Read Online Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle by Rosalind Miles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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return to this sacred place again?
"Take heart, Tristan."
The cavern was darkening, and the great figure was fading before his eyes. "Remember the Mother is with you wherever you go."
Her spirit surrounded him as the stream boiled and bubbled around her, and he felt the cold kiss of the spray. "Go then in grace and strength. But hurry—hurry! For the last wave is coming that will bear us all away!"
Chapter 9
Almighty God, bless the work I do this day…
Father Dominian stepped out of his narrow cell and crossed the walled enclosure at a rapid pace. Dawn already, and a tender summer sun, as pink and perfect as the inside of a rabbit's ear—where had the night gone? He rubbed his aching eyes and quested on. After thirty years, he no longer saw the other small stone cells clustered around, the long refectory that served the brothers' needs, and the proud new church at the center of it all. This was his world. The community was all.
Across the grassy enclosure a fine stone gateway led to the world outside. His pupil was waiting for him by the gate, a young monk who bowed when he saw Dominian, then fell in beside him without a word. Dominian nodded, pleased. Simeon's gentle manner hid a fiery soul, burning with devotion to the Lord. When his time came, he would spread the word of God like a row of flaming crosses on every hill.
Together they passed through the gates and plunged into the woodland, thickets of ancient oak, holly, and dark yew so dense that they often had to force their way through. At last Dominian saw ahead of them the low stone housing of a sacred well. Behind it was a moldering clump of stones, a lonely hermitage, encrusted like the well with bright green moss.
"Wait here," Dominian said and ducked into the cell.
The small domed chamber was too low to stand. Dominian eased his misshapen frame down onto his haunches and squatted with his back against the wall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. One slit window admitted a little light, and a rambling sunbeam picked out a low pallet in the corner of the hard-packed earthen floor. Beside it stood a beaker of water, and a wooden cross hung over the door.
Dominian breathed deeply and allowed the damp peace of the place to seep into his soul.
Quam delecta, Domine, domus tuas
… How amiable are Thy dwellings, Lord God of Hosts—
Ahead of him, a frail ancient sat cross-legged on the ground, his sightless gaze turned toward the door.
"God bless you, Father," Dominian said fervently.
"And you, my son."
The old man's voice had the dry rustle of a cricket's song, and the hands he clasped in prayer were skin and bone. His monkish robe was worn and green with age, and his face was washed with cold. But a radiant joy shone from his milky eyes, and he smiled like one who has seen the kingdom of God.
The very sight of him soothed Dominian's soul. "I am going to King Mark," he ventured after a while.
The old man nodded, "May God advance your work."
"He does." Dominian allowed himself a grim smile. "Cornwall is ours—we have won the King's soul." A soul hardly worth having, he reflected, but where a king leads, his subjects must follow too.
"You have brought him to God?" the old man asked, excitement lending a tremor to his voice. "After a lifetime of following the Mother?"
The Mother…
Dominian felt the age-old fury convulse his bones. How could these pagan fools believe in a Creator called the Mother, when She spawned monsters like him? When he was born, his mother was sure she had lain with a demon, to throw such a black and wizened, ugly, misshapen child. She had reared him with kicks and curses and kept him like a dog, forced to feed on scraps and sleep with the strays by the fire. The Mother? When he was seven, his own mother had driven him from the house and left him weeping in the woods, praying to die.
But then the old holy man had found him and told him that there was a Father in heaven who loved little ones like him. He had
"Take heart, Tristan."
The cavern was darkening, and the great figure was fading before his eyes. "Remember the Mother is with you wherever you go."
Her spirit surrounded him as the stream boiled and bubbled around her, and he felt the cold kiss of the spray. "Go then in grace and strength. But hurry—hurry! For the last wave is coming that will bear us all away!"
Chapter 9
Almighty God, bless the work I do this day…
Father Dominian stepped out of his narrow cell and crossed the walled enclosure at a rapid pace. Dawn already, and a tender summer sun, as pink and perfect as the inside of a rabbit's ear—where had the night gone? He rubbed his aching eyes and quested on. After thirty years, he no longer saw the other small stone cells clustered around, the long refectory that served the brothers' needs, and the proud new church at the center of it all. This was his world. The community was all.
Across the grassy enclosure a fine stone gateway led to the world outside. His pupil was waiting for him by the gate, a young monk who bowed when he saw Dominian, then fell in beside him without a word. Dominian nodded, pleased. Simeon's gentle manner hid a fiery soul, burning with devotion to the Lord. When his time came, he would spread the word of God like a row of flaming crosses on every hill.
Together they passed through the gates and plunged into the woodland, thickets of ancient oak, holly, and dark yew so dense that they often had to force their way through. At last Dominian saw ahead of them the low stone housing of a sacred well. Behind it was a moldering clump of stones, a lonely hermitage, encrusted like the well with bright green moss.
"Wait here," Dominian said and ducked into the cell.
The small domed chamber was too low to stand. Dominian eased his misshapen frame down onto his haunches and squatted with his back against the wall. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. One slit window admitted a little light, and a rambling sunbeam picked out a low pallet in the corner of the hard-packed earthen floor. Beside it stood a beaker of water, and a wooden cross hung over the door.
Dominian breathed deeply and allowed the damp peace of the place to seep into his soul.
Quam delecta, Domine, domus tuas
… How amiable are Thy dwellings, Lord God of Hosts—
Ahead of him, a frail ancient sat cross-legged on the ground, his sightless gaze turned toward the door.
"God bless you, Father," Dominian said fervently.
"And you, my son."
The old man's voice had the dry rustle of a cricket's song, and the hands he clasped in prayer were skin and bone. His monkish robe was worn and green with age, and his face was washed with cold. But a radiant joy shone from his milky eyes, and he smiled like one who has seen the kingdom of God.
The very sight of him soothed Dominian's soul. "I am going to King Mark," he ventured after a while.
The old man nodded, "May God advance your work."
"He does." Dominian allowed himself a grim smile. "Cornwall is ours—we have won the King's soul." A soul hardly worth having, he reflected, but where a king leads, his subjects must follow too.
"You have brought him to God?" the old man asked, excitement lending a tremor to his voice. "After a lifetime of following the Mother?"
The Mother…
Dominian felt the age-old fury convulse his bones. How could these pagan fools believe in a Creator called the Mother, when She spawned monsters like him? When he was born, his mother was sure she had lain with a demon, to throw such a black and wizened, ugly, misshapen child. She had reared him with kicks and curses and kept him like a dog, forced to feed on scraps and sleep with the strays by the fire. The Mother? When he was seven, his own mother had driven him from the house and left him weeping in the woods, praying to die.
But then the old holy man had found him and told him that there was a Father in heaven who loved little ones like him. He had
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