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In the
following, though some of the geographical locations, place names, historical
dates and events are real, true, and correct, please do not confuse what is
written therein with anything other than a work of pure fiction. It is a novel,
a ripping yarn!
Should
you wish to study further some of the more serious subjects alluded to in this
work of fantasy then may I suggest that you consult some good commentaries on
the Bible such as, e.g., the Banner of Truth’s Geneva Series. Also read some
good Systematic Theologies of the sort put out by the likes of Herman Bavinck,
Charles Hodge, Louis Berkhof, and Robert L. Reymond.
For
material on Saint Patrick see, e.g., Dr Francis Nigel Lee’s articles on the
web. See, for example, scroll down to “Addendum 49: The Cumbrian Patrick
& His Work in Ireland” in Dr Lee’s “Common Law: Roots & Fruits.” http://www.dr-fnlee.org/docs/cl/cl-a4.pdf
If it is
simply the ‘Fountain of Youth’ that you seek then consult Jesus Christ in His
Word, the Bible, by which He has revealed Himself to us. In Jesus alone is
there everlasting life and in whose everlasting Kingdom those who repent of
their sins and believe in Him will enjoy eternal youthfulness clothed with
immortal and incorruptible physical bodies after the final resurrection!
CONTENTS
Author’s
Preface
Chapter 1‘By
cool Siloam’s shady rill’
Chapter 2‘The
almond tree shall flourish’
Chapter 3‘The
child shall die an hundred years old’
Chapter 4‘The
stone that smote the image’
Chapter 5‘When
they saw the star, they rejoiced’
Chapter 6‘They
drank of that spiritual Rock’
Chapter 7‘I
see a rod of an almond tree’
Appendices
Chapter 1
‘By cool Siloam’s shady rill’
Who I am is of little importance to you at this
time. Please, be patient, as all will be revealed in due course. If you must
know something of me, I am your guide. See! I have revealed too much too soon
about myself. However, what you must know at this juncture is that I have a
tale I am just bursting to tell you. I hope you do not mind my attempts to wax
poetic. I merely wish to clothe the history, adventure, suspense and intrigue –
the body of my story, in suitable garb. My desire is to make my story an object
of great interest to you! Oh, let me begin simply by directing your attention
above…
The queen of evening smiled on her loyal subjects,
deigning not to condescend to show herself fully, yet the night sparkled as her
astral sentries, adorned in all their splendour, stood by, awaiting her
imminent return. Reminiscent of the angels rejoicing at the ceremony of the
laying of creation’s foundation stone, glory blazed from star to star!
Beneath the starry host of heaven Bram placed both
of his elbows on the cold brick of Dublin Castle’s ramparts. The warm vapour
from his breath condensed in the chill of the night air. His hands were clasped
as he lifted his dark eyes heavenward. He was deep in thought, or was it
prayer?
‘Where is she?’ Bram began to stroke his
well-trimmed beard in impatience. ‘I know that she is out there somewhere.’
Bram longed for his wife. The trouble was he had not met her yet.
‘You think she is up there somewhere in the stars?’
speared the young man who was approaching from behind to stand next to him. Not
unexpected, it was Thomas, Bram’s mirror image.
‘Oh!’ said Bram, a little embarrassed. ‘I
accidentally placed my mind upon my tongue!’
Allow me to paint a little more detail onto the
canvas backdrop to my pantomime as it were.
Thinking out loud had landed Bram in trouble not a
few times. However, in the case I have just mentioned, his identical twin had
nothing but sympathy from him, for he too was yearning for the companionship of
a wife. In fact there often had been a bit of rivalry between the brothers –
especially when in the company of the fairer sex. Yes, both had reached early
manhood.
The year is 1611 and Thomas and Bram are two of
Ireland’s finest. They might be the physical image of each other, but they are
of a different disposition. Whereas Thomas is outgoing and impulsive, Bram is
reserved and strategic. In spite of their differences, the pair had bonded
together as brothers often do: in study, fishing, hunting, and horse riding –
all the things that privileged youth enjoy in Ireland. When not in schooling,
they had spent many youthful summers swimming, rafting or paddling around in
‘The Pool’ over which Dublin Castle looked, and where they stood this night.
Are you still with me, or have I, like that
absent-minded Dublin Castle guide, left you behind? Well, now I need to have
you come with me from Ireland in the early 1600s to Australia in your own day
and age.
By way of contrast to the Emerald Isle, the usually
dry alien plains of outback Australia tested even the hardy. Acting as
camouflage, the veneer of outback trail-dust helped to blend the shy Central
Queensland town of Springsure into her rocky surroundings. She looked as though
she was sleepily emerging from a dark cave only to be blinded by the sun. From
her birth around the year 1859 Springsure had sought to make use of the shade
of a crumbling mountain. And, speaking of the Emerald Isle, Springsure is
sixty-five kilometres south of the larger town of Emerald.
Betraying a heavy Roman Catholic heritage and
influence, even today, (that is, in your time), many of Springsure’s few
hundred locals swear blind that when the unrelenting sun strikes at a certain
angle (and especially around Christmas), an image of Madonna with Child can be
discerned in a large grotto-like rocky recess on the mountain’s eastern face.
All I will say about this at this point is that the mount is a rock in the
wilderness from which water, sweet water, is sure to flow even in the driest of
droughts. Springsure!
As with the Blarney Stone the town’s eligible
bachelors would be pleased to bend over backwards to kiss the town’s beauty – a
‘Sheila’ (a term of endearment they sometimes use for a woman, but perhaps not
on such a beautiful woman as this!). Her name is Erin.
As her name suggests, Erin is representative of
Ireland – Ireland at its most beautiful. Erin plays classical violin, but her
nimble Celtic fingers can transform it into a fiddle, playing jigs and reels at
the speed of light. Her singing voice is angelic and her harp-strumming strums
the heart-strings, if you know what I mean!
Erin’s hardworking parents own the town’s feed
store, which supplies all the needs of farmers of every sort for further than
the eye can see from atop a mountain that the locals refer to as ‘Hill of
Tara.’ Its proper name is Mount Zamia, part of the Minerva Hills, but the
Springsure residents (for as long as anyone could remember) knew this part of
the range as the ‘Dublin Mountains.’
As your guide it is necessary for me build up a
good rapport with you. My name? Well now that we are a little more acquainted,
some refer to me as ‘Béal Mór’. Others call me ‘Sir Talkalot’. Though both are meant
to be humorous, neither title appeals to me. Perhaps I do take myself too
seriously. But, for now, why not just call me ‘Mal Ach’. See, I keep disclosing
too much about myself! But be patient my dear traveller. Who I am will become
clear enough in time, but back to our story…
Bram and Thomas stood in quiet reflection on the
ramparts gazing at the still and dark waters of The Pool. The winter chill was
oozing from the bricks with Christmas peeking its plump and cheery face round
the corner.
‘Do you think our whole lives are mapped out for
us, like the stars on their courses?’ said Bram pensively to Thomas.
‘I believe we all have choices to make,’ Thomas
replied and thoughtfully added, ‘Some we get right, and some we get wrong,’
Bram gave a thought with resolve, ‘For God would not
hold us accountable on the Last Day if we did not have choice, yet He does!’
Thomas deliberated about this then replied, ‘Leave
it with God I say!’
‘Spoken like a true Calvinist!’ said Bram, as he
laughed in agreement.
Dear sojourner I think you are now ready for me to
disclose a little more about myself. I am older than the hills. Therefore,
please do not be dismayed when I tell you that I was around when the gift of
the Christian Gospel first arrived with the waves on Britain’s pebbly shores
just prior to AD 37. The LORD through His prophet Isaiah had said, ‘Surely the
isles shall wait for Me.’
Yes, and I was there when in AD 404 Patrick first
breathed the air of the Emerald Isle as a lad of sixteen. Though he had been
dragged here from Britain by Irish raiders, even during that time of trial it
is with great delight that I remember him telling the young folk then about God
and the salvation He was offering sinners through His Son.
After six hard years Patrick returned to Britain.
But he was set on coming back to the land of the shamrock! Around AD 430
Patrick voluntarily went forth from Britain and spent the next thirty years
successfully evangelizing Ireland’s inhabitants. Yes, the shamrock and the
Trinity! These were the days of the Celtic Church.
From now on I shall try very hard not to interrupt
the flow of the story with my background details, most of which are important
in order for you to gain a deeper understanding of what is going on. However,
lest I be accused of placing obstacles in the way of a good story I shall
relegate the finer details to appendices at the back of the book. Therefore, if
you would enjoy me furnishing you with a little more detail of church history
surrounding this time in Ireland see Appendix 1.[i]
Me longwinded? If you must know, that is why some
call me ‘Béal Mór’’!
Perhaps I have told you too much about myself too soon, but you will discover
it was necessary for me to do so in order for you to follow my story more
closely…
‘Thomas, have you noticed that the stars reflected
there in the centre of The Pool are not the same as those stars?’ Bram pointed
a finger upward, then lowering his gaze he said, ‘How can this be? Look
yonder.’
Thomas looked toward the centre of The Pool.
‘See! Those stars?’ added Bram.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Thomas as his eyes locked onto
where Bram was pointing. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said, ‘The ones that look like four
points of Christ’s cross!’
‘You are sounding like a Romanist again Thomas!’
was Bram’s response as his eyes continued to scour the surface of The Pool.
Across from the castle, to the south of The Pool,
was the Dubhlinn
Ecclesiastical Settlement. Bram and Thomas had spent many of their young
years there, studying some of the finer points of the theology they were now
putting to good use. There these young men had studied the different emphases
of Protestantism and its conflict with Roman Catholicism.
The starry-cross formation was at the centre of The
Pool which was between the theological college and where they stood. Yes, I
know! Indeed, I am Sir Talkalot!
‘Let us paddle out there and see what is going on,’
said Bram in excited tones.
‘In the dark?’ questioned Thomas.
‘The stars will light our way,’ was Bram’s
convincing response.
‘Then let all the angels of heaven guide us!’ added
Thomas.
It wasn’t long before Bram and Thomas pushed off in
their little punt. Thomas gently paddled the wooden boat toward the centre of
The Pool. From the boat’s prow Bram asked Thomas to stop paddling. The swish
under the boat stilled. All was calm and quiet. It was as if the pond had
turned to black ice. Bram was leaning over the prow, peering intently into the
glass-like water. Thomas turned to see what Bram was doing.
‘What do you see?’ whispered Thomas.
‘You will not believe me when I tell you, but I see
a beautiful woman!’ said Bram, quietly but excitedly.
‘What? You see what?’ asked Thomas, sure he hadn’t
heard Bram properly.
‘Clear as day, like a painting that moves. I see
the woman of my dreams! She is beautiful!’
Thomas shipped oars to have a look for himself.
‘There is nothing there. There is only the inky
blackness of the Saile!’ he said, thinking that Bram was jesting or that
he had become moonstruck! ‘The moon has all but disappeared in its monthly
cycle! So, you must have been drinking, Bram! Anyway, it is not possible for
anyone to see anything below the surface of the muddy Salach!’
The Saile, or Salach is how some of the locals
referred to the River Poddle on account of the peaty tannins that periodically
washed downstream after heavy rains. These, as well as its depth, served to
darken the deep black pool all the more. However, after a recent dry spell the
water was unusually clear.
‘I swear I saw a young woman. Like a picture, only
moving. She was as real and as solid as you and me!’ said Bram with a tone of
sincerity.
Thomas had to know more. ‘You saw a woman swimming
under the water in December?’
‘No. Not swimming. She was… Well, she looked like
she was putting a jar into the water.’
Thomas looked again, but still saw no mermaid.
I am sorry to do this to you, to interrupt at this
time, but I need to tell you a little more about Erin McElroy. That way you
will the more sooner grow to like her and the quicker gain a fuller
understanding of what is happening in my story, which story you no doubt now
believe to be strange!
Erin tended the counter of the McElroy Feed Store.
Friendly by nature, her smiles beamed from behind the store’s oak counter –
made from planks, it was said, from the deck of the very boat that had carried
her, I think I have this right, great-great-great-great grandfather, Fergal
McElroy, who as a young man left Ireland way back in 1850. The name
McElroy is the Anglicised version of Mac Giolla Ruaidh, meaning son of
the red-haired youth.
Fergal had arrived in Australia as a refugee
fleeing the Gorta
Mor, or Great Famine. In Sydney he had met and had courted
Eileen O’Conner who, like himself, was an Irish immigrant. He had married her
in 1860 and he and his wife eventually had made their way to Springsure. The
early 1860s brought an influx of graziers to the Springsure region, many of
them Irish. Fergal and Eileen McElroy took all their belongings with them and
put down stakes in Springsure.
It was Ludwig Leichhardt who had explored the region
previously in 1844-46. He had caused much excitement when he had reported his
findings back in Sydney. The region was now open for sheep farmers. Being
entrepreneurial Fergal managed to acquire much that was salvageable (including
the stone jars) from the condemned Padraig, the ship he had been aboard when it had
arrived heavily listing in Sydney.
Springsure was not without danger. There had been
tension between the early white settlers and the local Aboriginal population
who allegedly had helped themselves to some sheep. The settlers killed some of
the natives only to have the Kairi Warriors retaliate and massacre many of them
in 1861 at Cullin-la-Ringa, not far from Springsure. And to this day Fort
Rainworth has been a tourist attraction as well as a reminder of these unhappy
beginnings.
On a happier note, Erin was the very picture of
Ireland, or have I already told you that? She was tall and her finely crafted
and well-proportioned body supported a face of classic beauty framed by an
enhancing border of strawberry-blonde curls – ‘flames of fire.’ Set in
cathedral arches her stained-glass eyes were mostly of a deep dark green with
flecks of hazel, illuminated from without and from within. These windows to her
soul found shelter under well cared for eyebrows. The natural rouge of her
cheeks and her full lips of the same hue complimented her fair and flawless
skin.
Being a small town everyone grew up well within
‘cooee’ of each other. However, Erin’s six older brothers made it especially
hard for any of the local lads who had a crush on her to even think about
asking her out.
It was almost 2012. The jingling bells of Christmas
could be heard coming over Virgin Rock. Erin McElroy had just recently turned
twenty-one.
Meanwhile back in Ireland, that is, centuries ago
to you…
That night Bram slept little. He was tossing and
turning with the visage of the beautiful young woman he had seen in the cold
water now frozen solid in his mind. He had drunk in her image lest it melt into
oblivion.
Thomas had caused the little boat to rock when he
had scrambled toward the bow. This had broken the surface tension of the dark
waters of ‘The Pool,’ stirring the water beneath them. Thus the apparition had
simply vanished before Thomas had had time to look over the boat’s bow.
‘What did it all mean?’ thought Bram as he tried to
get comfortable in his bed. He was in two minds whether to try to sleep or just
to get up and pace around.
‘I must go back for another look tomorrow night!’
Thomas, in a room down the hallway, lay wondering
what had gotten into his brother. Was Bram so desperate to have a woman in his
life that he had to invent one?
Dear pilgrim let me tell you some more about
Springsure, Australia. You will fall in love with the place. You will want to
visit someday! It has its own little Post Office, set on the side of the main
street directly across from the McElroy Feed Store. Like all the other single
young men in this town of over seven hundred souls, the lone Post Office Clerk
was much distracted from doing an honest day’s work on account of Erin. Instead
of engaging his customers, this young man would be too busy looking over their
shoulders, trying hard to catch a glimpse of Erin through his post office
window (kept immaculately clean for that purpose).
Unlike most of the locals who would pick up their
mail from the Post Office the McElroys got theirs hand-delivered by the clerk.
Of course, it had to be Erin’s hand Rory delivered it into.
Erin found Rory the clerk an interesting enough
young man. Rory had become an avid amateur photographer in his spare time and
he would flatter Erin with his invitations for a photo shoot. She would always
decline. Some referred to him as ‘Postie Rory,’ others as ‘Pasty Rory.’
Adjoined to the right of the post office was a
little woodcraft store. Here old O’Doherty would work on his wood-lathe. By
hand he would turn out wooden bowls and the like. These were mostly hewn from
local timber. As one would expect, he capitalized on the tourist trade. He also
made an assortment of walking sticks and also small wooden crosses and
crucifixes. But his speciality was varnished wood etchings of Virgin Rock. The
tourists loved these!
Abutting the left of the Post Office was the town’s
café. It had outdoor seating where some of the young men were apt to gather
under its umbrella shades, sun-shades, that is! They liked the coffee and the
billy-tea, even the cool drinks, but most of all they liked the spot because it
afforded a view of the town beauty: McElroy’s Feed Store had rather large
windows. In the tourist season, as you would expect, there was a lot of
symbiosis between the woodcraft store, the café and the Post Office.
As a favour in response to some previous act of
kindness towards the McElroy’s on O’Doherty’s part years before, some of the
McElroy’s would periodically collect wood from their vast property to stock up
the woodpile at the back of O’Doherty’s property.
Do you have any objections to returning to Ireland
with me? No? Good!
Bram had been eager to make a return expedition to
the centre of the small lake, but a night had already passed since he had last
seen his sweet watery apparition. However, once more, under the cover of
darkness, Thomas dipped the crude oars of the little wooden punt into the murky
waters of The Pool as Bram once again stared intently beneath its surface.
The delay had been on account of an object of great
interest that had arrived at the castle. It was reputed to have been ‘Saint
Patrick’s Staff.’ I will let you hear some of the conversation from the night
before…
‘Papist relics are fit only for fire! Fit for
fire!’ the castle’s keeper had said of it with all the zeal of an Iconoclast.
‘But,’ argued Thomas, ‘the staff is of great
historical interest! What if it really did belong to Patrick himself?’
‘You know what the Romanists are like!’ was the
derisive answer from the short but stocky castle keeper. ‘Before you know it,
if word gets out that it is here, there will be men, women, and children from
all over this city and beyond wanting to bow down to it and worship it! Burn it
again, I say! And do it properly this time! Fit only for fire!’ His teeth were
gnashing when he spat out that last bit.
The conversation went on with Bram interjecting,
‘That is the trouble with the whole thing. If the staff indeed was
burned way back in 1538 it is nothing but a useless piece of wood! However, if
it somehow survived the burning of the relics, then it has thrice the power
after it than before!’
‘How so?’ quizzed Thomas, who believed that it was
the real staff of Saint Patrick.
Bram had the floor and began to wax eloquent his
line of reasoning, ‘First, Patrick’s staff remains as it was before, that is, a
superstitious device that in the wrong hands could be used for the control of a
superstitious people.
‘Second, it could be used as a rallying point, as a
standard, for those Irish who are against English domination and oppression, as
a rod to eat up the snakes as it were, to cast them out of Ireland.
‘But, third, because it has survived the fire it
will be revered even more than it was before by those of a superstitious
disposition, but even so, please listen to me, because Protestants claim
Patrick as their own every bit as much as do Roman Catholics, then, used
properly and wisely, the staff might be a force for good. It is because of the
tireless work of Saint Patrick that Christianity came to be and is so strong in
Ireland in the first place. His Staff could be used symbolically, as to
powerfully draw Protestants and Catholics together!
‘Whereas some ignorant Catholics may tend to revere
the stick itself, used diligently, both parties will be reminded of the
simplicity of the message that Patrick brought. Reconciliation with God and
your neighbour! Therefore, whether the real staff or no, it must not be allowed
to fall into the wrong hands lest it be destroyed or misused.’
Let me tell you that Dublin Castle was abuzz with
discussions about what to do with this artefact. Could it be the real staff of
Saint Patrick? There were many rumours that it was a fake that had been burned.
There were others who believed the real staff had survived the flames.
As the queen of the heavens began to don her
petticoats in preparation for her penultimate obligatory monthly balcony
appearance there was some slight illumination from a silver sliver in the
Dublin night sky. Bram and Thomas finally got opportunity to slip away secretly
(or so it was thought) to paddle in the Poddle. Eyes wide, Bram gazed longingly
over the front edge of the boat as if trying to penetrate Saile’s very soul
with his.
‘Stop here,’ ordered Bram.
The boat glided to a silent halt.
It was then that a shadowy figure began to emerge from the dark water. No,
this was no beautiful woman. Whatever it was it looked as if it was trying to
board the boat. The boat lurched to one side as Thomas stretched out his hand
to the watery figure. The sudden movement had toppled Bram, who had been
standing at the bow, into the boat.
As a relay runner would exchange the baton, so the
stranger held out a stick to Thomas. Yet, Thomas hardly seemed surprised by
this extraordinary sight. He reached to grab hold of the extended rod from the
shadowy figure’s hand, as if to try to help the man aboard.
I need to tell you more about these twin brothers.
It will help you to understand what is going on here. As per the Protestant
Faith, Thomas and Bram had been baptised in infancy in the Anglican Church. As
children of the Covenant, water had been sprinkled on their little foreheads,
symbolising Christ’s poured out blood and Spirit, affirming God’s promise of
regenerating life to the one baptised. A point to note at this juncture is that
the baptismal water had been drawn by their mother from the dark waters of The
Pool
Here is where it gets even more interesting. All
Christians hold the view that God sends His angels as ministering spirits to
Christians. However, Roman Catholics and not a few Protestants hold the view
that the Scriptures teach that God assigns each Christian infant its own
particular guardian angel. They point to that place in Scripture where Jesus
says, ‘Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto
you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is
in heaven.’ Beautiful, is it not? And, by the way, this verse is found at
Matthew 18:10 in the King James’ Version of the Bible first published in 1611.
Meanwhile, back to the action! There was a
commotion at the castle…
A cry was heard from shore, ‘Look yonder!’
Those on the shore strained their eyes to see.
Shots began to ring out along with more yelling. Most of the shots spent
themselves harmlessly, hitting the water around the boat. Muskets tended to be
inaccurate. However, one lead ball struck something more solid than the
Poddle’s water. Thomas fell.
It was as Thomas had just grasped the stick with
his hand that a ball had ricocheted off the boat somewhere. Though somewhat
spent, the projectile still managed to lodge itself in Thomas’s chest area.
Startled and wounded, Thomas fell, striking his head on the gunwale as he
toppled into The Pool.
It had all taken place so quickly, but the dazed
Bram collected his thoughts and saw that there was a dark figure that resembled
Thomas still in the skiff, though Bram was sure that he had just seen Thomas
fall overboard.
Bram heard himself yelling, identifying himself to
the men on the shore. The men, recognizing the voice, stopped firing. The
‘stranger’ raised his voice! Looking over the side of the boat as if addressing
the water he said, ‘Oscail!
Tir na nÓg!’ The whole place had become silent. The very stars themselves
seemed to stop twinkling! Bram listened to the water, searching urgently for
his brother. Only silence. Not so much as a ripple.
‘Do not go after him,’ the voice said in hushed
tones.
As Bram scanned the water he hardly took any notice
of the ‘stranger’, but did manage to say, ‘Who are you?’ in a quiet but firm
voice.
‘A friend,’ came the quietly soothing reply.
The somewhat disoriented Bram started calling out
Thomas’s name.
‘Trust me. Your brother has gone to a safe place.’
‘What?’ said Bram in his bewildered state.
After searching for some time, Bram started to
paddle the punt toward the shore with the stranger sitting calm and still. The
irony! The same water that had been poured on them as infants symbolising God’s
covenant-promise of regeneration, i.e., new life to those who trust in Christ,
had now, it would seem, taken Thomas’s life.
As they emerged from the vessel and onto the shore,
now well-lit by torches, one of the castle men said, ‘We are truly sorry. We
thought you were the thief! Bram, Thomas, are either of you injured?’
‘I am fine’, replied Bram, ‘But I fear the black
pool has swallowed my dear and precious brother, Thomas!’
The men on the shore looked at each other,
wondering what Bram meant. Then one of them said, ‘Patrick’s Staff has been
stolen. We did not know that it was the two of you in the boat. We thought it
must have been the thief trying to escape by crossing to the other side of The
Poddle.
‘My brother is missing and may even be dead because
of a useless stick!’
These words of Bram caused not a little
bewilderment among the castle men. But no one spoke up.
Back in Australia, her work in the feed store over
for the day, it was a pleasant Thursday afternoon as Erin made, for the second
time that week, the leisurely trip up the winding road to the dark pool on the
Hill of Tara with Nundah, one of the McElroy’s most trusted hands. The plateau
on the mount was accessed by way of the gradual western slope, the eastern side
of ‘Mount Madonna’ i.e., Virgin Rock, being too steep. The assorted gum trees
along the way also helped to shield Erin’s alabaster complexion from the harsh
Outback sun – not that it had had any effect on Erin.
In McElroy family folklore there was a story that
the waters of ‘Dark Pool’ on the Hill of Tara got there by bubbling up from
Dublin which was on the other side of the earth! Like her mother and
grandmother before her Erin believed that the ‘Dark Pool’ was a real fountain
of youth. Yes, the McElroy’s were prone to superstition, but Erin’s grandmother
who was now in her mid-seventies still retained much of the beauty of her
youth! A real Sarah, wife of Abraham! And Erin’s mother looked more like Erin’s
sister.
With Nundah to assist, Erin would travel up to
collect water from ‘Dark Pool’ in old jars that, along with the countertop
planks, had come from Ireland on the ship with Fergal McElroy. The McElroy
women held that the water had to be collected and stored only in these old clay
or stone jars for it to retain its age-preventing powers! The McElroy women
referred to the jars’ contents as uisce beatha which ordinarily is Irish for whiskey.
However, it was a different kind of ‘water of life’ that the women imbibed. The
water was sacred to them. I suppose I ought to tell you that it was water from
one of these jars that was poured into the font and used in the baptisms of
Erin and her mother before her.
Sorry, we need to return to Ireland as Bram has
asked that he be left alone in a room with the ‘stranger’.
‘My brother? What has happened to him?’ Bram had
now fully collected his thoughts. ‘And why did you attempt to steal the Bachall
Iosa? You know it is only a useless piece of wood.’ Bram was referring to
Saint Patrick’s Staff.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the real staff was broken
in half and burned by George Browne back in 1538, some seventy three years
ago.’
‘Not so!’ said the ‘stranger’ who, now that Bram
could see him in the candlelight, looked remarkably like Thomas, i.e., himself!
The ‘stranger’ went on, ‘First let me reassure you.
Your brother will be safe. And, yes, the staff was indeed broken, but not
broken in two. It was only the outer casing that was torn from it! And yes,
Browne had thrown the staff and other items of great value into the flames.
However, it was retrieved from the ashes by one sympathetic to its historical
value. And, yes, it was blackened but still in one piece.’
‘You mean,’ enquired Bram, ‘that Patrick’s Staff, a
supposedly thousand year old stick, has sunk to the bottom of The Pool along
with my brother Thomas?’
Their eyes locked as the ‘stranger’ said, ‘Thomas
was clutching the Bachall Iosa when he went over. He is still very much
alive!’
‘You speak in riddles!’ said Bram with a raised
voice, slapping a hand on the solid oak table where they sat. ‘You say Thomas
is alive! How so? I saw him go under with my own eyes!’
‘Let me explain further,’ said the ‘stranger’. ‘It
was I that retrieved the staff from the ashes.’
‘But that was over seventy years ago! And you do
not look any older than I. And I am but twenty-one years! And how is it that
you look very much like, if not identical, to my brother Thomas?’ Bram looked
askance at the man shaking his handsome head in disbelief and wonderment.
Nevertheless, the ‘stranger’ went on, ‘It is the
staff. It holds many deep secrets. The Celts call it Bachall Iosa
because it was said that Patrick had somehow acquired it from Christ Himself –
as popularized by Roman Catholic tradition.’
You need to know that Patrick lived from AD
385-461. And that he belonged to the Ancient Celtic Church, or have I told you
that already?
The ‘stranger’ continued, ‘I put it to you that
Patrick’s Staff was in existence over three thousand years ago, from around
fifteen hundred years before Christ walked this earth. Bram,’ the ‘stranger’
paused here before adding, ‘Patrick’s Staff is Aaron’s Budding Rod!’
‘This is all too much! Incredulous!’ was Bram’s
gasped response.
‘Listen to me, Bram. Patrick is the one who unites
all Ireland. Both the Protestants and the Catholics claim him. His staff is the
great symbol of that unity.’
‘So that is why you tried to retrieve the staff.
You think it might be used somehow to bring unity in Ireland?’
‘It can bring unity!’ replied the ‘stranger’.
He added, ‘Today we have essentially turned back
time to the place just before Roman Catholicism started to dominate and absorb
the Celtic Church in these, “the Isles,” and certainly to the time before the
Reformation of the Church. In the right hands Patrick’s Staff, the Bachall
Iosa could be used as a rallying point. Ireland as one! United! Protestant
and Catholic!’ This the ‘stranger’ said solemnly.
‘Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me!’ added
Bram.
‘Exactly! Ireland, at peace with herself and with
God! A nation reconciled! What a thought!’
‘But you have lost the “Budding Rod!” It is gone
with Thomas to wherever he has gone! And anyway, he only has the half of it!’
interjected Bram.
The ‘stranger’ began his reply, ‘No, as I have
already said, the staff is in one piece! Thomas has the whole of it. So, all is
far from lost! That is the plan. When the time is right, which is not now,
bring the staff before the people and all Ireland will be as one!’
In sombre tones he added, ‘But there are dark
forces at work. Their agents already know…’ His voice trailed off.
Still clutching the staff, Thomas emerged from the
water. It was broad daylight! For a very brief moment he managed to prop
himself up with the staff as its opposite end sank into the moist earth. Too
weak and almost blinded by the light he collapsed on the shore. That was how
Erin found him.
‘Where am I?’
Erin and Nundah had managed to put Thomas into the
4x4 vehicle.
Erin had carefully filled her Christmas supply of
the ‘water of life’ from ‘Dark Pool.’ Nundah had loaded up some nice pieces of
wood for old O’Doherty. They were about ready to make the return journey off
the mountain when Cu, her Irish wolfhound, refused to come but was
yelping by the water’s edge. She called to him, ‘Cu, trobhad!’ Still the
dog refused to come. That’s when she found Thomas.
‘How could we not have seen him when I was filling
the jars? He just seemed to appear from nowhere! Anyway, they’ll look after him
at the hospital when we get him back to Springsure,’ she said to Nundah who was
now behind the wheel. ‘I hope they don’t need to take him up to Emerald.’ she
added.
‘Where am I?’ moaned Thomas again.
‘Poor fellah,’ said Nundah. ‘We don’t know where he
came from. And he doesn’t even know where he is!’
In town Postie-Rory McGrory was talking to
O’Doherty. He was telling O’Doherty that he was on the look-out for that
‘special piece of wood,’ and that he would know it if he saw it. McGrory spoke
with the lilt of an Irish accent, but that was nothing unusual for these parts.
Bram looked the ‘stranger’ directly in the eye and
asked him point blank, ‘Who are you?’
He, or should I say, I replied, ‘I am
your guardian angel. Mal Ach!’
[i] APPENDIX 1.
Ireland & The Church.
Ah! So you would like a bit more background
history! Please permit me to carry on giving you some more of the important
detail, lest my simple story make little or no sense to you.
The often peaty waters of the dark pool in the
River Poddle were used, not only in the baptism of Bram and Thomas as infants,
but also in the naming of Dublin. Dublin Castle rested on the crease of the
River Poddle’s swollen elbow, where it changed its westerly course to flow
north. The town got its name on account of this sharp bend. Here was a small
lake, a pregnant swell in the Poddle, before its waters broke on the River
Liffey. Are you still following me?
It was near this chattering confluence of waters
that two languages had met and a city was conceived. The Gaelic name for ‘The
Pool’ is Dubh Linn, (linn
is pool in your language and dubh means black). This became the English Dublin.
The Pool was eventually to disappear, but not the City of Dublin.
There had been a burning of relics back in 1538. It
was then that, for example, the staff of Saint Patrick, (to the consternation
of many, both Roman Catholic and Protestant!), had been consigned to the
flames. The strict adherents to Reformational teaching believed that a lot of
these relics and such like were infringing the Second Commandment, that they
were graven images, idols. Of course those of the Catholic Revival vehemently
disagreed with this assessment.
Though there was a great deal of Roman Catholicism
remaining in Dublin, it was being forced more and more to dwell beyond ‘the
Pale.’ The troubles for Roman Catholicism had begun in earnest when the English
king Henry VIII had declared himself King of Ireland back in 1541. However,
there had been a bit of a reprieve after this on account of Queen Mary favouring
Roman Catholicism. But then came Henry’s daughter Elizabeth I, who became Queen
of England in 1558, and whose army defeated the Irish at the Battle of Kinsale.
With Elizabeth’s accession Protestant Anglicanism
was reinstated in England and Ireland. This new social order was stringently
being implemented in Ireland as the English Government vigorously attempted to
reimpose Protestantism on the whole of Ireland.
By 1610 waves of Scottish Presbyterians began
settling mainly in Ulster to the north, dispossessing much of the native Roman
Catholic population. Force was used and no recompense was offered as imperial
England helped herself to Ireland.
In 1611 three branches of the Church were now
present in Ireland, viz., Church of England or Anglican, Presbyterian, and
Roman Catholic. The influx of survivors from the defeated Spanish Armada in
1588 served to swell the Roman Catholic numbers marginally. However, the
population of Ireland was one million and growing.
Thomas, for all his Protestant upbringing, leaned,
albeit secretly at the moment, toward Roman Catholicism and all her tradition.
His and Bram’s mother had been a convert from Catholicism to Protestantism.
However, this had been merely a conversion of convenience in order to
accommodate her marriage to the boys’ Protestant father. Well versed in
Catholic teaching she had had a big influence on Thomas’s life and worldview.
He especially loved Catholic angelology, with its hierarchy of archangels,
principalities, and powers. To his brother’s consternation, he often would
claim that he could actually see angels. However, Thomas had to be careful with
his covert Catholicism lest he forfeit his family inheritance.
Let me let you in a little on what is happening in
Ireland at this time. The Celtic Church had capitulated to the incoming Roman
Church at Whitby in AD 664 and so it was in Europe and Ireland until Martin
Luther nailed his ‘Ninety-five Thesis’ to the church door in Wittenberg on
October 31, 1517. After then, Roman Catholicism in Ireland would wax and wane
in sync with whichever way a series of occupants of the English throne
leaned.
The boys live in a time when the Reformation of the
Church has taken its firm grip in Europe. The brothers have witnessed the
teachings of the Church’s Reformers sweep Ireland with a bristly broom. The
Swiss theologian John Calvin had dispensed with Roman Catholic tradition in the
mid-1500s, and had systematised the Christian religion, using only the Bible.
Of course, much of the established church at this
time rejected these innovations, and started what has become known, depending
whichever way you lean, either as the counter-Reformation or as the Roman
Catholic Revival. Generally speaking, this ran from around 1545 to 1648.
For those of the Reformation persuasion, Calvin’s
Biblical teachings had set fire to Europe! They saw his teachings as being
anchored in God’s triune-ness, and grounded in His sovereignty. Calvin saw the
Scriptures as God’s revelation of His grand plan for man and creation. Of
course all of this was detrimental to the attendant traditions of Roman
Catholicism. Thus the Protestant Reformation and the Catholic Revival were
polarising movements, dividing Europe (and of course the Irish nation where our
attention is focused). I will not describe the terrors of this age. Suffice to
say bitterness mostly replaced Christian charity!
Protestantism viewed Roman Catholicism as a
deformed version of Christianity. Some Protestants regarded this as too
generous a view of Romanism! Romanism viewed Protestantism as a movement that
was causing the church to splinter. I am not here to judge. My duty is only to
tell the story, but, the Protestants at that time thought that as a religion
Roman Catholicism had degenerated into worshipping sticks and stones, that is,
objects that depicted Christ, Mary, and a whole host of dead saints. Thus, many
statues such as those depicting the Virgin Mary and especially Jesus were
destroyed during this time by over-zealous Protestants. However, the Roman
Church claimed that no one actually worshipped any these things, that they were
merely aids to worship.
