The Saint and the Sea Monster

By Caz Zyvatkauskas

In the middle of the sixth century St. Brendan travelled with fourteen monks across some of the most bone chilling waters in the world in a boat that was nothing more than an ox hide stretched over a small wooden frame. He had molten lead thrown at him by devils, was attacked by sea monsters, celebrated Easter on the back of a whale and eventually found his way to the Island of Paradise where he saw the land of saints.

The first salvaged written records that chronicle the voyage of St. Brendan appeared almost 300 years after his legendary journey. Following that sparse recounting hundreds of narratives sprung up in Europe and the British Isles. Embellishments found their way into each version owing to the intent of the author and the nature of his source material.

Several forensic studies have been done to determine the provenance of each story. While these academic works are impressive in their historical scope, none of them gives us a visceral impression of what it was like for the medieval listener to hear these amazing tales firsthand. These listeners would likely have marvelled at the vastness of St. Brendan’s voyage and felt awe at the faith and devotion he showed in the face of extreme conditions and trials. What we do know is that the tales of his journey so captivated audiences that they were recopied, reworked and molded throughout the Middle Ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caz Zyvatkauskas
• Release date: Feb 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9780978360221

Caz Zyvatkauskas

The formative portion of my youth was spent roaming both the green spaces and strip malls of suburban Scarborough, Ontario. Having come full circle, and retired from the University of Toronto, I now live in a similar suburban environment in Gresham, Oregon. On a small section of Johnson Creek my husband and I cultivate historic Barnhaven primroses and provide sanctuary for salamanders, frogs and other wildlife that live in the woods behind our house.

Book preview

THE SAINT AND THE SEAMONSTER

SMASHWORDS EDITION

BY

Caz Zyvatkauskas on Smashwords

ISBN 978-0-9783602-1-4

The Saint and The Seamonster

Copyright © 2010 by C. Zyvatkauskas

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Prologue

In the middle of the sixth century St. Brendan travelled with fourteen monks across some of the most bone chilling waters in the world in a boat that was nothing more than an ox hide stretched over a small wooden frame. He had molten lead thrown at him by devils, was attacked by sea monsters, celebrated Easter on the back of a whale and eventually found his way to the Island of Paradise where he saw the land of saints.

The first salvaged written records that chronicle the voyage of St. Brendan appeared almost 300 years after his legendary journey. Following that sparse recounting hundreds of narratives sprung up in Europe and the British Isles. Embellishments found their way into each version owing to the intent of the author and the nature of his source material.

Several forensic studies have been done to determine the provenance of each story. While these academic works are impressive in their historical scope, none of them gives us a visceral impression of what it was like for the medieval listener to hear these amazing tales firsthand. These listeners would likely have marvelled at the vastness of St. Brendan’s voyage and felt awe at the faith and devotion he showed in the face of extreme conditions and trials. What we do know is that the tales of his journey so captivated audiences that they were recopied, reworked and molded throughout the Middle Ages.

With thanks

This project began as an experiment in the department of history at the University of Toronto. It was written as an independent study with the intent of researching — through the construction of an historical fiction — the worlds of selected characters in medieval England. A great deal of thanks go to Professor David Townsend who was my main supervisor and inspiration for much of the story and Professor Isabel Cochelin who encouraged the project and also helped guide the research and editing. Professor Bert Roest, a medieval Franciscan expert, gets many thanks for also giving his time to review the story for accuracy.

My sister Sonia provided expert help with editing and encouragement and my colleague Ailsa Ferguson performed the remarkable task of making the final copy edits. For the cover I have to thank Pearce Carefoot at the University of Toronto’s Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library for allowing me to photograph the Peter Lombard manuscript and to my dear friend Pascal Paquette for another lovely cover design.

Special thanks to all my family including my older sister Betty, my daughter Xaida who refreshed my interest in medieval literature, my son Simon for his encouragement and to brother Raimund, sister Stephenie and partner Kirk Wilson for their constant enthusiasm.

This book is dedicated to my mother Meta who inspired me to study medieval history with her stories of life in pre-war Lithuania.

Chapter One. The Encounter.

The old cart driver settled into the familiar if uneven rhythm of the road. He was confident that his two newly acquired passengers, like blessed amulets, would protect his cargo of stolen goods. Not that he expected them to defend the freight with their fists, although he was sure the sailor could; but a thief with the merest shred of piety might think twice about attacking a Franciscan. Bless my horse also,the carter murmured into his chest while thinking about the friar. He worried about the beautiful broad-shouldered mare.

The carter, Robert, far preferred the mare to a cart drawn usually by ponderous plodding oxen. She was a treasure, a bright young horse with a body the colour of a ripe acorn finished with a lighter mane and tail. While he was gladdened by her speed and strength he carried the bigger burden of worry if anything should happen. The horse was not his. She belonged to the white monks. As the cart jostled erratically over stones that poked through a tattered cloak of dirt, moss and weeds, he prayed the cart could have been as strong as the horse.

His passengers could not see the stolen mound of dung hidden under a hemp tarp, but they could certainly smell it. They were unaware that the carter had been given the nod to enter an unguarded neighbouring sheepfold. But neither the sailor nor the friar minor were concerned about the provenance of the dung or the turnips being used to weigh down its cloak. Each of them had been eyeing the other’s satchel — not with an observable nosiness but with a veiled curiosity. The sailor kept his bag mostly hidden, like the dung under the tarp, obscured by a rough cape. The Franciscan’s bag rested in full view upon his lap but with the leather strap similar to the mare’s harness, securely positioned around his neck and shoulder. The carter stopped considering what they were carrying. He would ask no questions and they would return the favour. Better the devils in the cart than the one on the road he mused. With two passengers plus himself, whoever might be waiting would see three problems to overcome.

Rosemary shuddered and let out a rumbling neigh. Hey up, girl, Robert called out. There was something out there. The carter strained but he couldn’t see. No matter, whatever it was it didn’t stop the mare’s progress. Probably just a badger. Night’s coming on. The horse regainaed her composure and the carter replied, That’s right, girl, you keep a look out. He turned to nod to his passengers who were undisturbed by his conversation with the horse and then returned his gaze to the wide shoulders of the strapping mare. Despite the extra burden she pulled the load with the power of a full-grown ox at twice the speed.

The badger never appeared but the road became more difficult to negotiate and the passengers were bumped around considerably as the mare strained to pull the cart over those places that had been gutted of stones. The bumpier the road — the closer they were to home. The carter turned