wanderer, no home to speak of,” Flann, a monk with a ruddy face, piped up. “Probably stole that harp from someone in an inn. Can you imagine a great lord of Ulster listening to him?” 

A few chimed in agreement, but Abbot Domnhall raised his hand, muting their scoffs.

“Whom he performed for is not my concern. We must remember what Saint Columcille advocated for the bards. He stood up against the great lords of the North, and he reminded them of their importance to our land. Everyone—” His eyes lingered on each brother individually. “Everyone’s story is worth listening to, as our Saint Columcille reminded us. I will not have our reputation tarnished because we turned away a lone poet.”

The abbott turned back to Mongan. “Now, where were we?”

The Second Day of the Visit

HE following morning, Mongan kept looking over his shoulder while he worked in the kitchen. But Tadgh was nowhere to be seen—at morning mass, or breakfast.

“Mongan!” Brother Abbon, the cook, chided him. “What has gotten into you?”

Mongan looked down at the barley he spilled, collecting at his feet like pebbles. He started to crouch down, but the older monk shooed him out.

“You’ll only make it worse! Out, out!”

The boy ran outside. The air was damp and chilly, and a light mist snuggled up against the wooden huts. It was a small community—the chapel was small but the primary focus of the village. There were four other lodges curled around the chapel in the shape of a crescent moon—a smithery, the combined kitchen and refectory, the cells where they slept, and the scriptorium where a small, but substantial, literature and biblical texts lived. Past the chapel, a small barn nestled by a wooden rampart, sheltering the cow and horse. A handful of sheep dotted the hills behind.

Mongan passed the chapel and he heard a sound, music unlike anything he’d heard before. He crept around the chapel towards the barn, where he saw a figure sitting against the wall.

It was Tadgh.

Even in the daylight, the bard appeared as mischievous and fantastic as he did by the fire, like one of the sprites the farmer’s wives always warned him about. Tadgh sat cross-legged, his long legs propped like a spider on a web. His harp perched between his legs, fingers plucking delicately on the strings.

Mongan had not yet heard the harp. Of course, the monks sing and enjoy music—before Brother Lugh died last winter he’d often played his flute in the evenings after supper. They often spoke of harps and the angelic music it weaved. But Mongan himself had only heard their stories and experiences, and it felt their words did not give it justice.

He stared at the bard whose eyes were closed with fingers creeping along the strings in a steady rhythm, knowing each string intimately. The music appeared to flow from within him, the instrument and bard woven into one being. He played as naturally as if he were scratching an itch, the harp an additional arm or leg on his body.

Tadgh’s eyes opened and he saw Mongan staring.

“Good morning young one!” His fingers slowed, lulling the tune. Mongan froze, not wanting the music to stop, but not wanting to bring attention to him. 

“You can come closer, you know,” said the bard.

Mongan gingerly stepped forward, worried his footsteps would disturb the song.

“Have you heard a harp before….? Pardon me, but what is your name?”

Mongan found his words clumsy in his mouth, like too full of a bite of bread. “Mongan.”

“Mongan! Excellent name. Is this your first time hearing a harp?”

Mongan nodded, eyes glued to the strings. 

“So, what brings you here, Mongan, to the monastery? Did you run from home?”

“You missed morning mass.”

Tadgh blinked in surprise and stopped playing. He let out a bark of laughter.

“I suppose I did! Didn’t expect one so young to be so pious.”

“You’re supposed to attend all services if you stay here with us.” 

Mongan didn’t want to admit his real fear—that they would send him away if he didn’t comply with the strict rules.

Tadgh glanced down and brushed a piece of hay from his shirt. He didn’t resume playing.

“I got a bit delayed this morning. May have drunk too much ale last night.” His eyes met the boy’s, and he set down his harp. Mongan longed to touch it, to see if the strings would sing sweetly for him.

A bird chirped in the trees above.

“I don’t know who my parents are. The monks found me on the steps years ago.” He kicked at the ground. “It was during one of the famines.” He looked back at the bard whose face was serious and drawn. “So they took me in. Kept me busy to earn my keep.”

“That’s very kind of them. They treat you well,” said Tadgh.

Mongan was silent.

“Would you like to become a monk?” asked the bard.

Tadgh continued once Mongan appeared not to respond. 

“My parents too died when I was young. My uncle fostered me after that, and I traveled with him for many years. He was a bard, too, up in Ulster.” Tadgh’s face cracked into a wicked grin. “He once tarnished the great MacDougall’s family for not paying him the proper price for his song! I will never forget that first night he sang it at one of the pubs. Oh, they are still paying the price now!” He slapped his knee, cackling and eyes twinkling delightfully.

“From Ulster?” Mongan frowned. “Is this your first time in Munster?”

Mongan wasn’t entirely sure where they were—but he knew they were in the Munster region from his lessons and how far the coast was from the village. His sense of time and distance centered around travel from the monastery—three days on foot from the household of Ruadhán’s kin, one day from the coast.

“Nay, I’ve been down here before,” said the bard. “This may be my third time...or is it fourth?” Tadgh looked up in thought. He waved his hand like a long feather. “Pah, doesn’t matter! But I’ve always loved coming down to the plains of Munster, the land of Fionn!” When the boy didn’t respond, Tadgh frowned dramatically. “You do know of Fionn mac Cumhaill, of course?”

Shyness silenced the boy’s words. He nodded. Of course he’d heard about the famous Fionn, the legend of these parts, but reciting what he remembered of the story to a bard intimidated him.

“Ah, so you know about how Fionn got his name? Or how he gained the second sight, teinma laido?”

Mongan nodded slowly. “Yes, he ate a salmon.”

“Nay, he didn’t just eat the salmon! There’s far more to it than that. After defeating the warrior who slayed the red-mouthed woman’s son, he inherited the bag of Cumall which contained treasures, glittering jewels and the most prized possessions in the land!

Fionn, who at that time was called Demne, wandered into Connacht and met with the old man, Crimall, Despite Demne’s natural hunting ability—he was quite the hunter, as I am sure you know—the old men there provided him with food and drink for the fair-headed warrior. Demne, our hero, left them there, determined to find Finneces, a most capable poet. Demne wished to become a poet himself, as poet’s are a rare yet prized stock of people.”

Tadgh cleared his throat and paused, whether for dramatic effect or because of the dreary weather, Mongan couldn’t say, But he waited, riveted.

After a moment Mongan prompted the bard. “Did he—did he find the poet?”

“Indeed, he eventually did. He found him on the river Boyne, where he stood, watching the fish swim and swim for quite some time. Seven years, in fact.”

“Seven years? Why so long?”

“Because these are not your usual salmon, Mongan. These salmon belong to Fec, and it was believed that if eaten, they offer the gift of second sight. The gift of knowing all, of knowing everything you could possibly think of! So Demne went down to the stream. He waited and waited, until at last he caught a fish to give to the man. After he cooked the salmon for the renowned poet, Finneces, he brought him his meal. Finneces actually did not know who this lad was, perhaps some generous wandering youth, and he asked if he had eaten any of it.

‘No,’ said Demne, He held up his hand, showing a red thumb to the poet. ‘But I did burn myself from cooking and sucked on the welt after.’

Finneces knew this boy was someone. He knew he was not meant to eat the fish himself. He named him Fionn, shedding the birth name, and gifted him the salmon. And from that time forward, whenever Fionn placed his thumb in his mouth, nothing was secret from him.”

A bell rang behind Mongan, startling him back to the present.

“I must go! Prayers are about to start!” He sprinted off, leaving Tadgh to sip on his ale alone. The bard picked up his harp again.

 

The Third Day of the Visit

ADGH,” Abbot Domnhall’s voice rumbled like a cart on a road. “Tell us a story about Ulster.”

It was the third day with the bard at the monastery.  The monks sat around the table, a small fire coughing heat to combat the rain and cold outside. A bowl of barley and turnip soup passed between hands, each monk carefully rationing a reasonable amount. Mongan walked around the table, pouring a portion of ale into their cups.

Tadgh audibly swallowed a helping of barley. “Have you been to Ulster, Father?”

Abbot Domnhall did not look up from his meal and bit into his bread. “No, but I’ve met several clergymen from there. Interesting men.”

“Well, we tend to be a rather fiery lot.”

Abbot Domnhall snorted, but his eyes betrayed his good nature. “And proud!”

“You would be, too, if your people lived in the same land as Cú Chulainn!”

Mongan’s ears perked at the mention of Cú Chulainn. The table stilled, and the only sound was from the fire crackling. 

The boy quickly sat beside Ruadhán.

Tadgh took a slow sip of ale and carefully set it down, the mug thumping on the old wood. The suspense hummed over the table like a bee.

“I am assuming you all have heard of Cú Chulainn, the Hound, and of his might on the battlefield, of course.” The bard’s eyes gleamed in the light. “But do you know about his birth, the origin of this great warrior?”

“What’s so special about his birth?” Mongan blurted out. Ruadhán nudged his knee under the table to shush him.

“Well—”

But Flann broke in, sneering like a pig. “Pah! Pile of rubbish! Father, why do you let him speak this way?”

Tadgh’s eyebrows raised, his glassy eyes betraying no surprise. “Speak what way? I am simply telling you stories of Ireland in exchange for this meal and my bed on your ground.”

“Stories of a pagan leader, one who worshiped the old gods, the false gods!” Even as he spoke, Flann felt the resentment stirring amongst the others. A few shot him a dirty look, and Ruadhán scowled at his plate.

Tadgh laughed before Abbot Domnhall could speak. “False gods! But Cú Chulainn did not worship false gods!”

“Of course he did!” Flann blubbered.

“No, he didn’t. He brought Christianity to Ulster and to my people, dear brother.” 

A few exclaimed loudly in surprise.

Abbot Domnhall turned to the bard, his face calm, but his eyes brimming with curiosity. “Tell us this story.”

“It would be an honor, Father Domnhall, except my throat does feel a bit dry.” Tadgh sighed, his bony face weathered and forlorn.

Father Domnhall cast a look at Mongan, who scrambled to grab the pitcher of ale. He drained the remnants into Tadgh’s mug.

Tadgh acted surprised. “Ahh! Thank you, Mongan, you are so good to me! Now, where was I?” He took a swig then reached for his harp.

The bard perched sideways on the wooden bench, his harp jutting out like a large belly. He closed his eyes, hummed, and plucked a few strings, and the harp sang pristinely over the table. His eyes opened, large and distant, as if peering into another room.

“Our beloved Patrick, the father of our homeland, the messenger of the Lord to the soil of Erin, was traveling to see the High King, up north in Ulster. He came to the kingdom and there saw King Loegaire, son of Niall, in his hall. He walked up to the king and asked him, does he believe in the Lord and heard his message?

Loegaire scoffed and shook his head, his beard shaking with disgust. ‘Nay, I will not believe in your Lord, or your word, until Cú Chulainn himself comes down and shows himself to me, in the flesh. Not until he proclaims your word as truth to my ears, to my eyes.

Patrick looked him in the eyes, not disturbed or shaken by his strong words. He bowed his head.

‘All is possible with the Lord,’ he murmured.

A mist came into the halls, and a bright light descended as if the sun decided to join the saint and king! It was a messenger, a being to bring a word from the Lord, and it told where to meet Cú Chulainn in the morning.”

Tadgh continued the story, with the harp harmonizing with his voice. He described the multiple meetings between the red-haired hero, Cú Chulainn, his charioteer, and Leogaire. Mongan saw the wary-eyed king, his suspicion staining his perspective on the religion, and the patient Patrick, who stood beside him and greeted the pagan figure. Leogaire fumbled with excuses as to why he was imagining the vision, as to why he could not believe in the religion.

The monks sat in silence, their eyes wide, as Tadgh sang the story, a legend for them to remember.

“The final time, Leogaire stubbornly stood before Cú Chulainn, his face grave, and said, ‘If you are truly who you say you are, you will sing to me your deeds.’”

Tadgh sang, his voice pure yet rugged, gentle yet piercing, a series of contradictions with his harp, like the story of Cú Chulainn, and he listed his deeds, as if he were himself the figure sitting before them.

“He said to Leogaire, 

‘Great as was my heroism, 

Hard as was my sword, 

The devil crushed me with one finger, 

Into the red charcoal!’ 

Leogaire stood with his mouth agape, as if stupefied. The battle-worn apparition turned to Patrick. He stared into the holy father’s eyes and pleaded to be allowed into heaven, to permit him to enter the peaceful realm of the believers.

He turned again to Leogaire and confirmed he was indeed Cú Chulainn, son of Sualtam, who was before him. Not a ghost, not an evil spirit from the darkness of the forest. A man who now followed Christ, who now wished to be with the Lord in heaven above.”

Tadgh stopped playing. “Conchobar, the ruler who fought alongside and guided Cú Chulainn, was born at the same time as Christ. Leogaire fell to his knees, praying to the Lord, calling to Patrick his recognition of the one ruler of our land. 

And that is how Cú Chulainn helped bring Christianity to Ireland.”

The table was silent. Everyone stared at the haggard bard. Some in fear, some in wonder, and some in awe. 

 

The Fourth Day of the Visit

HE monks ushered into the chapel for Sunday mass. It was a modest building, built from wood, the earthen floor cold and damp. A small crucifix hung on the back wall above the altar. Despite the worn state of the monastery, the crucifix gleamed brightly like the nativity star, having been blessed and gifted from St. Patrick himself centuries before.

The room reverberated with a sense of holiness. Even the travelers boasting of grand monasteries and wealthy villages back home silenced and bowed their heads in reverence upon entering the small building.

The boy was already inside, cold seeping through his shoes. He watched as all the monks came in as a small band of six, and his eyes widened when he saw Tadgh filing in last. An amused expression glanced on the bony face, his large eyes skimming the room, taking in the state of disrepair, the lack of windows, the tiny altar. He caught Mongan’s eye, winked, and stood next to Brother Cillian.

Abbot Domnhall faced the crucifix and bowed his head, the monks followed suit. Mongan glanced and saw the Bard close his eyes, his face unreadable.

Afterwards Mongan found the bard and his harp by the barn. Perched before him, Mongan listened eagerly to the stories Tadgh wove—of Cu, Finn, Medbe, Oisin, the outlandish and heroic characters appeared before the boy’s very eyes. 

After one particular verse, Mongan sang the song back to Tadgh, and the bard laughed in delight.

“So he can sing!” He clapped his hands. 

Tadgh spent the following hour teaching Mongan the remainder of the song. When Abbot Domnhall called Mongan to the garden, scolding him for forgetting his duties, Mongan hardly heard the words—his mind thrummed with the bard’s song.

 

The Fifth Day of the Visit

N the fifth morning of Tadgh’s stay, Mongan found himself humming throughout the entire morning. Song accompanied him while he assisted Brothers Ruadhán and Flann with the brewing, mindlessly stirring the malted contents while the monks carefully poured boiling water into the tub. It wasn’t until he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder that he noticed Abbot Domnhall standing behind him.

“Someone’s lively this morning, I see,” Abbot Domnhall said. 

Brother Ruadhán raised a playful brow. “Someone’s been spending a lot of time with our guest! We may soon have our own bard, Abbot Domnall!”

“Follow me, Mongan,” said the abbot.

Brother Ruadhán winked at Mongan as the elderly monk led the boy outside to the cold, damp air, the sparse trees scratching the grey sky. Mongan missed the warm steam from the malted concoction, and he wondered what he’d done wrong to deserve this private talk.

Abbot Domnall cleared his throat. “As you know, some of our men will be leaving soon, to embark on a mission to Gaul to spread the word of Christ and St. Patrick’s teachings. Brother Ruadhán, who I know you are fond of, Father Cillian, and Brother Brian are leaving in one day from tomorrow.”

Mongan nodded. Six days ago, the mission trip consumed Mongan’s thoughts as he tried to envision the monastery without Brother Ruadhán. It was all that was discussed until Tadgh wandered in, providing an enchanting distraction. Now, Mongan could care less about the trip and where his elders would venture. 

“I have decided you are to accompany them on their trip,” said the abbot. “I want you to assist them, especially Brother Ruadhán, who has agreed to continue your tutoring in Latin as he is quite gifted with words.”

Mongan felt his stomach drop. “Go—go with them? You want me to leave?”

Abbot Domnall looked perplexed. “I thought you would want to go? You seemed upset when Brother Ruadhán offered himself up as a missionary. We thought you would be pleased with this news.”

“But I don’t want—” Mongan faltered when he saw the abbot’s frown at his insubordination. 

“They will need a retainer, and you are the perfect candidate. I trust you will pray to God and ask for his guidance as to why you are hesitant to leave.”

After Abbot Domnall left, Mongan slipped inside the hut. He avoided Brother Ruadhán’s eyes while he stirred the pot, his mind empty of song.

 

The Sixth Day of the Visit

HE following day, as Mongan patched some of the monks’ cowls, he imagined himself as one of them, leading the services, devoting his life to some invisible power.

He tried to envision himself as an old man in a foreign land, speaking with strangers in an even stranger tongue. Would he join a local monastery? Or build one from the ground up with his companions, a tribute to their little Irish village?

Or maybe he would return here. He would stand before the abbot and preach gospels and stories already so well-known and scribed by someone else. 

His future made him feel helpless. But he knew no other life, and he did not know what other options there were. A farmer? A lone traveller?

At times, he imagined running off to the coast, a mere days’ walk away, and disappearing. Perhaps he could join the sailors—hopping shore to shore. But what could they offer? Would they even accept a scraggly child, an extra mouth to feed?

The needle nipped his thumb, startling him back to his task. He sucked on the blood and heard the harp filter in through the open door.

Quietly setting the clothes down, Mongan crept out the door and peered around the corner. Tadgh was lounging in his usual spot, aimlessly playing his instrument as a spot of sun fell on him.

Perhaps he could join Tadgh. He could hem his clothes, clean his harp, maybe even learn it as well. Mongan’s heart quickened—he could be Tadgh’s assistant! Wake him in the morning, bring him ale when his throat runs dry from singing, translate his songs to Latin, even.

The bell chimed. Regretfully, Mongan dragged himself to midday mass.

 

The Seventh Day of the Visit

N the seventh morning the monks woke up to more promising weather. Spring finally seemed to have arrived, and there was a hint of sunlight peeping behind the moody clouds. It was the first time Mongan hadn’t seen rain since winter. The routine continued as usual, but there seemed to be a sense of hope and excitement in there—a real spring in the step.

Mongan fed the sheep in the fields, enjoying what little sun rays were pricking at his neck. The sheep lowed and chomped on their food. Brother Cillian and Brother Brian walked up behind him Mongan. They murmured, heads bent together, a quiet conversation, but pieces of words leapt from their mouths like a harp tuned too sharply.

“…leaving soon…”

“…will be quiet without him….”

Mongan jolted upright, his head spinning dizzily. 

“Who’s leaving?” he shouted. The monks started at his outburst—usually they strained to hear his quiet voice. Brian frowned at the boy’s temperament.

“Why, Tadgh, of course. Didn’t you hear him saying the weather looked better?” 

“He’s leaving?” 

“Now, Mongan, you didn’t expect him to stay forever, did you?” 

Mongan ignored them and jumped over the fence. He sprinted up to the village, and their calls blended in with the sheep.

He found Tadgh by the road, crouched over his knapsack. The cook stood beside him, sneaking him a loaf of bread. 

“Another? Brother, you are far too generous! I cannot—” 

Despite his objections, Tadgh shoved the loaf into his knapsack, theatrically as usual. He looked up and smiled brightly when he saw Mongan panting in front of him. 

“Well, hello, Mongan! I see you’ve heard the news of my leaving?”

“You can’t leave.” Mongan blurted out. He didn’t intend to be so direct.

Tadgh’s face fell, and he stood up, brushing the dust off his pants. He embraced the chef goodbye and turned back to Mongan.

“I must leave. I cannot stay here forever,” Tadgh said.

“Where will you go? Back to Ulster?”

Tadgh shrugged. “Most likely. It’s about time I return.”

“I want to go with you. I want to go to Ulster.” 

Tadgh opened his mouth, but Mongan’s words tumbled out of his mouth like sea foam. “I can’t stay here. I can’t go to Gaul with the monks. I want to go with you, I want to be a bard, I want to tell the stories of Ireland, I want to see all of Ireland!”

For a moment, Tadgh stood in silence, staring thoughtfully. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, Mongan was surprised to hear his voice so serious and measured.

“Don’t want to go to Gaul? With people who care for you and love you as their own? Someone to share a plate of warm food with everyday?”

“They don’t care about me—”

“They do care about you. They treat you as their own.”

Mongan wanted to cry at the bard, to hit his chest. He wanted throw the harp on the ground, that stupid, devil harp, to hear its angelic strings break and bleat a final time, like a dying sheep.

Tadgh’s eyes flashed, and his voice tightened, like a rope gripped his throat. “You don’t want to come with me. What would you do? Beg for alms every step of the way? Write poems for families who are vile and kill one another, hoping one of them will think you are worth their extra meat and bread?” The bard shook his head, his expression dark. “You have an opportunity to learn, an opportunity to share those stories with others.”

Mongan gritted his teeth. “Those words mean nothing. You said I could sing just as good as you—”

“Those words are the words people have been singing every day for as long as we can remember! You have a chance to learn to scribe them, engrave them in paper, for people years and years later to read.” 

The bard laughed darkly.

“You think people will remember my voice? Recall what my harp sounds like when I die? No, Mongan,” His expression sobered. “People won’t remember me, what I look like, what my voice sounds like.” He locked eyes with the boy. “But they can remember what songs our ancestors taught us. If you write them down. If you bring them with you.”

Mongan watched the spindly bard as he swung his knapsack over his shoulder, tenderly placing the wrapped harp under his arm.

“Lovely day to be traveling, eh?” His face split into a wicked grin again, but his eyes didn’t sparkle. “Goodbye, Mongan.” He nodded and strolled purposefully down the path, whistling loudly.

Mongan could hear his singing from far down the road. The wind rustled about him, and he looked up at the blue sky. He wanted to savor every last moment with this land.

A hand gently touched his shoulder, and Mongan saw Brother Ruadhán standing beside him. His eyes stared out at the road. 

For a moment, they stood in silence. Mongan glanced at his companion.

“Have you heard how Conchobar became the king of Ulster?”