Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

The black guillemot, with its distinctive orange legs and mournful, warning cry, swooped and darted above the currach. It was an isolated traveler among a crowd of more hardy, sooty, white-rumped storm petrels and large, dark-colored cormorants, wheeling, diving and flitting against the soft blue May sky.

Sister Fidelma sat relaxed in the stern of the boat and let the tangy odor of the saltwater spray gently caress her senses as the two oarsmen, seated facing her, bent their backs to their task. Their oars, dipping in unison, caused the light craft to dance over the waves of the great bay which seemed so deceptively calm. The clawing waters of the hungry Atlantic were not usually so good-natured as now and often the islands, through which the currach was weaving, could be cut off for weeks or months at a time.

They had left the mainland, with its rocky terrain and scrawny vegetation, to cross the waters of the large estuary known as Roaring Water Bay, off the southwest coast of Ireland. Here the fabled Cairbre’s “hundred islands” had been randomly tossed like lumps of earth and rock into the sea as if by some giant’s hand. At the moment the day was soft, the waters passive and the sun producing some warmth, making the scene one of tranquil beauty.

As the oarsmen stroked the vessel through the numerous islands, the heads of inquisitive seals popped out of the water to stare briefly at them, surprised at their aquatic intrusion, before darting away.

Sister Fidelma was accompanied by a young novitiate, a frightened young girl, who huddled beside her in the stern seat of the currach. Fidelma had felt obliged to take the girl under her protection on the journey to the abbey of St. Ciaran of Saigher, which stood on the island of Chléire, the farthest island of this extensive group. But the escort of the novitiate was purely incidental for Fidelma’s main purpose was to carry letters from Ultan, the Archbishop of Armagh, to the Abbot at Chléire and also to the Abbot of Inis Chloichreán, a tiny religious house on one of the remoter rocky islands within the group.

The lead rower, a man made old before his time by a lifetime exposed to the coastal weather, eased his oar. He smiled a disjointed, gap-toothed smile at Fidelma. His sea-colored eyes, set deep in his leather-brown face, gazed appreciatively at the tall young woman with the rebellious strands of red hair escaping from her head-dress. He had seen few religieuses who had such feminine poise as this one; few who seemed to be so effortlessly in command.

“There’s Inis Cloichreán to our right, Sister.” He thrust out a gnarled hand to indicate the direction, realizing that, as he was facing the religieuse, the island actually lay to her left. “We are twenty minutes from it. Do you wish to land there first or go on to Chléire?”

“I have no need to be long on Chloichreán,” Fidelma replied after a moment of thought. “We’ll land there first as it is on our way.”

The rower grunted in acknowledgment and nodded to the second rower. As if at a signal, they dipped their oars together and the currach sped swiftly over the waves toward the island.

It was a hilly, rocky island. From the sea, it appeared that its shores were nothing more than steep, inaccessible cliffs whose grey granite was broken into colored relief by sea pinks and honeysuckle chambers which filled the rocky outcrops.

Lorcán, the chief rower, expertly directed the currach through offshore jagged peaks of rock, thrusting from the sea. The boat danced this way and that in the foam waters that hissed and gurgled around the jagged points of granite, creating tiny but dangerous whirlpools. He carefully maneuvered a zig-zag path into a small, sheltered cove where a natural harbor awaited them.

Fidelma was amazed at his skill.

“None but a person with knowledge could land in such a place,” she observed.

Lorcán grinned appreciatively.

“I am one of the few who know exactly where to land on this island, Sister.”

“But the members of the abbey, surely they must have some seamanship among them to be here?”

“Abbey is a grandiose name for Selbach’s settlement,” grunted the second oarsman, speaking for the first time since they had left the mainland.

“Maenach is right,” confirmed Lorcán. “Abbot Selbach came here two years ago with about twelve Brothers; he called them his apostles. But they are no more than young boys, the youngest fourteen and the eldest scarcely nineteen. They chose this island because it was inaccessible and few knew how to land on it. It is true that they have a currach but they never use it. It is only for emergencies. Four or five times a year I land here with any supplies that they might want from the mainland.”

“Ah, so it is a hermitage,” Fidelma said. There were many of the religious in Ireland who had become solitary hermits or, taking a few followers, had found some out of the way place to set up a community where they could live together in isolated contemplation of the faith. Fidelma did not really trusts hermits, or isolated communities. It was not, in her estimation, the way to serve God by shutting oneself off from His greatest Creation-the society of men and women.

“A hermitage, indeed,” agreed Maenach mournfully.

Fidelma gazed around curiously.

“It is not a large island. Surely one of the Brothers must have seen our landing yet no one has come to greet us.”

Lorcán had secured the currach to a rock by a rope and now bent forward to assist Fidelma out of the craft while Maenach used his balance to steady it.

“We’d better all get out,” Fidelma said, more for the attention of the frightened young novitiate, Sister Sárnat, than Maenach. The young girl, no more than sixteen, dutifully scrambled after Fidelma, keeping close like a chick to a mother hen.

Maenach followed, pausing to stretch languidly once he stood on dry land.

Lorcán was pointing up some steps carved in the granite slope which led from the small cove up to the top of the cliff.

“If you take those steps, Sister, you’ll come to Selbach’s community,” he said. “We’ll await you here.”

Fidelma nodded, turning to Sister Sárnat.

“Will you wait here or do you want to come with me?”

The young Sister shivered as if touched by a cold wind and looked unhappy.

“I’ll come with you, Sister,” she sniffed anxiously.

Fidelma sighed softly. The girl was long past “the age of choice” yet she was more like a ten year old, frightened with life and clutching at the nearest adult to protect her from potential lurking terrors. The girl intrigued Fidelma. She wondered what had possessed her to join a religious house while so young, without experience of life or people.

“Very well, follow me then,” she instructed.

Lorcán called softly after her.

“I’d advise you not to be long, Sister.” He pointed to the western sky. “There’s a backing wind coming and we’ll have a storm before nightfall. The sooner we reach Chléire, the sooner we shall be in shelter.”

“I’ll not be long,” Fidelma assured him and began to lead the way up the steps with Sárnat following quickly behind.

“How can he know that there’ll be a storm?” the young novitiate demanded breathlessly as she stumbled to keep up with Fidelma. “It’s such a lovely day.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“A seaman will know these things, Sárnat. The signs are there to be read in the sky. Did you observe the moon last night?”

Sárnat looked puzzled.

“The moon was bright,” she conceded.

“But if you had truly examined it then you would have seen a red glow to it. The air was still and comparatively dry. It is almost a guarantee of stormy winds from the west.”