A Tale of a Western Isle
So, this is my tale, and it happened a long time ago. A long, long time ago, before there were Christians in the Hebrides. And it’s about this here monk, see, and this here boy.
The monk was from the low country, and he was travelling to Broadford in Skye in order to spread the word of God among the inhabitants of that island, for there were even then folk living on Skye, although they were from an old and strange people. This monk’s name was Coel, and he was not native to those lands, but his name is remembered there still. He had a boat that was so small he had to sit in it cross-legged. This type of boat was called a coracle and was common in the time I am telling you about.
It was a damp, grey day on the sea-the type where a man didn’t know if there was more water beneath the boat or in the air around it. The island of Skye ahead of him could not be seen at all, and the first he knew of it was when he heard the whisper of sand underneath the bottom of the boat. The monk was glad for this and gave thanks to God for not forgetting him in the fog. Stepping out of the boat, water squished into his leather shoes as he made his way up the beach.
He drew his bark up behind him, toiling along the wet shore, and set it against a cluster of rocks and boulders in order to shelter himself from the wind and mist.
He had just made his camp when he heard the sound of voices raised in wails of lament, loud shrieks and shouts, awful they were.
He followed the sound of these tormented cries to the forest that lined the beach. There before him, walking through the trees and the mist, he saw a shifting line of figures dressed in clothes of fantastic colours and design. They were marching in procession behind a column of jet-black horses that hauled a silver skiff, upon which was a glass coffin, containing the body of a very old woman. She was very beautiful, even for being dead, and although the fantastic bier dragged on the ground, it never hit a bump or fell into a rut.
The monk was canny-canny enough to realise that it was a F?rie funeral he was observing. Planting his walking stick into the ground, he knelt and, to protect himself, began to read to himself from the Gospels, keeping his eyes trained fast on his book. He read out loud so as to keep the holy words in his ears, so as to seal them, in a way, from the cries of the damned.
As he read, one of the members of the funeral train-a boy dressed all in green-left it and came and crouched in front of him. Coel did not raise his eyes to look at him, he merely kept reading.
The procession disappeared and the wailing diminished, eventually vanishing altogether. But the boy did not leave Coel’s side, and so he continued reading, not wanting to allow himself to be tempted into follies.
He read on, straight through Matthew and, when he finished that, continued on to Mark. And from Mark he went to Luke, and Luke on to John. And then he was finished; he had no more scriptures to read.
So he decided to pray-a long-winded and exhaustive prayer it was. He bowed his head low-very low, so as to shut out vision of the boy who might work enchantments on him to entice him away to destruction.
When he finished his prayer, he opened his eyes and looked around.
The boy was still there.
“I have marked all that you have read,” the boy said. “Tell me, is there any hope of forgiveness in those words for my people?”
Coel spoke kindly but cautiously to him, fearing to be drawn into an enchantment. He said that there wasn’t mention of salvation for any but the sinful sons of Adam.
Hearing this, the boy became disconsolate, and he picked up the wailing that he had laid down earlier and plunged himself into the sea.