Iona Portal (9 page)

“Good morning, Patrick,” Michael said cheerfully as Patrick took his seat.  “How did you sleep?”

“Wonderfully,” Patrick responded.  “I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years.  There’s something very peaceful about this place.”

 Glancing around the restaurant, he added, “How’s the breakfast?”

“Outstanding, as usual,” said Michael. “I’ve stayed at the Saint Columba several times, and the food is always superb.  They have their own organic garden behind the hotel, and much of the food is grown right here. 

“By the way, might I suggest the blood pudding?”  Michael pointed to a black sausage-like disk on his plate.  “Most Americans are afraid to try it, but once you get used to it, it’s really quite tasty.”

“I think I’ll have to pass on that,” Patrick laughed, as he glanced at the menu, “but the food does look good.”  Patrick ordered a full breakfast, beginning with strong black coffee, which was promptly brought to the table.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Patrick again looked up at Michael. “So, what will you be doing here on Iona?” 

“I want to start by interviewing some of the locals,” Michael replied.  “There are
always
new angel stories on Iona.  Just about every inhabitant is ready to bend your ear with story after story of strange events.

“But mostly, I come here to write.  I’m working on my fourth book, and somehow Iona just seems like the right place to write about angels.”

As they ate, Michael quizzed Patrick about his recent travels in Ireland.  Michael seemed particularly interested in Patrick’s visit to the city of Bangor—situated in a section of County Down known as the Valley of the Angels.  According to legend, Saint Patrick had once encountered a large gathering of angels in the place.  Michael hadn’t yet visited Bangor, and immediately began to pepper Patrick with questions. 

Unfortunately for Michael, Patrick’s most vivid memory of his stay in the Valley of the Angels was of a pub called the “Salty Dog,” a few blocks north of his hotel on Quay Street.  He couldn’t recall seeing a single angel.

When they finished eating, Patrick stood and stretched, still stiff from his long journey.

“Before I get to work,” Michael said, pausing to drain the last of his coffee, “How about a quick tour of Iona?”

“I’d like that.” Patrick replied. “You know, if you ever give up writing, you’d make a great tour guide.  Your knowledge of this part of the world is incredible.”

“Having a photographic memory does help.”

“I have a photographic memory too …” Patrick quipped as they walked from the restaurant, “I just keep forgetting to buy film.”

Patrick purchased a map of the island from the little display beside the front desk, and they were off to explore Iona.

“Let’s begin in the south,” Michael suggested as they exited the hotel.  They turned to the left and followed a winding road that led past the crumbling ruins of a medieval nunnery, through the tiny village of
Baile Mòr,
and along the waterfront.  Odd formations of twisted rock lined the shore.

“Patrick, on the map, Iona looks like a little sliver of land that crumbled off the end of Mull.  But actually, Iona is enormously older.  In fact, the rocks on Iona are some the oldest on Earth… four billion years old.   Iona literally dates from the beginning of the earth itself.  These rocks formed when the molten mass of the globe first formed a solid crust.”

The road along the shore took a sharp turn to the right, heading inland across the center of the island.  Walking between lush green fields on a spring morning, with sheep calmly grazing on either side of the road, was one of the most peaceful experiences Patrick could remember.  The view was breathtaking in every direction.  Clusters of multicolored wildflowers were splattered across the landscape, while steep, heather-clad hills rose to the north and south. 

Seeing the look of wonder on Patrick’s face, Michael said, “Do you begin to feel the uniqueness of this place?  There’s really nothing else like it.  Sooner or later it affects everyone who comes here.

“The Scottish mystic Fiona Macleod wrote that Iona is ‘the one bit of Eden that had not been destroyed.’

 “Historians call Iona, ‘The Light of the Western World.’  You’re no doubt familiar with Thomas Cahill’s popular book,
How the Irish Saved Civilization
.   Well, the Irish
really did
save western civilization, and they did it—for the most part—from Iona.  For centuries—during the darkest of the dark ages—Irish monks from Iona went throughout Europe, teaching, and founding schools.

“And then there are the angels.  Many writers describe Iona as a ‘thin place’ where the material and spiritual planes meet.  Angelic beings seem to pass in and out of our dimension very easily here.  But at least one writer attached a strong warning to that description.  He said that great care must be taken to prevent Iona from becoming a ‘demoniacal centre.’”

As they neared the center of the island, Michael gestured toward a nondescript mound of grass-covered earth rising to the left.  “That mound is one of the most significant sites on the island.  It’s sometimes called
Sithean Mor
, ‘the faerie mound.’  Through the Middle Ages it was known by its Latin name,
Colliculus Angelorum
, or its Gaelic equivalent,
Cnoc Angel
.  In English that means ‘The Hill of the Angels.’

“Your cousin Columba used to come to this hill to pray.  It’s recorded that he climbed to the top of that mound, lifted up his hands in prayer, and that ‘citizens of the heavenly country’ flew down to meet with him.

“Columba had a special relationship with the angels.  Ademnan relates that angels often visited Columba as he prayed.  It was rumored that they revealed to him secrets hidden since the beginning of the world.

“They say the night St. Columba died, all of Iona was filled with the brightness of angels as thousands of them descended on the island.  One contemporary writer said an immense pillar of fire appeared at midnight at the eastern tip of the island, illuminating the earth like the summer sun at noon."

An old woman, who had been approaching on the road, saw them looking at
Cnoc Angel,
and stopped to listen in.   When Michael paused, she stepped closer, tapped his arm with a bony finger, and in a thick Scottish brogue, whispered, “They still come here, you know.  Last month, I saw three of them,
right here.”

Then, pulling her shawl tighter around her head against the morning chill, she added, “And last week, down in the village, Agnes McClean and I was walkin’ outside at dusk and saw two of them angel beings flying over us, headed toward the East.  They flew directly over our heads… and they had a otherworldly glow.”

Michael pulled out his dog-eared journal and made some quick notes, then got her name and asked if he could speak with her again.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Patrick smiled.  He didn’t want to admit it, but being on Iona, he was actually starting to believe the angels might show up.

They continued across the island.  Topping a rise, Patrick could hardly believe his eyes… the road ahead ran down through the middle of a golf course!   “So this is where my ancestors
played golf?”

“Well, actually, your ancestors grew wheat here, but this
is
Scotland, you know.”  Michael smiled.  “Of course, everything on Iona is a little unique… notice the cows grazing over there near the fifth hole.

“But, now look straight ahead…”

Beyond the golf course Patrick saw something else that looked out of place on a wind-swept Scottish Isle.  The path they were walking ended at a broad, crescent-shaped white-sand beach that looked like something out of a Caribbean travel brochure.   All it needed was a few palm trees. 

“That’s called
The
Bay at the Back of the Ocean.
”  Michael explained.

“Michael, I must say, Iona is an amazing place.”

“Patrick O’Neill, you haven’t even
begun
to see the wonders of this place.  But, that’s enough of the tourist sites.  The southern part of the isle has some interesting spots, but it’s pretty rugged, so I’ll let you explore that yourself.  But wear boots when you go… the bogs will pull the shoes right off your feet.

“For now, let’s head back to the northern end of the island.  I want to show you one more place.”

They retraced their path past the Hill of the Angels and along the winding road until they passed the hotel.

A short walk north of the hotel, on the right side of the road, stood a lovingly restored medieval monastery, the majestic Iona Abbey.

“Believe it or not, this was a crumbling ruin for hundreds of years,” Michael commented. “The 8th Duke of Argyll began preservation work in 1874.”

“So this was Columba’s monastery?”

“Hardly.”  Michael laughed.

“As old as all of this looks, everything you see here was built at least 500 years
after
your ancestors retreated to Ireland.  By the time this was built, the Catholic Church had taken over Iona, and the power of the ancient Celts was lost.

“The Iona Columba knew was entirely different than what you see here.  The original ‘monastery,’ if you want to call it that, was a collection of small beehive-shaped huts.  They called those huts ‘cells.’  Each monk had his own cell, or in the case of married couples… each couple had their own.  Together, they formed a small community.  For protection, they built a ten-foot tall earth and stone embankment called a
vallum
around the cells.   Within the
vallum
they also built a mill, a barn, a church, and several other buildings.   Of those buildings, of course, nothing remains.

“All that remains of the original Iona monastery is a trace of the vallum that surrounded the encampment.  Let me show you the wall your ancestors built…”

Walking north past the medieval monastery, Patrick saw, running east-west across the middle of a field, the crumbling remains of a rock and earthen wall.  “That wall was the northern edge of the original monastery.  Your ancestors built that wall in an age when Roman legions still battled barbarian hordes all across northern Europe.

“Now, Patrick, there’s one more place I want to show you.  It’s not mentioned in the tour books, but it’s really my favorite place on the island.  It’s a little hill called
Cnoc nan Carnan.
 That’s Gaelic for ‘Hill of the Cairns.’  Most tourists never even notice it, but I believe it’s where your cousin Columba lived.

“Historical records agree that Columba’s cell stood at the top of a rise overlooking the rest of the monastery.  That puzzled me, since the monastery now is pretty much on level ground.  Then I realized that the original monastery was much larger than the medieval one.  If you notice the remains of the old wall, it continues past the road, and up over that rise of land on the west.  So part of Columba’s monastery was actually up on that rise.”

They crossed the road and passed through a gate.  Just to the left, rising above the coastal plain, was a small green hill.  At the top of the hill, Patrick could see huge rock slabs jutting from the ground, forming a sheltered area between. 

Michael pointed to the top of the hill.  “That’s where Columba’s cell must have stood, nestled in the protection of those rocks.  How many times did Columba converse with angels in that very place?  Let’s go take a look.”

Patrick and Michael walked up the hill.  The grass underfoot was covered in wildflowers.  To the east was the medieval monastery, and beyond that, the Sound of Iona and the distant mountains of Mull.  To the west he could see the rugged, green landscape of Iona, and in the far distance, the endless sea.

As they reached the top of the hill, Patrick walked between the huge rock slabs, his feet sinking into the soft heather.  It was like walking on holy ground.

There was no mistaking this place.  He was returning to a place he had visited many times before.  It was the place of peace and refuge he’d left America to find.  Patrick had found The Hill.

As Patrick glanced around in amazement, surveying the beauty and serenity of the place, he had no way of knowing that in less than three months time, the fate of the world would be decided on this very spot.

Chapter Nine:  Aftermath

BRENTWOOD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, BOULDER, COLORADO

The next morning, Brentwood Memorial Hospital, along with almost every place else in America, was buzzing with the news of the latest suicide bombing in New York City.  In recent months there had been a series of New York bombings, but this was by far the worst.  It took place in Grand Central Station at four in the afternoon.  There were twenty-seven dead, most of them children returning from a school field trip.   Many more were injured and maimed for life.  The explosives had been heavily laced with nails and broken glass to produce maximum damage.

The news reports, as usual, replayed the security tapes over and over, with endless commentary and conjecture.  No one had yet taken credit for the atrocity. 

Lys Johnston had been watching the reports all day, and was literally shaking when Roger came in that afternoon.

“What’s wrong, Lys?”  Roger asked with genuine concern.  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 “I don’t know...”  Lys answered haltingly.  She was still in pain and heavily sedated.  “Maybe I am seeing a ghost.  I’m seeing
something
and I’m not sure what it is.

“The networks have been replaying the footage of the suicide bomber all day.  In the video, you see the bomber enter the station and walk to the center of the floor.  From the first time I saw it I knew something wasn’t right.  She looked like she was already
dead.
 It was like watching a zombie.” 

“She gets to the center of the station and stands there, watching a crowd of school children come toward her.   She waits until they’re all around her.  Then, just before she detonates the bomb, she looks up at the camera… and smiles.