A.B. Jackson

the voyage of st. brendan A cry of “Land!” A cliff face, iron ore red, a monastery perched on top, gold-gilded. The crew cast anchor, doggy-swam ashore and surfed the scree slopes in buoyant uproar. The summit gained, they gasped: seven monks advanced in welcome, cooing like rock doves. The ground was fire-grate ash, entirely barren; reading looks, the eldest spoke to Brendan: “We drink the dew. Our food arrives by raven, one loaf one fish, our drop, our daily ration, the bird so clockwork and plain bountiful. Rest here, brothers. Come, observe our ritual.” The monks performed a wordless parable: seven stones in a fruit picker’s pail, bird-skin robes. Cried Brendan: “Holy fathers, bless you — these are quality palavers.” The crew half-slept, that night, in golden cells, their dreams hatchlings, their nerves eggshells. Before the raven-dawn they fled in haste, fearing their hosts’ hunger, and their faith.

the voyage of st. brendan Books were Brendan’s love. At number one, Amazing Tales, a vast compendium. Within, he found the Mathematic Salmon, the Manticore, the breath-defying Dragon. The dog-head folks, called Cynocephali, a godless bunch who play the banjolele. The Arctic tribes who worship tiger seals, their ice-hickle cities on wagon wheels. The whale Jasconius, its mountain-back all porcupined with oak, and elm, and ash. And Inexpressible Isle, its ruined fort with butterfly judges, Heart’s Grief Court. In time, this diet of ripe and rum detail weighed on Brendan: he sickened, grew pale. He craved, instead, a simple common sense in keeping with his Rule of abstinence. “These things,” he cried, “are figments, folderols. The truth is here, at hand: a linnet’s carols, Kerry mountains, Christ upon his hook.” And Brendan made a fire, and burnt his book.