Haven

I didn’t know I was swearing fealty to a lunatic.’ For a moment Artt can’t catch his breath. ‘I see now you won’t rest till you’ve made this island a hell on earth,’ Cormac says. ‘I release myself from my vows.

To travel is to turn the pages of the great book of life.

Life is the weightiest of gifts, and there’s no giving it back till the end.

Brother, there’s no end to your knowledge.’ ‘I’m just old,’ Cormac says with a chuckle.

Cormac’s distracted by a slopping sound under the slats. He keeps talking to soothe his nerves. ‘Here’s a saying I’ve heard but don’t understand: Never turn your back on the ocean.’ ‘Even on a calm day, Brother, a roller can come in without warning and lick a man of the shore,’ Trian tells him.

He’s altered, he knows; he’s brewing an infection of the spirit. These days, when he goes poking around the Plateau in search of anything remotely edible — the last of the bitter spoonwort, campion, dock, stonecrop, spurrey, tree mallow, even flakes of orange lichen, in hopes their colour might carry some vigour — in the back of his mind, Cormac is picking a fight. As he and the Prior keep adding to the walls of the chapel — almost roof-height now — his fury rises too.

Trian’s so close now, within arm’s reach of the hatchet. He could snatch it up in half a second. The Prior’s face is shining like an angel’s. Trian shuts his eyes and drops to his knees. But still he sees that triumphant smile, and still he wants to kill the man. He hits his own chest so hard he winds himself. To long to do murder, to savour it in your heart, that’s nearly as bad as to do it. Trian’s in mortal sin and he can’t escape. He batters himself again and again.

Our faith stands like an island,’ he proclaims, ‘lashed by a sea of doubt.

Sometimes Artt wishes he’d never set eyes on either of these stupid men; had set out alone in search of his island. Could he have managed the voyage on his own? It might have been better to make the attempt, and die trying.

The weaklings — ashamed, but grateful — holding out their hands to the flames, their renewed faith glowing inside them. Well, he supposes there are times mercy may do what strictness can’t.

It’s out there, all right,’ the Prior insists. ‘Since God has given me — given us three — this holy mission of serving him in absolute seclusion, he will have prepared a fit place for us.’ ‘Amen,’ Trian murmurs. Cormac’s thinking, it will have to possess a spring or a well, to supply them with water. So, a scrap of land far from the mainland, and well south of all the other islands. Capable of cultivation . . . but where no one is living, nor ever tried living. For the first time, Cormac registers how unlikely that sounds. ‘It will be defended by waves against the world’s encroachings,’ the Prior goes on. ‘All we have to do is wait for a wind, Brothers, and let it take us there.’ This is sounding to Cormac less and less like an actual island. As if the three of them have stepped out of everyday life into a magical boat, and their journey is a fable.

But the thing is, he has lived so many years that the varieties of human weakness have lost their power to shock him.

Well, he need be nobody’s Prior anymore. His bonds are broken. No more obligation to teach, guide, direct, and chasten. No human babble to clog up his ears. Artt has this whole island to himself and it’s his alone. The steep land will be his pristine page and he’ll write on it with every step, every prayer, every breath. A bastion of faith, a sentry post where he will man the outer frontier of Christendom: oh, such a place it’ll be now! No one and nothing to bar his way to heaven.

Trust me, the island must have water, since we need it to live. This place was set aside for us when the earth was made.

After a while the first lights stand out in the sky. Trian asks, ‘Are they holes, the stars?’ ‘Bodies of cold fire,’ Artt corrects him, ‘fixed in a sphere around the earth. God spins it westwards every day. That’s what makes the air and the clouds move.’ He cranes up, a little dizzy, imagining that giant hand flicking the globe.

And how will we recognise our island?’ Trian wonders. ‘By a sign of some kind.’ Cormac realises something: the Prior doesn’t know. Trian hesitates as if about to say more, but doesn’t. It comes to Cormac that maybe it’s their fault the boat hasn’t reached the island yet, his and Trian’s. We of little faith.

So. In open ocean, drifting blind now, and with no way to stop moving through the dark. It is Artt who’s brought them to this extremity, and it’s too late for doubt. ‘Never mind. We won’t founder,’ he assures them. ‘We travel in the palm of God’s hand.