The Voyage

By Brennan Haley

In 565 AD, Father Brendan the Navigator and his crew of young monks sailed a leather boat of their own construction across the North Atlantic in search of The Lost Island of the Saints, God's paradise on Earth. Facing mortal dangers of all kinds, what they found would test their very faith in Brendan and each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brennan Haley
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215217108

Brennan Haley

I've been a writer since I saw STAR WARS at twelve. First short stories, then movie scripts, and now books. I'm publishing my short stories to help understand ebooks and Smashwords better, and when I'm ready, I'll work my way to putting a book up here.I have a son who just turned one, and is way more fun than a monkey on a bun (and I can watch one of those for hours). If you want to see a picture of what Jordan the Pirate looked like when he was younger, go to my Facebook page and see our little boy Noli. Neat kid, huh? He said it'd be okay if I shared his bedtime stories with you, so enjoy.

Book preview

Chapter One

I am dead.

Some memories are much more vivid than others. In our lives, we have people or events or even simple words that made such an impression that they can be easily summoned, often recalled and usually immortalized in stories that we have told many times, regardless of if they were happy, sad or even true.

Other memories hide themselves. Sometimes triggered, sometimes appearing for no apparent reason than to remind us that they haunt us.

But then sometimes things happen that are so indelible that they do not become memories. There is not anything to remember because you never stop thinking about them, they do not go anywhere. They are with you the rest of your life, every day of it, like you are seeing it unfold once again and feeling every moment.

Mine is the day I drowned.

God is everything and everywhere. On that day, centuries ago, He was the ocean. To immerse myself in what happened that day is to be plunged once again into the darkness of the freezing cold waters of the North Atlantic Ocean. Tired, sapped of all strength, but above else, mad as all Hell. Then I gasped and took in my first mouthful of the brine.

The oxygen in my lungs had dissipated. My blood was engorged with fatal levels of carbon dioxide. Water had cascaded over my windpipe, flooded my lungs and nearly terminated the last traces of oxygen in my bloodstream. I could not control my limbs, the lack of oxygen in my brain had stunned my thought process, the water had become impossibly black. My lungs were on fire. The frigid cold of the water was speeding up this process at a geometric rate.

My body fought to survive. If I could stay calm, I might have a chance. The cold water on my face could stimulate the vagus nerve, which would slow my heart and allow warm blood to pool around my vital organs. My instinct was to swim, to struggle. As a young man, I would beat irregularly and finally descend into electrical chaos with no organized pumping. After that, my heart would stop altogether, the central nervous system would shut down and only the electrical activity of my brain would continue, as it issued orders, maybe for as long as ten minutes, to a body incapable of acting on them.

In this salt water, the saline content leached body fluids into my lungs, flooding them from the inside. But the result was the same. In the interim between my heart shutting down and my brain not receiving, I would have fought like a demon and tried to swim my way out of trouble and ended up a corpse on the sea floor. But a life at sea taught me to be still. By conserving strength and body heat, I could keep the blood from circulating and cooling faster than it already had.

Then I took in a lung full of water and all my calm went to hell.

The cold water acted like an anesthetic, cutting off both information to my brain and any coordinated response it could make to my muscles.

The panic soon faded, for I had no life that I was desperate to keep. I was an old man who had accomplished so much that I was probably destined to fail this time. If only I was not almost in bloody sight of my goal, if only I did not want this dream so bad. Something I would trade all else in my life for.

If only …

Another swallow of water burned through my lungs. The next one would kill me, I was sure. It would sweep from my lungs a soapy material called surfactant, which enabled the alveoli on my lung walls to remain inflated as they siphoned oxygen from the air that I wished I could be breathing. If the alveoli collapsed, oxygen could not be carried to my body’s vital tissues and my heart would begin to fail. Cpr and modern medical help might have restored my life. But such miracles were centuries away from being granted.

Now the sea was truly in my blood and the price would be my life. I was born loving this ocean and now it was killing me. Maybe this is what I have been waiting for all this time. God is everything, He is this water, He is everywhere and impossible to refuse.

My life was finally gone, time would no longer unfold for me and I could feel death was a heartbeat away. Yet, I would not let my last thought be of regret or anger. If I only had only this one last moment on this earth, I would spend it the way I have spent all my moments - In prayer.

Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God. You know my folly, O God; my guilt is not hidden from You. May those who hope in You not be disgraced because of me, O Lord, the Almighty; but I pray to You in the time of your favor; in Your great love, O God, answer me with Your sure salvation. Rescue me from the mire, do not let me sink; deliver me from those who hate me, from the deep waters. Do not let the flood waters engulf me or the depths swallow me up or the pit close its mouth over me. Answer me, O Lord, out of the goodness of Your love; in Your great mercy turn to me. Do not hide Your face from Your servant; answer me quickly, for I am in trouble.

This is my voyage. My voyage is my life. I will do this, I will never stop.

Then, everything went black.

What happens when you die? Is it the same as being born, will I begin to dream?

I am afraid.

I fear death, a lost voyage, a world without end, sinking into hell, being lost, failure, knowing my life was meaningless, guilt that I have killed the boys who believed in me, that I have no true faith. That I will have to answer for my mistakes. I am afraid God will find me wanting and cast me aside for my failures.

I am afraid there is no God.

My whole life has been in faith of a higher path and I still know nothing. Faith is the absence of fear, what does it mean that I am so afraid when I am at a point where I should know only peace and realization?

Death has brought me closer to God, to His island paradise on our world. The closer I get to the answers, the more I see that I will never find them. If you spend a life pursuing your dream, how can you know that life was not a dream?

I have been dead since I was born.

Who am I? Where am I? When did this happen? How did I get myself into this?

I can remember everything about it, just as if it was happening again right now.

Chapter Two

My name is Brendan of Tralee. I look back to the time that was the year 565 after the death of our beloved Christ.

I have spent my entire life in the service of God, trying to discover the true measure of a man's faith. If I were to live a thousand years, I would have known that I would be called Brendan the Voyager, Patron Saint of Travelers.

The land of my birth was Ireland, but I did not know that. In my life, this land which was brand new compared to any other, was called Erin. If I could have had a daughter, I would have named her that.

The air across this land of stunning beauty has always been filled with the music of the people, the trad. This traditional music of ours is a lively, spirit lifting sound that immediately inspires good cheer and celebration in anyone who hears it. And it always puts us in the mood for a good story. When asked for a tale, this is the one I tell.

Brendan of Clonfert, Patron Saint of Travelers, they say? Well, I could have told them that!

The sun was brilliant in the sky as I negotiated my curragh through the coastal sea off the Dingle peninsula. The curragh was leather skin sail boat built with my own hands.

That is because I had no choice in the matter. There was no real shipbuilding in sixth century Erin. If you wanted a boat, you had to build it yourself, hopefully with the help of friends. And you had to be skilled at it, for your life depended on such skills the moment you pushed off from shore.

The ocean would take one look at your puny handmade shamble of wood work and laugh. So, you have built a boat, have yea? We will see about that!

When I was a boy of twelve, I began to learn curragh building at the hands of the gifted craftsman O'Lundy. Even back then, I was too stubborn for my own good and I insisted on placing the sail further forward than my frustrated mentor would accept. He would yank it back to a more conventional position and I would move it back forward even further.

In a single sail craft, the pilot was required to sit aft in order to man the leeboard and steer the ship. The sail would then be placed midship, the most stable point as it was the craft's center of gravity. It also meant that the wind exerted the greatest amount of force amidship while the pilot fought to steer the ship and keep the bow entering the water first. Steering from the bow and powering forward motion from amidships was further complicated by a curragh not having a rudder. That was because a leather hull gave no proper structure to mount one, making the boat unstable and difficult to pilot on ocean going voyages.

My design put power and guidance both at the bow and kept both forces working harmoniously and it proved to work wonderfully. The catch was it was a bitch to sail, being that the pilot sat on the opposite end of the boat and had sail lines the length of the boat to manipulate, tangles numerous and consistent. Such a craft required constant expert attention, you could not drift and catch up on your sleep, a pressing requirement for all solo sailors.

But it would provide a proper ocean going curragh and oceans were what I would have to cross in order to follow the many dreams bursting in my still young heart. A stubborn twenty year old future navigator swore to his teacher that he would prevail and to one degree or another, I certainly did.

Over the years, that design trait marked a curragh as being in the style of Brendan the Navigator and was oft mimicked. These days, curraghs are still built, albeit with fabric hulls, that ancient boat design still relevant in a world of ships constructed metal and propelled by combustion engines. What adventures I would have had with such a craft? No matter at all, I managed more than just fine with the boat I had, the Good Lord always provided.

At that time, I am told that I did cut a heroic figure. More than one minstrel has remarked of me 'He was a bear of a man with a wildly flowing mane of white hair and a fierce green eyed profile.' I can tell you that I do not look like that now.

On that day long ago, I sat at the rear of the curragh, manning a side mounted tiller, singing one of my favorite sailing songs.

I am the wind which breathes upon the sea!

A strong burst of wind filled the sail, the mast bent precariously with the strain. I had no concern though, the solid chunk of ash wood having been selected by mine own practiced eye and honed to a perfect shape by my well versed, raw knuckled paws. To prove the point, the boat skimmed along the top of the water at breakneck speed, no keel to slow her down.

The speed was exhilarating and I sang louder. I am the wave of the ocean! I ...

... and BOOM - The mast splintered and collapsed!

The main beam swung over and nearly clobbered me, blanketing me with the flax sail. I wrestled awkwardly with the heavy, unwieldy material, the boat dead in the water. I was left there in the lapping water, a calming silence where I was free to sit and consider my skill at fashioning a curragh mast and my judgment in it’s capacity.

... SONOFABITCH!!

I was alone out there and God knew my mind intimately, so I had no compunction about cursing up a storm. It was certainly the language of the sea.

God's way was always a mystery defying any attempt I had ever made to understand it, I had only ever learned that I must live with it. So I chose my words of prayer very carefully to show that I humbly accepted my circumstances regardless and in a blessed sweet tone so that I could be sure that He would hear me in all my reverence.

SWEET DAMN IT ALL, WHORE MONGERER, FLATULENCE SMELLING, MULE DONG,...SHIT!!!

Yes, I am quite sure that one got through to Him.

Good.

Now that I had expressed the proper frustration in the mistake solely of my own making, I gathered the broken pieces and patiently set about replacing a now smaller mast back in it's seating. I untangled the lines, raised the sail and got my craft moving again. I had to, for help surely was not going to come and rescue me. The Good Lord would provide wisdom and patience in helping servings, but out here, I would be required to supply the spit and the grit.

On a cliff overlooking the beach sat a stone building resembling a huge upturned tea cup, it's curved roof provided protection against the fierce coastal winds.

An elderly woman stepped out from the building, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. This was my younger sister, Brig. Despite the fact that she was not far from my sixty some years, she remained a grinning sprite of wit and strength. It was difficult to imagine this woman of uncommon intelligence, who had replaced her youthful comely looks with great wisdom and stoic understanding, was once a gap tooth freckle faced monster following me every where I went.

After I was drafted into the church as a child, never to see my family again, she relentlessly pestered our father until she could enlist as well. When I was ordained, she campaigned the abbacy until she was too, no small feat for a woman even in the liberation of Erin’s early steps into Christianity.

When I undertook the monastery at Ardfert, there was scabby kneed little Brig, hauling brick and spreading mortar until she too had a single shamble of a hut for a monastery to call her own. For many years I cursed, both good naturedly and not so, her fiercely pursued inclusion into every part of my life. But I eventually recognized this for the true blessing it was.

My kin had been lost to me in order to pursue my devoted service, The Lord Almighty was my new and only Father. Brig was my only other family now and God bless her for never letting me give that up by voyaging out of her sight.

She looked down to the coast far below to see me struggling to row the damn leather boat. I bellowed a greeting up to her, but there was no chance at all that she could hear me over the roar of the ocean.

A few miserable hours later, I entered Brig’s monastery, shaking the ocean spray from my hair and beard like the lumbering sheep dog I have been accused more than once of being. The building was modest and strongly built, in keeping with it’s architect.

I said, HELLO!

My voice had become loud and hoarse from yelling orders in the middle of storms. But Brig knew that my voice as a child had been thin and high. Every now and then I hear an echo of that boy's voice, making me feel like a child again with so much still to learn, so far to go.

Brig handed me a cloth to dry my hair. You're inside now, you don't have to yell.

I leaned over with one hand to my ear. What was that?

Go on with you, now. You never listened to me even before you lost your hearing.

Well, I came to see my kid sister's monastery. Where is it?

You're standing in it. Brig pouted.

Lord give me strength. The same broad shouldered girl who I had seen take a spill off a horse onto the frozen ground with barely a gasp could be so thin skinned when it came to anything that might insinuate my disapproval.

I scanned the drab room, empty save a long wooden table and two very uncomfortable looking benches to seat twenty. I am just kidding. This is a fine place to serve the Lord. You should be proud.

I didn’t build this place to be proud, Brendan. That’s for you big muckety mucks up north. Brig turned her back on me long enough for me to crack her rear with the soaked towel.

Aiyeeee – You little … that hurt!

Laughing, I tossed her the towel. Would the lady of the house have any food for a starving muckety muck?

As per Irish tradition, the beautiful spring afternoon had turned to a torrid rainy night. I sat at the table dressed in a beautiful new white clerical gown, devouring a bowl of hot soup. Plainly dressed in a brown cloak, Brig sat across, watching me eat.

You should see Clonfert. Soon, it will be the match of Bangor. Maybe one day, even Clonmacnois.

Geyaagh, is that important?

It absolutely was. Ireland's Catholic monasteries were the equivalent of modern universities. People traveled from all over Europe to seek education in our monasteries, the knowledge of the world lay within it's teachers and books. If I had anything to say about it, mine would be the best of those best.

Irish family's first born males were often promised to the church to be educated and serve as monks. The opportunity was far too precious for most to wonder if they would have been drafted by the church hierarchy if opposed. And that is what happened to me as a boy.

Brig, we are in the middle of a golden age now. Christianity has flourished in Erin. God has truly blessed this land with riches beyond measure. We honor that blessing with these schools. After the work we put into Clonfert, it had better be the best. Classes start soon, so I have to return tomorrow.

You just got here.

I have responsibilities now.

Brig smirked, not believing me for a moment. You – a teacher? The first set of lessons you have to grade, you will be off in your boat, looking for sea monsters.

Brig could scoff all she wanted, but this was no lark. I had always believed I was born to do great things and the monastery of Clonfert would be my crowning achievement.

Not with Bishop Erc watching over me. Can you imagine that – me teaching alongside of him?

How is he these days?

Very old. I did not like seeing my mentor stumble around his shabby hut, frail and barely capable. But now that I brought him to Clonfert, we can accomplish great things together.

Does that mean you finally found a home?

'Home' meant so many different things to me, how could I ever truly find it? The beautiful lush green grasses and engraved stone walls of Clonfert, though. That was a fine home for any man and was to be mine.

It is hard to believe after spending my whole life at sea that I am finished with all that. That kind of rough existence was fine for a young impetuous boy anxious to bruise his knuckles and laugh it off. But a successful man needs to think about settling down.

I pushed the empty bowl aside, waved my hands in excitement. You would be so proud at what I have created. We have our own college, a refectory that seats four hundred if it seats one. We even have our own ranch of cattle.

That raised an eyebrow on Brig, cattle being among the most valued of all possessions in Erin. I already knew she was skeptical of any material value from the Lord's service, but we could not feed and school our boys with what noble charity may by chance fall from the heavens.

Did you know that the King has appointed me one of the twelve apostles of Erin. Columba, too. As well as Mobhi, Rodan, Lasserian ...

Geyaagh, maybe they'll hang a tapestry of you on the church walls - bloated and rosy cheeked with a fine gold crown.

I let the hurt show on my brow and I resumed eating. Well, I thought a little respectability might wear well on me.

Brig recognized my weakness of vanity and while the grizzled woman should've pointed her finger and identified the sin that I needed to address, my adoring little sister humored an old man his failings. She seemed to believe I was worthy of admiration.

You've been blessed, Brendan.

We have both been blessed, Brig. Come stay at Clonfert with me. Away from this place, away from ...

... my home?

I was about to protest when Brig simply smiled and lifted a small leather pouch from beside her. Not everything here is so plain.

I took the bag and poured out a silver necklace. It’s pendant was an ornate ringed cross. It is gorgeous. When did they start putting rings on crosses?

Brig smiled without answering. I squinted to read the engraving and Brig patted my hand. I can have the lettering enlarged.

I kicked her under the table.

I can manage. I read the inscription and felt my heart soften.

I will. Thank you, Brig.

Happy Birthday, Brendan.

Later that night with a fire of peat burning in it’s place and mugs of hot tea for both of us, I rested peacefully as Brig cut my hair and shaved me.

At sea, I indulged in a beard and long hair for reasons both practical and not. Even in a calm sea, a curragh is not a stable platform and you do not want to be waving edged weapons anywhere near your face or neck. It also served a functional purpose in aiding my command of the boat.

Every time I have been sailing with the boys from any of my schools, the first few days of the voyage are tense from their uncertainty in the man that they know as a thoughtful and pious scholar dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. They would fill a classroom to hear me speak of Homer’s Odyssey but put them in a boat and push it from the pier and that look is always there:

'Does he really know what he’s doing? Dear God, my life is in his hands.'

But once some scruff has grown and I have laced my brogue with choice vulgarities, I am transformed into the pirate hero they have been reading about, a salty sea dog born to the sea who instinctively knows how to sail east with a westerly wind, who knows all the best tricks like why you drag buckets of oil in a storm. I become a person who looks and sounds like the man they would trust with their lives and follow implicitly.

I become captain.

That is what I do for the boys, but it is more than that. Brendan the Navigator and Father Brendan are two very different men and I have spent my life caught between them.

After a voyage was over, I always would return here to Brig. She would tell me she was worried, I would tell her not to worry. She would prepare a meal of fresh bread and cheese, fresh fruit and scalding hot tea, food unavailable on board or from whatever foreign land I had returned from. This was my routine for return.

Like a boat prepped for landfall after years at sea, Brig would clean away the detritus of sailing from me. She diligently scraped away the danger and coarseness from me, apply balm to my callused manner, and this other life would flow back into my blood. A life dedicated to the service of God in a land I would do anything for.

She was the forgiveness I sought for the sins I committed in navigating that blustery, frigid, unforgiving life on the waters. She cleansed my soul of salt and I was blessed by thee.

I thanked the Lord for these two lives and safely tucked into a warm bed, my dear sister’s gentle kiss goodnight on my forehead. I fell asleep in prayer, giving thanks for the greatest gift God would ever grant me.

I had returned home.

Every night in my dreams, I felt the ocean close by, it's immense presence smothered me. I was wrapped, cloaked, it poured into me so that I could not breath. It called to me and I knew I must answer.

Is the sea the life I rush to, the woman I have never known and always to love, or is it my fate? My death and the answers of my life, I seek in thee. I can not breath ... I can not breath.

***

In the morning I woke to fog and a brisk cold breath of wind cutting through my thick wool robes. I set a bag of food and skin of water into the curragh. I hugged Brig tightly, then climbed into the boat.

The jury rigged mast was reset the best I could manage with the tools I had aboard and the sail hung precariously off it.

Are you sure that thing's safe?

I gave the rigging a reckless tug, but the mast held. Good as new.

You take care, now.

Of course. Give us a push, girl.

Brig, no shrinking violet, gave the boat a hearty shove and I was adrift, rowing out into the open sea. She stood on the shore and watched until my boat raised sail and I disappeared off into the horizon.

Chapter Three

I was born in 484 AD, only twenty years after the passing of St Patrick in 462. I was ordained when I was twenty eight and founded Clonfert at sixty four. My father was Findlugh, or so I am told, as I never knew the man. I hope he was a good man and maybe he missed me as we did not have much to do with each other.

The land we know as Ireland was born with the name Erin. So much of this land's history exists only in the memory of it's people to be shared throughout the ages by it's shannahies, gifted traveling historians.

These splendid orators would sit by the fire with a belly full of lamb stew, hard bread and a tankard of ale, enrapturing the family hosting them for the night with tales of great Irish stories. I spent many such nights as this, my thoughts swimming with grand adventures that I would soon live out for myself. These men carried within their minds all of Erin's history, details forgotten and improved.

Of them all, this is the story that I know best. If my words seem familiar and not quite of those times long ago as you were expecting, all I can say is that this is who I am now. Thinking back, I can still hear whispers of Ancient Latin, the language of history. At one point in my life, I lived and breathed it. Now, I do not believe I could complete a sentence in it. But then neither could you, and after all, you are the one I am telling my tale to.

Who is here to object?

Clonfert was a large complex of newly constructed wood and stone buildings, encircled by a scrubbed stone fence that is now worn and covered in ivy. Across the grounds were towering ash and beechnut trees that drew compliments from every visitor. I remember traveling this area as a young man, walking endless miles across Erin and finding this location. I imagined where the monastery would stand, the friary, the barracks and the corrals. I drew upon those memories much later during it’s construction and placed everything just where I had always known they would be. Throughout the area, hundreds of monks proceeded with their work.

Saint Patrick was at the forefront of people bringing Christianity to this young country and it embraced God with all it's heart. I grew up in this golden age, living two lives: a sailor in love with the sea and a dedicated servant of God. I was a working man of strict living with no family to raise. I had no children to find joy or longevity in. I had my work, my travels, my students and the word of God.

The life I lived on the sea had given me spirit that I did not often see in those who keep their feet on land. I found myself seeking out those who shared that same sense - to treasure the preciousness of life and disregard it casually at the same time. I sought to teach others, to share my life out on the waters and to lure any that I could to join the voyage. It was often without success for while I may have been held in high regard within the church for my adventures and the vast distances I had covered in spreading the word of our Lord, I had also earned the skepticism that I was not Christian enough to be a true servant of God. Many of service seemed to believe themselves leaders not followers of God and I did not hold back my derision of such men. Such souls were at their most relieved when I left the shore and sailed off, not likely to wish me a fond return.

My place in their ranks was solely earned from my adventures abroad, for I was at sea too long to cultivate a proper legend in the church. I was vain enough to chafe at that and I pledged to add that to my list sins to pray forgiveness for.

The latest accomplishment of my life at that time was the splendid monastery Clonfert a magnificent school for good Irish boys plucked from their families to live life long indentured servitude and to gain an education like nothing else in the land. A great gift to our generous Lord, a return on His blessing. Something to show God and his church that I too had gifts to give and that I might be appreciated. Clonfert would be the greatest monastery ever built and shine the brightest of all man's monuments to God, the crowning achievement of my life.

Or, that is what I seemed to think at the time.

Geyaagh indeed.

Anchorites were ones who sought the calm and focus of pure solitude. They were those who have retired from the world - "anachre" - signifying to withdraw, to retire. Denoting someone who, for religious reasons, withdraws from secular society so as to be able to lead an intensely prayer-oriented, ascetic, and - circumstances permitting - Eucharist focused life. As a result, anchorites were usually considered to be a type of religious hermit, vowing to live a solitary life devoted to God.

Was that I?

I loved the peaceful quiet of the ocean. I have traveled further than any anchorite before me or since and my entire life has always been in retreat. I say that it is too easy to be distracted from service in the name of God by being around other people.

I have always walked my path alone no matter where I traveled, but I had no need to go live on a rock to find solitude. With God in my heart I have always had a best friend, I have always been in love, I have always been a speck of dust in the path of civilization, I have always had another's footsteps to walk in.

God speaks to me in that silence and whispers the secrets of this life. I need to stay quiet so that I may listen.

But once you achieved that focus, it was a waste to not return home and share it with others. What is a man's purpose, what he wants or what he may do for others? How may he best serve? That is why you always completed the circle, that is why I always came home.

I was created to be alone, I am drawn to be with people. The only way