| Cross-heart A calm, peaceful grey sky. Crickets chirp and birds call out amidst the moors. The rolling sea plays against the lime chalk. The tolling of monastery bells plays in the background of my meditations. I am sitting, alone, on the moor. But I am never alone. I am a follower of Iasu. I am a follower of none else. I am Traetelus Chroix, a monk of Iona. I was born in the Roman province of Gallia Lugdunensis, or at least what used to be Gallia Lugdunensis before the Franks invaded. I used to be a monk of Lugdunum, but I found the stifling rituals there a bit too dry. Here in Iona, you can feel God so strongly. I listen to the tide roll in... and out. In... and out. The One who made this must be praised. I close my eyes and I breathe in the Spirita Sancta and I lose myself in the majesty of God. The Angles have been stepping up their raids along the southern British coast. The former provincial government at Londinium is falling apart, and the warlords on the interior are fighting amongst themselves. It wouldn't surprise me if the Angles ended up living on British soil in a hundred years' time. That's why I live as a monk on an island in the middle of a centuries-long cultural breakdown. We are apart from all this. As I meditate on God, I see a small curragh come out of the mist. It flies no banner, and I strain my eyes to see it. There are no warriors aboard, merely a man in black robes and a ship crew. Apparently the black-robed man is a Christian brother. I descend to the seashore, jumping from landing to landing on the lime cliffs. "Hail!" I welcome. "Veni adsum, meus frater!" (Hello! Come here, my brother!) He lands the curragh, bows to the captain, and tosses a small bag of denarii on deck. He then disembarks as the ship weighs anchor. "Hail!" he replies. "Quis cognosco?" (Hello? Who am I greeting?) "Traetelus Chroix, servi et sequor ex Christus Iasu. Bene venit ad societas de Iona. Et tu? Quis cognosco?" (Traetelus Chroix, slave and follower of Christ Iasu. Welcome to the society of Iona. And you? Who am I greeting?) "Brendan Moccu Alti, aut in lingua Latinus, Brendan Nauta." (Brendan Moccu Alti, or in the Latin tongue, Brendan Nauta (the Navigator).) He then ponders for a second, putting a finger on his chin. "Chroix, vero? Tuus nomen natalis, aut aliquid alius?" (Chroix, really? Your birthname, or something else?) "Meus nomen cum natalis spirita, videlicet. Feci sola." (My name since spiritual birth, of course. I thought it up myself.) "Videlicet. Bene cogitationis." (Of course. Good thinking.) Brendan Moccu Alti is here!? This was wonderful! He's only one of the most respected brethren in the Kyriakos today, and I got to meet him! "Veni ad meus sedes, ubi posis sedes aut porrigis dum pontifex poscit pro nos. Mei secte sum, Brend-." (Come to my room, where you can relax and lie down until the priest calls for us. Follow me, Brend-) He cuts in, "Nondum. Non sectare, sed necesso sedere brevitas ante secessus, pro populi adventere." (Not yet. Not to cut in, but I need to stop here shortly before departure, for I need people to come with me.) "Et quis?" (And who?) I ask. "Tu. Necesso populi cum mens, et tu, quis nomen Chroix, cum mens es." (You. I need people with minds, and you, who are called Chroix, have a mind.) "Necesso dicere meus pontifex ante secessus." (I need to tell my priest before leaving.) "Videlicet." (Of course.) I am shocked. Shocked and stunned. Brendan Moccu Alti, who traveled to so many lands, is inviting me to join him in his travels. He is one of the last truly pious Christians. Iona is a very important monastery, we accomplish so much here. But to join Brendan... But what is important is what the Lord wants. I feel so strongly that I should go, though, that He is calling me to this. For some time, I've felt that I'm not supposed to be at Iona, and now a hero of the church pops out of the mists and asks me to join him. When I was a monk in the city of Lugdunum, I felt a call to Iona. I followed it, and my ship to Britain was wrecked in a fierce wind in the Channel. Only after I was rescued by an odd gold-eyed fellow and taken by him to Venta Icenorum do I hear that Lugdunum had just been sacked and many of its citizens sold into slavery. If I had not heeded that call, I would be a slave today. I had heard of Iona, the great monastery in the province of Britain, and I felt called here. So I went, and I have served as a monk here for ten years. But now I am to go with Brendan Moccu Alti. I know not why, but I will go. I am a follower of Iasu. And, far after that, a follower of Brendan Moccu Alti. PREVIOUS NEXT |