The Book of Dreams (34 page)

“We’ll have to work the pump and wait for first light,” he announced. “Then we find the tear and fix it.”

No one groaned at the thought of more work. No one questioned how they could make repairs while the boat was still in the water. Whatever would happen, would happen.

Through the last hours of the night, while the storm raged around them, they worked the bilge pumps. Two thousand strokes per hour were needed to keep the boat afloat. Though they were all worn out from fighting the storm and the ice, they took turns.

Dana did her share. Holding her breath, she squirmed through the dark wet tunnel of tarpaulin to reach the handle of the pump. They had told her to keep turning till her arm got sore, then switch hands. Already aching with tiredness before she began, she managed to follow instructions. The mechanical motion rocked her back and forth. Though wet and frozen with cold, she soon worked up a sweat. Her oilskins were discarded. The monotony of the action was almost as painful as the wear on her muscles. She counted her portion of strokes to help her keep going. No matter how bad it got, she wouldn’t give up. She knew what the crew couldn’t know: that she was to blame. The ice and the storm had been created because of her.

At last her turn was done. When she crawled out of the space, the men gave her a cheer. Eyes bleary, exhausted, she staggered to her feet.

“What’s that?” Boots called from the bow. “Do you hear it?”

Something large was moving through the water toward them.

Dana’s heart sank. What would Crowley send now? They couldn’t take much more.

Then it emerged, through the hail and the waves, the big familiar shape of Fingal the Giant.

“Ahoy,
Brendan
!” he called.

“Ahoy!” Tim called back.

“Got the wrong boat!” Fingal shouted. His round face hung over them like a friendly moon. “The girlfriend set me right. Got to go further back in time. So if ye don’t mind, I’ll just take my little friends, thank ye kindly.”

Dana turned to Tim and the rest of the crew. They were long past questioning what was happening around them. Red-eyed and spent, they were barely managing to keep on their feet.

“It’s almost dawn,” she told them. “When the light comes and the weather lets up, you’ll find the leak.”

“We don’t go!” Jean protested. “Like rats from a ship who sink!”

“We must,” Dana argued. “Crowley sent the ice and the storm. He’s after me, not them. They won’t be safe till we leave.”

Jean did not look happy. It was his turn on the pump. The
Brendan
needed the extra hands to work it.

“They’ll be okay,” Dana insisted. “I remember this part of the story. They find where it’s torn and they mend it in the water. They survive and the boat survives. But maybe they won’t if we stay!”

Though he still wasn’t happy, Jean accepted her logic. Shaking hands with the men, he wished them all the best and safe home.

Dana attempted to reassure them as she said good-bye.

“The storm will stop as soon as we go. I’m sorry we brought you bad luck. Things’ll get better. I can tell you this, honestly, I know all of you as heroes.”

Their haggard faces lit up. Hope would keep them going.

• • •

Fingal scooped up Jean and Dana and popped them into his pocket. With a final wave, he strode away, leaving the
Brendan
behind in the mists.

Dana could see the guilt on Jean’s face.

“They’ll make it,” she assured him. “At the end of the book, the Newfoundlanders threw them a
céilí
, a big party that went on all night.”

The two snuggled inside Fingal’s pocket. After the cold and wet of the boat, it was gloriously dry and warm. Outside, the gale howled.

“Will Crowley fight the giant?” Jean wondered.

It wasn’t long before his question was answered.

“Hould on to yer britches,” Fingal called to them suddenly, “here comes trouble!”

A violent lurch followed his words. The giant was under attack. The two scrambled to look out. As Dana had predicted, the storm had left the
Brendan
to pursue her instead. Now it raged against Fingal. The waves rose in a towering frenzy to match his size, then collapsed against him with vicious intent. Spume erupted like geysers. There was no doubt about who or what was driving the storm. Crowley’s visage screeched in the squall.

“No!”
screamed Dana.

Fingal floundered. His eyes were blinded by water and he was thrown off balance. Arms flailing in the foam, he tried to tread water, but the waves pushed him under with malicious glee. It was a fight to the death. Though he struggled manfully, even the giant knew that the storm was killing him.

He sank beneath the surface. Water rushed into his pocket. Dana and Jean were thrown into the sea. They spluttered and kicked, attempting to swim. The water was too cold, too wild. There was nothing they could do to save themselves. Sucked into the icy foam, they were choking, somersaulting, drowning.

A big hand plunged into the deep and grasped the two of them. Now they were pulled from the brink and held high.

Fingal would not let them drown. Not while there was breath in his body.

A mountain of water crashed against him. It was the ninth wave. The one all sailors dread. The one that takes you down to Davy Jones’s Locker. Despair darkened his eyes, as the giant began to sink for the last time.

But just when all seemed lost and the twist in the tale was a tragic ending, hope sailed over the horizon in a leather boat. From its mast flew a sail emblazoned with the sign of the Celtic Cross. In its bow stood a man garbed in the robes of a monk. His arms were outstretched to the heavens as he prayed out loud to banish the storm.

F
ingal’s head was disappearing under the waves when the leather boat reached him. In the bow, the medieval monk stood fast, holding a wooden cross aloft. The monk’s brown cloak swirled around him in the wind. His face was lost in the shadows of a deep cowl, but his prayers rang out with power and clarity.

The squall gathered in force like a tornado and charged toward him.

For a second, both were frozen in time: the monk holding his cross and the raging storm. Then came an explosion of light.

The sudden calm was profound. The seas lay still. A warm breeze played gently over the lapping water. Morning had arrived in a rosy glow.

The giant righted himself in the water and leaned over the little boat. Once again the monk lifted his cross.

“Death is above you!” cried the saint. “What is your ransom?”

“I hain’t with the storm demon,” Fingal hurried to explain. “I’ve a couple of pilgrims to join ye. Will they do? Ye’re Saint Brendan the Navigator, am I right?”

The giant and the monk were both speaking Gaelic. Dana translated for Jean, and the two waited anxiously for Brendan’s reply.

The saint’s eyes flashed from the depths of his cowl.

“I have the Two Sights,” Brendan declared. “I am able to see in the world of the body and the world of the soul. The Second Sight tells me that you are good. Your spirit shines brightly.”

The giant blushed with pleasure. “Thank ye kindly. That’s a great compliment comin’ from a saint.”

Gently, Fingal lowered Dana and Jean onto the boat.

“If he canny help ye, no one can,” Fingal told them, switching to English. “He’s a magus and a Druid. Ye saw his power over the winds and the water.”

“I also have the Gift of Tongues,” Brendan interjected in English. “That was not my power you saw, but the power of my God. He is
Dia duilech
, God of the Elements, even as he is
Coimdiu na nduile
, Lord of Creation.”

“Well, ye’ve got power on your side, then. Would ye be on for givin’ them a hand?”

“I will if I can,” Brendan replied.

“I’m off, then,” said Fingal.

“Thank you so much!” Dana called out to him. “Will we meet again?”

“When the Kingdom is restored,” boomed the giant.

“
Merci beaucoup!
” called Jean.

“
À bientôt, mon ami.
” The giant’s reply sailed over the water as Fingal disappeared into the distance.

How strange it was to find themselves on the original of the boat that would one day be called
Brendan
! Constructed of oxhide stretched over a wood frame, it was surprisingly like the one they had left behind in the future. But this boat was much greater in size, could almost be called a ship, and had a bigger crew. It was also more at home on the ocean. Dry and even cozy, the craft was not as open to the elements as the modern version. Two huts of woven wattle stood on deck, reminiscent of an ark. The large one amidships housed the crew, while the smaller one in the stern was the private quarters of the saint. The huts were round in shape, like the beehive cells hermits used in Ireland. Overhead, sheets of tanned leather hung between the masts to catch rainwater for drinking. Dried fish and plucked birds dangled from poles and lines. Bags of grain and other provisions were stowed under the gunwales.

Like Brendan, the crew were also monks. Eight were awake and manning the vessel, while an additional four slept off watch. Their clerical garb had been adapted for sailing. The wool tunics were like long sweaters over baggy trousers, all oiled and waterproof. Most of the crew were country men with raw red faces weathered by the elements. They moved about the boat with the ease of experienced sailors.

“You are welcome here,” Brendan said to Jean and Dana.

Only now did he uncover his head. As the cowl fell behind him, the two gasped. Dana almost laughed out loud. No wonder Tim was haunted by Brendan’s voyage! For here he stood again, an older version of himself, still tall and slim, but with lines in his face and streaks of silver in his hair. The eyes were the same, shining with an unquenchable thirst for adventure. He was dressed like his crew with the addition of the broad mantle that marked his status as abbot. Like the other monks, he wore the Celtic tonsure, head shaven from forehead to midpate, with long hair falling onto his shoulders.

Taking in the plight of his visitors, who stood wet and shivering before him, Brendan gave orders to his men.

“Dry clothes for our guests, then bring them to my cabin. Bring also food and drink.”

After their dousing in the frozen Atlantic, it was heaven to pull on the rough dry fabric of the monkish clothes. The weave was tight and thick, providing instant warmth.

“So Brendan is Tim!” Dana said to Jean. “I wonder if the others are here?”

“We look for them.” Jean nodded.

After they had changed, Dana in the cabin and Jean out on deck, the two were taken to Brendan’s hut. The wattle-and-daub structure was built to keep out wind and rain. It was warm and snug, with rush mats on the floor, woven hassocks for seats, and a brazier burning clumps of sod. A low table held the monk’s writing materials: feathered quills, sheaves of parchment, and pots of pigment and ink.

Brendan directed them to sit as their food arrived. There was hot mint tea sweetened with honey and a platter of fruit and unleavened bread. They were both exhausted, but the refreshment revived them, as did the mischievous grin of the cook. By far the tallest of the crew, he was well over six feet and had to stoop as he entered the cabin. He also had enormous feet encased in hide boots.

“Boots!” cried Dana.

“What name is this?” he said, laughing. “I am called Artán. ‘Little Art’ it means.”

That made everyone laugh.

The food he brought was delicious. The grapes were as big as apples, and though the bread was unleavened, which called for a lot of chewing, it was seasoned with herbs. There was an odd purple-and-white fruit the size of a football that dripped with juice. It was like nothing they had seen or tasted before, with a mixture of flavors that hinted of strawberries, blueberries, plums, and oranges.

“A gift from the heavens,” Brendan told them. “The fruit was brought to us by a flock of white birds singing celestial hymns.”

“The white birds again!” Dana exclaimed.

The saint studied her closely. A silver rim formed around the irises of his eyes, like a corona around the moon. The Second Sight. In a melodic voice, he chanted.

Are your horns the horns of cattle?

Are your ales the ale of Cualu?

Is your land the Curragh of the plain of Liffey?

Are you the descendant of a hundred kings and queens?

Is your church Kildare?

Do you keep house with Brigid and Patrick?

Jean looked at her dismayed. More riddles? But Dana understood the nature of the questions.

“It’s a greeting. He’s just asking if I’m Irish and what province do I come from.”

She answered the saint in the same formal manner.

“I am of Ireland and the holy land of Ireland. I am of the province of Leinster that is the plain of Liffey. But my companion is not. He is from—” She paused. What did the early Irish call the land to the west?—“
An tOileán Ur,”
she finished. The New Island.