Chapter 5

But Offero understood not the meaning of worship and prayer and he answered, "Require of me some other thing and I shall do it, but I know naught of this which thou requirest."

Then the hermit said to him, "Knowest thou the river, a day's journey from here, where there is neither ford nor bridge and many perish and are lost? Thou art large and strong. Therefore go thou and dwell by this river and bear over all who desire to cross its waters. That is a service which will be well pleasing to the Christ whom thou desirest to serve, and sometime, if I mistake not, he whom thou seekest will come to thee."

Offero was right joyful at these words and answered, "This service may I well do."

So he hastened to the river and upon its banks he built himself a little hut of reeds. He bare a great pole in his hand to sustain him in the water and many weary wayfarers did he help to cross the turbulent stream. So he lived a long time, bearing over all manner of people without ceasing, and still he saw nothing of the Christ.

Now it happened one night that a storm was raging and the river was very high. Tired with his labors, Offero had just flung himself down on his rude bed to sleep when he heard the voice of a child which called him and said, "Offero, Offero, come out and bear me over."

Offero arose and went out from his cabin, but in the darkness he could see no one. And when he was again in the house, he heard the same voice and he ran out again and found no one. A third time he heard the call and going out once more into the storm, there upon the river bank he found a fair young child who besought him in pleading tones, "Wilt thou not carry me over the river this night, Offero?"

The strong man gently lifted the child on his shoulders, took his staff and stepped into the stream. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more and the child was heavy as lead. And alway as he went farther, higher and higher swelled the waters and the child more and more waxed heavy, insomuch that he feared that they would both be drowned. Already his strength was nearly gone, but he thought of his Master whom he had not yet seen, and staying his footsteps with his palm staff struggled with all his might to reach the opposite shore. As at last he climbed the steep bank, suddenly the storm ceased and the waters calmed.

He set the child down upon the shore, saying, "Child, thou hast put me in great peril. Had I carried the whole world on my shoulders, the weight had not been greater. I might bear no greater burden."

"Offero," answered the child, "Marvel not, but rejoice; for thou hast borne not only all the world upon thee, but thou hast borne him that created and made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Christ the king whom thou servest in this work. And for a token, that thou mayst know what I say to be the truth, set thy staff in the earth by thy house and thou shalt see in the morning that it shall bear flowers and fruit." With these words the child vanished from Offero's sight.

But Offero did even as he was bidden and set his staff in the earth and when he arose on the morrow, he found it like a palm-tree bearing flowers and leaves and clusters of dates. Then he knew that it was indeed Christ whom he had borne through the waters and he rejoiced that he had found his Master. From that day he served Christ faithfully and was no more called Offero, but Christopher, the Christ bearer.

ST. CHRISTOPHER OF THE GAEL

FIONA MACLEOD

Behind the wattle-woven house Nial the Mighty gently crept From out a screen of ashtree boughs To where a captive white-robe slept.

Lightly he moved, as though ashamed; To right and left he glanced his fears. Nial the Mighty was he named Though but an untried youth in years--

But tall he was, as tall as he, White Dermid of the magic sword, Or Torcall of the Hebrid Sea Or great Cuhoolin of the Ford;

Strong as the strongest, too, he was: As Balor of the Evil Eye; As Fionn who kept the Ulster Pass From dawn till blood-flusht sunset sky.

Much had he pondered all that day The mystery of the men who died On crosses raised along the way, And perished singing side by side.

Modred the chief had sailed the Moyle, Had reached Iona's guardless-shore, Had seized the monks when at their toil And carried northward, bound, a score.

Some he had thrust into the deep, To see if magic fins would rise: Some from high rocks he forced to leap, To see wings fall from out the skies:

Some he had pinned upon tall spears, Some tossed on shields with brazen clang, To see if through their blood and tears Their god would hear the hymns they sang.

But when his oarsmen flung their oars, And laughed to see across the foam The glimmer of the highland shores And smoke-wreaths of the hidden home,

Modred was weary of his sport. All day he brooded as he strode Betwixt the reef-encircled port And the oak-grove of the Sacred Road.

At night he bade his warriors raise Seven crosses where the foamswept strand Lay still and white beyond the blaze Of the hundred camp-fires of the land.

The women milked the late-come kye, The children raced in laughing glee; Like sheep from out the fold of the sky Stars leapt and stared at earth and sea.

At times a wild and plaintive air Made delicate music far away: A hill-fox barked before its lair: The white owl hawked its shadowy prey.

But at the rising of the moon The druids came from grove and glen, And to the chanting of a rune Crucified St. Columba's men.

They died in silence side by side, But first they sang the evening hymn: By midnight all but one had died, At dawn he too was grey and grim.

One monk alone had Modred kept, A youth with hair of golden-red, Who never once had sighed or wept, Not once had bowed his proud young head.

Broken he lay, and bound with thongs. Thus had he seen his brothers toss Like crows transfixed upon great prongs, Till death crept up each silent cross.

Night grew to dawn, to scarlet morn; Day waned to firelit, star-lit night: But still with eyes of passionate scorn He dared the worst of Modred's might.

When from the wattle-woven house Nial the Mighty softly stepped, And peered beneath the ashtree boughs To where he thought the white-robe slept,

He heard the monk's words rise in prayer. He heard a hymn's ascending breath-- "Christ, Son of God, to Thee I fare This night upon the wings of death."

Nial the Mighty crossed the space, He waited till the monk had ceased; Then, leaning o'er the foam-white face, He stared upon the dauntless priest.

"Speak low," he said, "and tell me this: Who is the king you hold so great?-- Your eyes are dauntless flames of bliss Though Modred taunts you with his hate:--

"This god or king, is He more strong Than Modred is? And does He sleep That thus your death-in-life is long, And bonds your aching body keep?"

The monk's eyes stared in Nial's eyes: "Young giant with a child's white heart, I see a cross take shape and rise, And thou upon it nailèd art!"

Nial looked back: no cross he saw Looming from out the dreadful night: Yet all his soul was filled with awe, A thundercloud with heart of light.

"Tell me thy name," he said, "and why Thou waitest thus the druid knife, And carest not to live or die? Monk, hast thou little care of life?"

"Great care of that I have," he said, And looked at Nial with eyes of fire: "My life begins when I am dead, There only is my heart's desire."

Nial the Mighty sighed. "Thy words Are as the idle froth of foam, Or clashing of triumphant swords When Modred brings the foray home.

"My name is Nial: Nial the Strong: A lad in years, but as you see More great than heroes of old song Or any lordly men that be.

"To Modred have I come from far, O'er many a hill and strath and stream. To be a mighty sword in war, And this because I dreamed a dream:

"My dream was that my strength so great Should serve the greatest king there is: Modred the Pict thus all men rate, And so I sought this far-off Liss.

"But if there be a greater yet, A king or god whom he doth fear, My service he shall no more get, My strength shall rust no longer here."

The monk's face gladdened. "Go, now, go; To Modred go: he sitteth dumb, And broods on what he fain would know: And say, '_O King, the Cross is come_!'

"Then shall the king arise in wrath, And bid you go from out his sight, For if he meet you on his path He'll leave you stark and still and white.

"Thus shall he show, great king and all, He fears the glorious Cross of Christ, And dreads to hear slain voices call For vengeance on the sacrificed.

"But, Nial, come not here again: Long before dawn my soul shall be Beyond the reach of any pain That Modred dreams to prove on me.

"Go forth thyself at dawn, and say 'This is Christ's holy natal morn, My king is He from forth this day When He to save mankind was born':

"Go forth and seek a lonely place Where a great river fills the wild; There bide, and let thy strength be grace, And wait the Coming of a Child.

"A wondrous thing shall then befall: And when thou seek'st if it be true, Green leaves along thy staff shall crawl, With, flowers of every lovely hue."

The monk's face whitened, like sea-foam: Seaward he stared, and sighed "I go-- Farewell--my Lord Christ calls me home!" Nial stooped and saw death's final throe.

An hour before the dawn he rose And sought out Modred, brooding, dumb; "O King," he said, "my bond I close, King Christ I seek: the Cross is come!"

Swift as a stag's leap from a height King Modred drew his dreadful sword: Then as a snow-wraith, silent, white, He stared and passed without a word.

Before the flush of dawn was red A druid came to Nial the Great: "The doom of death hath Modred said, Yet fears this Christ's mysterious hate:

"So get you hence, you giant-thewed man: Go your own way: come not again: No more are you of Modred's clan: Go now, forthwith, lest you be slain."

Nial went forth with gladsome face; No more of Modred's clan he was: "Now, now," he cried, "Christ's trail I'll trace, And nowhere turn, and nowhere pause."

He laughed to think how Modred feared The wrath of Christ, the monk's white king: "A greater than Modred hath appeared, To Him my sword and strength I bring."

All day, all night, he walked afar: He saw the moon rise white and still: The evening and the morning star: The sunrise burn upon the hill.

He heard the moaning of the seas, The vast sigh of the sunswept plain, The myriad surge of forest-trees; Saw dusk and night return again.

At falling of the dusk he stood Upon a wild and desert land: Dark fruit he gathered for his food, Drank water from his hollowed hand,

Cut from an ash a mighty bough And trimmed and shaped it to the half: "Safe in the desert am I now, With sword," he said, "and with this staff."

The stars came out: Arcturus hung His ice-blue fire far down the sky: The Great Bear through the darkness swung: The Seven Watchers rose on high.

A great moon flooded all the west. Silence came out of earth and sea And lay upon the husht world's breast, And breathed mysteriously.

Three hours Nial walked, three hours and more: Then halted when beyond the plain He stood upon that river's shore The dying monk had bid him gain.

A little house he saw: clay-wrought, Of wattle woven through and through: Then, all his weariness forgot, The joy of drowning-sleep he knew.

Three hours he slept, and then he heard A voice--and yet a voice so low It might have been a dreaming bird Safe-nested by the rushing flow.

Almost he slept once more: then, _Hush_! Once more he heard above the noise And tempest of the river's rush The thin faint words of a child's voice.

"Good Sir, awake from sleep and dream, Good Sir, come out and carry me Across this dark and raging stream Till safe on the other side I be."

Great Nial shivered on his bed: "No human creature calls this night, It is a wild fetch of the dead," He thought, and shrunk, and shook with fright.

Once more he heard that infant-cry: "Come out, Good Sir, or else I drown-- Come out, Good Sir, or else I die And you, too, lose a golden crown."

"A golden crown"--so Nial thought-- "No--no--not thus shall I be ta'en! Keep, ghost-of-the-night, your crown gold-wrought-- Of sleep and peace I am full fain!"

Once more the windy dark was filled With lonely cry, with sobbing plaint: Nial's heart grew sore, its fear was stilled, King Christ, he knew, would scorn him faint.

"Up, up thou coward, thou sluggard, thou," He cried, and sprang from off his bed-- "No crown thou seekest for thy brow, But help for one in pain and dread!"

Out in the wide and lonely dark No fetch he saw, no shape, no child: Almost he turned again--but _hark_! A song rose o'er the waters wild:

A king am I Tho' a little Child, Son of God am I, Meek and mild, Beautiful Because God hath said Let my cup be full Of wine and bread.

Come to me Shaken heart, Shaken heart! I will not flee. My heart Is thy heart O shaken heart! Stoop to my Cup, Sup, Drink of the wine: The wine and the bread, Saith God, Are mine-- My Flesh and my Blood!

Throw thy sword in the flood: Come, shaken heart: Fearful thou art! Have no more fear-- Lo, I am here, The little One, The Son, Thy Lord and thy King.

It is I who sing: Christ, your King.... Be not afraid: Look, I am Light, A great star Seen from afar In the darkness of night: I am Light, Be not afraid ... Wade, wade Into the deep flood! Think of the Bread, The Wine and the Bread That are my Flesh and Blood, Cross, cross the Flood, Sure is the goal ... Be not afraid O Soul, Be not afraid!

Nial's heart was filled with joy and pain: "This is my king, my king indeed: To think that drown'd in sleep I've lain When Christ the Child-God crieth in need!"

Swift from his wattled hut he strode, Stumbling among the grass and bent, And, seeking where the river flowed, Far o'er the dark flood peered and leant:

Then suddenly beside him saw A little Child all clad in white: He bowed his head in love and awe, Then lifted high his burthen light.

High on his shoulders sat the Child, While with strong limbs he fared among The rushing waters black and wild And where the fiercest currents swung.

The waters rose more high, more high, Higher and higher every yard ... Nial stumbled on with sob and sigh, Christ heard him panting sore and hard.

"O Child," Nial cried, "forbear, forbear! Hark you not how these waters whirled! The weight of all the earth I bear, The weary weight of all the world!"

"_Christopher_!" ... low above the noise, The rush, the darkness, Nial heard The far-off music of a Voice That said all things in saying one word--

"Christopher ... this thy name shall be! Christ-bearer is thy name, even so Because of service done to me Heavy with weight of the world's woe."

With breaking sobs, with panting breath Christopher grasped a bent-held dune, Then with flung staff and as in death Forward he fell in a heavy swoon.

All night he lay in silence there, But safe from reach of surging tide: White angels had him in their care, Christ healed and watched him side by side.

When all the silver wings of dawn Had waved above the rose-flusht east, Christopher woke ... his dream was gone. The angelic songs had ceased.

Was it a dream in very deed, He wondered, broken, trembling, dazed? His staff he lifted from the mead And as an upright sapling raised.

Lo, it was as the monk had said-- If he would prove the vision true, His staff would blossom to its head With flowers of every lovely hue.

Christopher bowed: before his eyes Christ's love fulfilled the holy hour.... A south-wind blew, green leaves did rise And the staff bloomed a myriad flower!

Christopher bowed in holy prayer, While Christ's love fell like healing dew: God's father-hand was on him there: The peace of perfect peace he knew.

THE CROSS OF THE DUMB

_A Christmas on Iona, Long, Long Ago_

FIONA MACLEOD

One eve, when St. Columba strode In solemn mood along the shore, He met an angel on the road Who but a poor man's semblance bore.

He wondered much, the holy saint, What stranger sought the lonely isle, But seeing him weary and wan and faint St. Colum hailed him with a smile.

"Remote our lone Iona lies Here in the grey and windswept sea, And few are they whom my old eyes Behold as pilgrims bowing the knee....

"But welcome ... welcome ... stranger-guest, And come with me and you shall find A warm and deer-skinn'd cell for rest And at our board a welcome kind....

"Yet tell me ere the dune we cross How came you to this lonely land? No curraghs in the tideway toss And none is beached upon the strand!"

The weary pilgrim raised his head And looked and smiled and said, "From far, My wandering feet have here been led By the glory of a shining star...."

St. Colum gravely bowed, and said, "Enough, my friend, I ask no more; Doubtless some silence-vow was laid Upon thee, ere thou sought'st this shore:

"Now, come: and doff this raiment sad And those rough sandals from thy feet: The holy brethren will be glad To haven thee in our retreat."

Together past the praying cells And past the wattle-woven dome Whence rang the tremulous vesper bells St. Colum brought the stranger home.

From thyme-sweet pastures grey with dews The milch-cows came with swinging tails: And whirling high the wailing mews Screamed o'er the brothers at their pails.

A single spire of smoke arose, And hung, a phantom, in the cold: Three younger monks set forth to close The ewes and lambs within the fold.

The purple twilight stole above The grey-green dunes, the furrowed leas: And Dusk, with breast as of a dove, Brooded: and everywhere was peace.

Within the low refectory sate The little clan of holy folk: Then, while the brothers mused and ate, The wayfarer arose and spoke....

"O Colum of Iona-Isle, And ye who dwell in God's quiet place, Before I crossed your narrow kyle I looked in Heaven upon Christ's face."

Thereat St. Colum's startled glance Swept o'er the man so poorly clad, And all the brethren looked askance In fear the pilgrim-guest was mad.

"And, Colum of God's Church i' the sea And all ye Brothers of the Rood, The Lord Christ gave a dream to me And bade me bring it ye as food.

"Lift to the wandering cloud your eyes And let them scan the wandering Deep.... Hark ye not there the wandering sighs Of brethren ye as outcasts keep?"

Thereat the stranger bowed, and blessed; Then, grave and silent, sought his cell: St. Colum mused upon his guest, Dumb wonder on the others fell.

At dead of night the Abbot came To where the weary wayfarer slept: "Tell me," he said, "thy holy name..." --No more, for on bowed knees he wept....

Great awe and wonder fell on him; His mind was like a lonely wild When suddenly is heard a hymn Sung by a little innocent child.

For now he knew their guest to be No man as he and his, but one Who in the Courts of Ecstasy Worships, flame-winged, the Eternal Son.

The poor bare cell was filled with light, That came from the swung moons the Seven Seraphim swing day and night Adown the infinite walls of Heaven.

But on the fern-wove mattress lay No weary guest. St. Colum kneeled, And found no trace; but, ashen-grey, Far off he heard glad anthems pealed.

At sunrise when the matins-bell Made a cold silvery music fall Through silence of each lonely cell And over every fold and stall,

St. Colum called his monks to come And follow him to where his hands Would raise the Great Cross of the Dumb Upon the Holy Island's sands....

"For I shall call from out the Deep And from the grey fields of the skies, The brethren we as outcasts keep, Our kindred of the dumb wild eyes....

"Behold, on this Christ's natal morn, God wills the widening of His laws, Another miracle to be born-- _For lo, our guest an Angel was_!...

"His Dream the Lord Christ gave to him To bring to us as Christ-Day food, That Dream shall rise a holy hymn And hang like a flower upon the Rood!..."

Thereat, while all with wonder stared St. Colum raised the Holy Tree: Then all with Christ-Day singing fared To where the last sands lipped the sea.

St. Colum raised his arms on high ... "O ye, all creatures of the wing, Come here from out the fields o' the sky, Come, here and learn a wondrous thing!"

At that the wild clans of the air Came sweeping in a mist of wings-- Ospreys and fierce solanders there, Sea-swallows wheeling mazy rings,

The foam-white mew, the green-black scart, The famishing hawk, the wailing tern, All birds from the sand-building mart To lonely bittern and heron....

St. Colum raised beseeching hands And blessed the pastures of the sea: "Come, all ye creatures, to the sands, Come and behold the Sacred Tree!"

At that the cold clans of the wave With spray and surge and splash appeared: Up from each wrack-strewn, lightless cave Dim day-struck eyes affrighted peered.

The pollacks came with rushing haste, The great sea-cod, the speckled bass; Along the foaming tideway raced The herring-tribes like shimmering glass:

The mackerel and the dog-fish ran, The whiting, haddock, in their wake: The great sea-flounders upward span, The fierce-eyed conger and the hake:

The greatest and the least of these From hidden pools and tidal ways Surged in their myriads from the seas And stared at St. Columba's face.

"Hearken," he cried, with solemn voice-- "Hearken! ye people of the Deep, Ye people of the skies, Rejoice! No more your soulless terror keep!

"For lo, an Angel from the Lord Hath shown us that wherein we sin-- But now we humbly do His Word And call you, Brothers, kith and kin....

"No more we claim the world as ours And everything that therein is-- To-day, Christ's Day, the infinite powers Decree a common share of bliss.

"I know not if the new-waked soul That stirs in every heart I see Has yet to reach the far-off goal Whose symbol is this Cross-shaped Tree....

"But, O dumb kindred of the skies, O kinsfolk of the pathless seas, All scorn and hate I exorcise, And wish you nought but Love and Peace!"

* * * * *

Thus, on that Christmas-day of old St. Colum broke the ancient spell. A thousand years away have rolled, 'Tis now ... "a baseless miracle."

O fellow-kinsmen of the Deep, O kindred of the wind and cloud, God's children too ... how He must weep Who on that day was glad and proud!

THE CHRISTMAS SONG OF CAEDMON

H.E.G. PARDEE

About the year 650, among the servants in the ancient Abbey of Streonschall, there was a cowherd whose name was Caedmon. The habits of the people of that age were simple and rude; their houses were comfortless huts, their dress was made from the skins of their flocks, or from animals taken in the chase; they had no books, and their literature was limited to the Latin manuscripts of the Church, which few of the monks even were learned enough to read, and fewer still to translate. Amid such influences, the life of a cowherd could scarcely be lifted above that of the beasts he cared for; if his hunger and thirst were satisfied, he would ask no more than a pleasant, daisied meadow in summer, and a warm nook in the winter. But Caedmon had a sensitive nature, that craved something nobler. When the minstrels struck their harps, and sung the wild traditions and fierce conflicts of their tribes and the guests followed with boisterous jest in their uncouth ballads, Caedmon sat silent and gloomy.

One evening, as the harp, passing from one to another, drew nearer him, dreading the oft-repeated taunts of his fellows, he crept away in the shadows, and went to his only bed,--a truss of straw.

After a while he slept, and in his sleep some one of lofty stature, and with kindly-beaming eyes, stood beside him, and commanded him to sing. "I cannot," replied Caedmon, despondingly.

"Sing!" was the uncompromising answer.

"What shall I sing?"

"The origin of all things."