In this post, C.L. Henderson interviews Mark E. Fisher about his novel, The Bonfires of Beltane. Follow the link to read the blog interview…
http://thewritechris.blogspot.com/2017/09/an-irish-twist-author-interview-with.html
In this post, Christian author Mark Fisher recounts St. Patrick’s Easter surprise on the Hill of Slane on Beltane eve. Thus did he break the druids’ taboo and end their reign over King Lóeghaire of Tara.
Many are the legends and stories of St. Patrick. Some are myth. But others are certainly true. What follows is a fictionalized account of what might have happened on Beltane eve. This retelling is through the eyes of Coll, one of Patrick’s followers. It’s based on my novel of Christian historical fiction, The Bonfires of Beltane.
What can I say about Beltane eve that has not already been whispered to astonished ears around cooking fires or repeated to stunned men over flagons of ale? I witnessed the events myself. I was a follower of Patrick’s. I heard him speak the inspiration that broke the druids’ taboo and ended their reign. And I was there when the chief druid, Ohran, incited the mob against us. Thus do I tell my tale.
Among Tara’s ancient traditions there was a taboo related to Beltane eve, the night on which the spirits of the Otherworld leave their dark realms and walk the earth. To celebrate that night, of course, we used to light bonfires on hilltops all across the land. But in Tara, the druids had long taught that if ever anyone in the realm lit a bonfire before the king’s, the reign would end.
Our small band of followers had only recently arrived in Tara. Patrick’s goal was to bring the gospel to yet another pagan land. Earlier on the trail, we’d met Fedelm and Eithne, King Lóeghaire’s daughters. Then and there, they converted to the Christian faith. This news greatly displeased the king, in whom ancient tradition had congealed like dried blood. The chief druid, Ohran, also met us with stony glares and harsh words. And when he realized the danger we posed to his worship of the dark spirits, he threw threats against us like daggers.
Days later, God sent Patrick a dream which saved us all from a fiery death. Patrick woke us in the middle of the night, ushering us from the hut with all haste. Later, the entire village watched as flames engulfed the thatch and lit up the night. When Ohran saw us standing alive across the yard, his tiny dark eyes bored into us as if stares alone could kill. Then we knew the arson was of his making.
The next day, we set up camp on the Hill of Slane, a good ten miles from Tara, where Patrick proceeded to preach and gather converts.
As Beltane approached, Patrick thought it might be close to Easter. “Let us use the occasion,” he said, “to celebrate instead the death and resurrection of Christ.” This, of course, was in direct opposition to the druids’ pagan ceremony.
At Patrick’s instruction, we worked all day, chopping and mounding a great pile of timbers on the hilltop. Much to my puzzlement, we also collected a torch for each of the two hundred souls committed to the work.
Evening came with great anticipation. When night had barely blackened the land, Patrick lit flame to the pile. At the same time, we looked toward Tara. The hill was dark. Patrick’s blaze had gone first into the night. The taboo was broken.
Ten miles separated us from the Rath na Ríogh, Tara’s Fort of Kings, and we knew it would be a while before anything happened. We waited, breathless, while Patrick prayed. What occurred next, I learned later from a believer in town.
The druids saw the bonfire first. Ohran confronted Lóeghaire, and within earshot of many, warned that our fire must be put out that very night. “Or,” he shouted, “their flame will become a blaze that will ignite your entire kingdom.”
The king was aghast. He ordered men to collect weapons and ride to Slane. “Put out that fire!” he ordered. “Then kill every last man and woman who lit it.” But as Ohran left to gather a throng, the king said he feared his own daughters would be among the slaughtered. Later, we learned he drank himself stocious with mead in his rooms.
Ohran gave a fiery speech before a great crowd, filling them with revenge and malice. The enraged mob rode the distance to our hill and dismounted below us.
From our vantage on the hilltop, we saw the grim-faced men begin to climb, bearing swords, sickles, and knives. At Patrick’s orders, we had brought not a single weapon to the fight. “We must trust only in God,” he’d said.
We gathered for a short prayer then lit the two hundred torches we’d made earlier. We ran to the ridge overlooking the slope, held the flames high, and, as Patrick had commanded, we shouted seven times, “Halleluiah! Gloria Deo Christus!”
What happened next was astonishing. The advancing throng paused, looked up the hill, and halted. Some began dropping torches and weapons. Others began running toward the trail. Horses reared and followed. Then the whole mob broke and ran in panicked flight back to Tara.
We stared, dumbfounded. What they’d seen, of course, was not a rag-tag group of believers from the village standing with torches on the hilltop. Nay, they beheld instead a grand army of God’s angelic host, bearing swords of light, covered with blazing armor, blowing trumpets that shook the ground with thunder and drove fear into every heart. They saw a vision from God, sent to protect Patrick’s mission of converting a people lost to pagan spiritual darkness.
Aye, my friends, the night belonged to God. And that is what happened on Easter eve in the land of Tara. And I was there to see it.
Mark is the author of The Bonfires of Beltane, a novel of Christian historical fiction set in ancient Celtic Ireland at the time of St. Patrick. The preceding story comes to you condensed from that book. To learn more about his book, click on the link.
In this post, Christian author Mark Fisher takes us back to ancient, Celtic Ireland to tell the story of St. Patrick, Part I.
As I researched my historical novel, The Bonfires of Beltane, I realized what a tale the life of St. Patrick presents and how few people know it. So let us now delve into the real story of St. Patrick.
Patrick was born to wealthy parents in Roman Britain at the end of the fourth century AD. His father, Calpornius, was a Roman patrician with a large farmstead somewhere on the western coast. At a time when many Romans worshiped gods like Mars, Minerva, and Jupiter, Calpornius held a deaconship in the local Christian church. Baptized as an infant, Patrick rebelled against his parents’ faith. By his own admission, he was a spoiled child of privilege and in his youth, an atheist. He was schooled in the classics like Virgil, Homer, and Aristotle, but he struggled with Latin and had barely begun public speaking.
On one tragic night, this idyllic life ended. Slave traders came from across the sea, from Hibernia—what the Roman’s called Ireland. His parents and sister were visiting relatives in the north, leaving him alone at the villa with the slaves and hired freemen. The raiders appeared suddenly at night. They captured the younger servants and slaves. They killed the older men and women, those too feeble to bring a good price on Hibernia. They stole young Patrick, a youth of but fifteen, put an iron chain around his neck, and carried him across the sea. For centuries, the Romans had feared Hibernia as a country of wild men, barbarians, and “cannibals”. We can only imagine what went through the mind of this terrified, traumatized youth.
In Hibernia, his captors sold him into slavery, and he ended up somewhere on the western coast, probably near a village called Foclut. This child of privilege and wealth suddenly found himself on the rainy moors, cold, starving, and alone, with the lowly job of tending sheep. He moved flocks between fields, fought off wolves. Sometimes he slept with the other slaves back in the farmstead, behind the safety of an earthen ditch and wooden stakes.
Six years passed, and something in him changed. He used to make fun of the priests, but now he remembered the biblical stories of his youth. He began to pray. He rose before sunrise, said a hundred prayers, and before going to bed, said another hundred. The other slaves called him, “holy boy”. And he began to fast. Gradually, his faith grew. And he served his master obediently.
One night, a voice called to him in a dream, “You have fasted well. Soon you will be going home.” But how could that be? Foclut was as far from the eastern and southern ports as one could get. And escaped slaves were quickly captured. So he ignored the voice. But the next night, the voice came again, “Behold, your ship is ready.” It gave him directions to a ship on the southern coast. He knew it was the voice of God.
He left his flock and set out on foot. Avoiding farmsteads, he traveled only at night, crossing the treacherous fens on log roads and swimming wide rivers. Without fire, his food dwindling, and fearing capture, he traversed one hundred eighty miles of open country, until he arrived at a port. In the village below, a ship floated at anchor. He screwed up his courage, passed by the roundhouses, and walked up the gangplank. Irish hounds filled the deck. But after one glance, the captain sent him away. Devastated, Patrick returned to the village.
Next week, we’ll conclude St. Patrick’s story with Part II.
(Note: This was a condensed version of a four-part series I posted a year ago. Parts one and two were recently published in the Spring 2017 Issue of Celtic Canada Magazine.)