Patrick

Religion and faith are human ideas, not easily understood by my kind. They are elaborate and full of long words, and they provoke great earnestness, and often anger. The Clan of Man are willing to hate, and even to kill, over beliefs: differences trivial to us, in what are in truth, simple things.

My kind, the Clan of Cat, do not have religion. We have no beliefs; rather, there are certain things we know.

We know that in the morning of the world, the Spirit Above breathed out the universe, and set the Clans of Man and Cat, and all the others, upon the good green earth. We know that different paths were made, for every Clan and kind to walk. We do not believe these things; we know them.

For us, it has always been enough. Worship is for us a matter of living every day as it is given us to live, upon the earth and under the sun.

Pádrig, my companion, is the one human I have ever known who could thrive in both worlds. He stands with one foot firmly planted in each. My kind salute him, and call him friend; his own do him homage, and call him Atháir, which is to say, Father.

Many are the tales that may be heard, about my human friend. Discerning the truth among them can be hard, or even impossible, for truth soon mingles with legend, and heroes and paladins of old gain stature they never owned in life.

Some say he was the son of Calpurnius, a valiant Centurion who fell near Hadrian’s Wall. Others make him the get of a Saxon raider, on a humble country maid. Neither is true, or even comes near. Reality, as is the often way of life, is far stranger.

I now will sing for you of Patrick of Eire, after the way of my kind. Hear my song that you may know the truth behind the legends that have grown like the emerald grass of Eire about him. I walked beside him, upon the earth and under the sun, and knew his heart. Things there are, that only I, in this age, remember.

His father was Danaan the Druid, and I knew him well. I knew his brother too, before the clashes that saw them part their ways forever.

Grievous it is, when brothers quarrel, still more so, when the issue between them is bitter, and cannot find resolve. One of them chose the old Druid ways, of magic and song, while the other followed a vison, and took the new faith that came out of Rome.

Heated and angry they grew, and came near to blows, till it ended with oaths, never again in this life to set eyes one upon the other. Merlin it was, who vowed keep the old ways, and to remain in the land where both had been born, while Pádrig took ship for the Isle of Eire, as missionary Priest of the new faith he’d found. He’d seen a vision, he said, of a ragged shepherd boy of Eire, begging Pádrig to come and teach him.

It was a parting doubly sorrowful for me. To my own sister, born to my mother and beloved of my heart, I also bid farewell that day. Scátha the Shadow she is, friend and familiar to Merlin the Briton, twin brother to Pádrig my friend.

Long did I beg her to come with me, but she would not depart Merlin’s side, and nor could I leave my own friend. Lifelong vow I had made to Pádrig, and will never break it, so long as my breath remains within me. And so it was, as the brothers turned away, one from the other, so did Scátha and I. No more will I see her, till we both part the Veil, and Journey on.

I am called “Wanderer,” by others of my kind. Of the Folk am I, and of the Clan of Cat, we who live nine times, upon the earth and under the sun. This true name I have revealed to my human friend, and rather than change it, he calls me “Gruffydd,” in the old Celtic speech, which is to say, “One Who Travels”. Near enough it is to the name my Clan gave to me, and easily shortened: most days I am simply “Gruffy.”

I have heard my friend called by many names, since we two joined our lives. In Wales, the land of his birth, his name was Pádrig, though he went among the Romans as Patricius, for a time. Some called him earthier, less savory things, but he little cared.

In the green Isle of Eire, he is Pátraic An Naomh, which is to say, Patrick the Holy. That naming he will keep, I think. When starting afresh in a new place, a new name is sometimes best. In my heart I will always know him as “Gives His Cloak,” in memory of the day we met.

In Wales it happened; there I began my seventh Walk, born to a farm cat mother, and never thought of leaving the place of my birth. Then Pádrig came one day, and traded his best cloak for my sister and me. He kept me as his own, while Scátha began to walk with Merlin, his twin.

Thus, we siblings began two journeys, each as different from the other, as they were wondrous. Scátha became a mage’s familiar, while I journeyed far away with my companion, who began to call himself Patrick of Eire.

The Island of Eire was a completely new place for me, but Patrick had lived here once before. He’d had but sixteen summers when brigands kidnapped him, and brought him as a slave to the green isle. He was put to shepherd’s work, guarding their sheep, and it took him six summers to escape, and make his way to Wales once more.

Very like him it was, to return here as a Priest, very like him indeed, to bring the faith of Rome to those who’d kept him as slave.

If one thing I have learned of Patrick my friend, it is that he will do quite the opposite of what anyone else would do. Patrick is a great-heart, like the heroes and paladins of legend; he chooses battles worthy of his mettle. A lesser man might take easier paths, but not Pátraic An Naomh. I, Wanderer, stand beside him; an enemy of Patrick is an enemy of mine, and had best remember his sword craft.

I knew that life with Patrick would be filled with astonishing wonder, perhaps no less than that of my sister, with her friend Merlin, the Druid mage. Boredom is counted an affliction among those of my kind; I’d suffer none of it now, walking beside my friend Patrick!

I had not imaged the half of it, as events fell out. We had only just set foot on land, at the head of Lough Neagh, when one of the sailors who’d brought us from Wales was bitten by an adder, which had been lurking in wait, beneath a stone.

The bitten lad fell with a scream, grasping his ankle in pain, and the others fled from it. I froze where I was, and remained motionless. My kind know that serpents cannot fix their eyes upon prey unless it moves. It is one of the first lessons every she-cat mother teaches her kits.

Patrick merely extended his ash-wood shepherd’s crook, which he carried for a staff. The man’s wound was healed on the spot, and he rose up quite whole and smiling!

Then my friend struck the serpent with the selfsame staff, and the vile creature withered and died. In the space of a moment, nothing was left but ashes, which the breeze quickly blew into the sea, turning it red as blood wherever they fell. Some of the sailors cheered, but a few made the sign of the horns at him, as if to ward off a witch.

“We must depart, Gruffy,” he called, and turned on his heel. “All the lost souls of this place await our coming, and a more arduous task never faced man or cat.”

With that he set out on foot, with only his staff, a shepherd’s bag, and the raiment upon his back, to conquer the Isle of Eire. I walked at his side, content and ready to share in the adventures I knew would come. If it came to a fight, I was ready for that, too.

Eire, or “Erin,” as it was beginning to be called in those days, is a land green and beautiful, full of mystery and vibrant life. Living creatures seldom now encountered in Britain, invisible to Man but clear to the eyes of Cat, are abundant here, and dwell side by side with the Clans of the Folk.

Ancient, wrinkled Gnomes smiled and waved to me from their places in the ferns, as we travelled inland along a faint goat path. Elves, solemn and stern, paused in their doings to greet me with nods of approval, and Sprites laughed from every clear stream and brook.

I knew Patrick could not see them. He was, true to the way of humankind, far too intent on his task: the path immediately before him, and too busy planning our future to be aware of such beings. They were simply not a part of the world he saw.

The little folk laughed to see him; I knew they would be scheming to play him some prank, but I would be watchful for their cheerful nonsense. The Dryads would help guard him too, for they knew of Patrick’s love for all green and growing things.

It was near to noon when the seamen left us on the shore. We had journeyed inland for almost the whole of the afternoon, when two remarkable figures emerged from the wood to confront my friend.

Mottled and gray were their faces, and their armor hung rusting from their gaunt, boney shoulders. Their cloaks were tattered and rent, and flapped about them like leaves upon the wind. I caught the scent of earthy mold about the two, as they began to speak with Patrick. They were not living men from this age; that much was plain.

At the same time, a smiling Dryad of the wood beckoned to me. I had sensed no real harm from the ancient ones, so I tarried to have speech with her, by the way.

“I am Berrybright of the Greenwood, and I guard this path.” She said. “You must abide here with me for a time, Gruffydd. Your friend must deal with the old warrior, Cailet Mac Rónain, and his companion, who was in life the poet Oisín.”

“Who are they, beautiful one?” I asked her. “They have the look and scent of the grave about them. Do they mean him harm?”

“They cannot harm him, Gruffydd, not in this age,” she replied. “Mac Rónain was a Knight of the Red Branch, a man once mighty in battle, and Oisín his friend sang his deeds of valor, in the mead halls of their kin. Fearsome they once were, but no more. Their power was spent long ago.

“But they do not like the beliefs Pátraic brings, and they fear them. They see in them all that they were, and fought to preserve, passing away forever. They will seek to dissuade him, by defending their old Druid ways.”

“He will not be deterred,” said I. “They know not the resolve of my friend. Never has Patrick been persuaded away, not by a single step, from the path he himself chose, in all his days, upon the earth and under the sun.”

“This we of the Woodland know and understand, noble Gruffydd,” Berrybright said solemnly, “for we of the woodland see his heart, much as your own kind are able to do. We must wait here, and see what comes of their speech. Some good may rise from it yet.”

Long did the Ancient Ones and Patrick of Eire contend, as evening came, and the light that had dappled the floor of the wood faded away into darkness.

The Fey came, the winged and living tiny rainbows that bring joy to the world. Ancient Elves appeared as well, to observe without comment, in the way of their folk. Faeries began to light their tiny, sparkling lamps, beneath the fronds of the ferns, lest any creature misstep and fall.

And still they debated: the ancient warrior, his loyal balladeer, and Patrick my friend. The night grew deeper, and the air became cool, but still they parlayed. Patrick’s voice was unruffled and lilting, while the speech of the Ancient Ones sounded like dry rustling leaves in an autumn wind.

The old Celts gesticulated, and shook their fists, so that bits of their moldered clothing fell from their bodies, but Patrick planted the end of his shepherd’s crook staff on the earth before him, and smiled. He would not be moved from his purpose in any way.

All that night they strove, one against two, until dawn began to dim the glittering world of an Eirish night. Finally, just as the hues of rose flooded the sky, they seemed to reach some accord.

Patrick nodded gravely to the old warrior and his poet friend, and they saluted, thumping their weapon fists across their chests, which made the dust rise upward from them. They turned to depart, and had gone a dozen paces, when the first rays of the morning sun banished them from our sight.

Patrick stood there a moment or two, as if deep in thought, and then turned to me. “Come Gruffy,” he called in his lilting speech. “We cannot rest today, though the night was long. We must reach the hill of Ard Macha, before the sun sets twice again.”

I turned to bid farewell to my new friend Berrybright the Dryad, who was composing herself for her sleep of the sunlit hours. “Use caution, friend Gruffydd,” she said drowsily. “Watch all about you, with the bright eyes of your kind.

“Ard Macha is the high place of the old goddess Macha, and the site of her sacred stone. She will not greet your coming with joy. Your friend Pátraic will face enemies there, for those there are, who oppose what he intends.”

And then she slept, to the world’s mortal eyes just an ordinary tree, upon the earth and under the sun. “Farewell, Berrybright of the Greenwood,” I murmured, and followed Pátraic An Noamh, my dearest friend, into the growing day.

All that day we walked, and then rested for the night upon the grass of a shaded hollow, by a brook of clear water that rippled and chuckled between its banks. We kindled no fire, and I was glad, for the sweet green grass of that place did not deserve to be scorched.

I did not sleep deeply, remembering what Berrybright had said. I had senses my friend did not possess, and meant to use them all. If enemies there were, I intended to see them before they found us.

At daybreak, we broke our fast with a bit of smoked fish from Patrick’s leather shepherd’s bag, and drank of the brook. Patrick took out a small horn flask, which he filled with its water and, speaking a few words over it in the Roman tongue, placed it back in his bag.

Then we carried on, up the faint path and through the greenwood, to whatever the bright morning might bring.

It was nearing noon of that day, the third we’d travelled in Eire, when the high hill of Ard Macha come into my view. Tall it was, in this land of few rocky prominences, and had the seeming of an old hill fort, though there were neither ditch, nor palisade.

Something foul was there, and clung to Ard Macha, as I gazed on it by Patrick’s side, something that made the fur of my back and my tail stand and bristle. Its top was grey with mist, though the day was bright, and the morning’s fog had long burned away on its slopes, even in the hollows.

Something brooded there, something contrary to life, or at least life as I knew and lived it. Spirits there are in the earth, malevolencies akin to the Daemons and Djinn, which savor death, as my kind crave the air we breathe. I began to see what Berrybright the Dryad had meant, when she’d urged caution and vigilance upon me.

Patrick never slowed, but planting his shepherd’s staff before him to give balance, climbed the evil old hill step by step. I wanted to flee, for I knew that whatever spirit waited atop that hill bore no love for the Clan of Cat.

But I’d sworn an oath that Patrick’s enemies would be mine, and for good or for ill, I would climb that hill with my friend. My Clan and my kind do not abandon our friendships, or dishonor our oaths.

Then he paused for a moment and looked down at his feet. A single shamrock grew there, from beneath a mossy stone. He stooped and plucked that green symbol of life, gazed at it for a moment and smiled, then tucked it into the sleeve of his robe, as one might a talisman of luck.

We would need more than luck at the top of Ard Macha, I said to myself. Only light can banish the darkness, and only life can drive away death. With the vigilant eyes of Cat, I watched all about me, every sense at the ready, as we neared the dark summit of the hill.

I thought for a moment that Patrick meant to plunge headlong into the dark eddying mist, but then he held up his staff before him, made the sign of the cross with the other hand, and spoke a few words in the tongue of the Romans.

The mist was banished! It fled away from him, as if it had never been, to leave the hilltop of Ard Macha bright in the sunlight that now fell upon it. Something else fled from him though, something that departed but grudgingly, a short distance only, and promised vengefully to return.

It was Macha, the old she-demigod of the hill, for there before us was her standing stone, tall and glistening, and dire. Many a petty chieftain had bought his sovereignty there, with blood poured out to her. I knew that Macha would not surrender so easily. There would be more to come from her.

Patrick did not pause, but waving me back, strode forward to confront the stone directly. For perhaps a minute, he gazed upon its brooding mass and height, with the blood from centuries of sacrifices blackening the earth about its base. Then he spoke.

“No more, Macha!” he declared in the high lilting accent of Wales. “Return to this lump of stone if you must, for I swore an oath to Cailet Mac Rónain, that I would neither destroy nor remove it. But you have had enough of blood. From this moment on, no more lives will be sacrificd here!”

The ancient, towering oaks, which spread their roots about the age old megalith, now began to twist and groan, as the words left his lips. Their leaves took up an angry rustling, though there was no wind. The air itself became oppressive, about the top of Ard Macha, and pressed heavily down upon us.

“Away!” the trees seemed to murmur. “Away from me and my stone. Make and end to your mumbled Romish chants! Away with you and your shepherd’s stick!”

But Pátraic An Naomh was not yet done speaking. From his sleeve he produced the green shamrock he’d plucked, as we’d climbed the hill.

“Look well, Macha of the darkness,” he said, and held it high and glistening in the sun, and then he made the sign of the cross before him, with its threefold green leaf in his hand.

“Take heed, Macha, and hear me! This is the symbol of life upon the isle of Eire. It is green, of a shade seen nowhere else in nature, nowhere else upon the earth and under the sun. It is the color of life, the color of this land! It is threefold, like the Godhead I revere!

“With this I compass you in! Return to this crumbling stone and in it be imprisoned forever! Those who wish, may come to you here, but nevermore may you cross the boundaries I set!”

Then Patrick took his shepherd’s staff, and with it measured out seven lengths, from the stone of Macha, and there he laid the green shamrock down, upon the earth.

With that he turned and strode away, without another look, but with the curiosity of my kind, I looked backward as we departed the place. Surely he’d placed but one shamrock there, but now I saw three!

I ran back to look closely, and as I bent my head to take their scent, I saw that there were now three more, at a little distance from the others.

And then, as swiftly as thought, the hilltop was covered in them, even under my very paws! A glowing, verdant green carpet the color of life, sprang up everywhere. Only at the foot of the bleak standing stone of Macha, did no shamrocks grow. A circle round about it was bare, for a distance seven times the length of Patrick’s ashen staff.

The twisted, massive old oaks became quiet then, and as I ran to join my friend, the air grew lighter, and a gentle breeze ruffled the fur of my body and tail.

“Stay close beside me, Gruffy my friend!” said Patrick with a smile. “There is no more threat here, but others will come to hinder our work.” As we walked away from the place, I thought of my beautiful friend Berrybright, the Dryad of the path. She would be pleased by the changes here, I thought.

A tiny, wrinkled Gnome smiled broadly from his seat beneath the ferns, and waved to me as we passed by. I knew he would tell Berrybright and her kin of Patrick’s deeds, and they would tell yet others. Yes, many of the folk of Eire would be pleased, and not just the ones visible to Patrick!

He spent the rest of that day, pacing out the walls of the new church he would build, marking them with stakes driven into the soil of a clearing, well away from the evil stone he’d bound.

“Our walls will be of stone, cut and laid in mortar, Gruffy my friend,” he explained with great gravity to me, though he knew I was just an ordinary cat, and could comprehend only the simplest of his words.

“That which is founded upon rock, will never be toppled by storm,” he said with a smile.

Here would be the Sacristy, and there the Nave. On the east would stand the Pulpit, and behind it a great window to admit the bright morning sun. The beams of its roof would be of timber, joined with stout pegs, and support a thick layer of thatch.

Each part of what he soon would build, Patrick my friend described to me, as I walked at his feet. I understood enough to know that this was of great importance to him, and I closely attended his words.

Then, at the edge of my sight, I saw a flickering movement behind him. One of the Little Folk had crept up behind, and was about to lay a snare to catch Patrick’s heel! Ill-mannered they are; To make someone fall headlong is considered high humor by Leprechaun kind.

I leapt to thwart the wee one’s plans, lest they come to ill fruition, but Pátraic An Naomh of Eire Land was quicker still. He whirled to confront the little creature, and in his hand was the flask of water he’d blessed by the brook, that very morn.

“Blessings of the day be upon you, wry imp!” he cried, and poured it all, on the Leprechaun’s head. “Tis properly baptized, y’are!”

With a shrill cry, the wee scamp fell back, full upon his hinder parts, then sprang up in fright and bounded away. He’d never suspected, and neither had I, that Patrick my friend could see his world and his kind, just as well as he could, himself!

Cats are not made to laugh, but I fell on the ground and rolled with glee. I knew now that my Walk with Patrick would be wondrous indeed, and while many who dwelt in the green Isle of Eire would be pleased by the changes to come, clearly some would not!

END