Saint Patrick (The Holy Land)

The Holy Ground
For days before a feast Master spent long hours in his cave. Did I imagine he looked gaunt? He ate alone. How could I be responsible?
He was on edge too. The chirp of a bird or a random branch strewn in his path would drive him back up the hill. And for what? What anyone could do alone in a cave without the light of the sun or a scrap of food!
How many had I turned away from his door? Who was I to say when he’d return.
One night I had a dream about Master. He was in his cave, prostrate on the floor. He was speaking words into the ground. A black bird flew in. It landed on Master’s head and began to pick hard at him. His incantation into the floor of the cave grew desperate, yet all the time he moved not a muscle. He was no longer lord even of his limbs. Then his voice was more hesitant. I walked towards the entrance. The sun shone but gave the dirtiest of light. I turned my back on master. I walked down the hill toward the farm. Long may the sun shine grey I thought. But I could feel his dirty words under my feet, rotting up through the grass. I turned and ascended the hill again. Master still lay on the floor, silent.
“There is a ship. Get up and go down to the sea.”
“There is the same difference between you and me. It is the same difference now if I stay or go.”
“ So go.”
But it was I who went. I got up and walked out into the dirty light. Then I spoke to the sun. Long may you shine grey I said. Long may you shine grey.

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