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head, glancing at Michael to gauge his reaction.  “I guess that’s one part of our family history I may never understand, but I had to come here and see the place for myself.”
    “That sounds like Iona, all right,”  Michael said with a straight face and stared out across the water as though focusing on something Patrick couldn’t see. 
    Michael excused himself and returned a few minutes later with his own pint. 
    The Isle of Mull had passed out of the Bay of Oban into the broad estuary known as the Firth of Lorne.  To the right they were passing the Island of Lismore , marked by the picturesque Lismore Lighthouse at its southern tip.
      Visible ahead, off the port bow, was their destination, the ship’s namesake, the Island of Mull.  The hulking form of an old castle was perched on the cliffs above the shore.
    “Michael, do you know what that castle is?”
    “That’s called Duart castle,” Michael answered, pausing to take a sip of his ale.  “It’s the ancestral home of the Clan Maclean… dates back to the thirteenth century.  Duart means ‘Black Point’ in Gaelic, and that is where it sits—on the point—standing guard over the Sound of Mull.  Quite a history this place has.”
    Michael stood and scanned the water on the port side of the ship, finally pointing to a jagged rock just breaking the surface of the water.  “Do you see that rock over there?  It’s called Lady’s Rock .  It’s only visible at low tide.
    “They say that in 1523, Lachlan Cattenach, the ruler in residence over at Duart, tied up his wife Margaret and marooned her on that rock, hoping she’d be drowned by the incoming tide.
    “When the rock reappeared above the waves the following morning, Lachlan sadly reported her death to her brother, the Earl of Argyll.” 
    Michael eased back into his seat, “Unfortunately for Lachlan, that wasn’t the end of the story.  A few weeks later the Earl invited Lachlan to dinner at his castle, supposedly to console him on the death of his wife.  As he entered the hall, Lachlan was shocked to discover Margaret sitting next to her brother at the head table.  
    “Turns out she’d been rescued by a passing herring fisherman.  Nothing was said at the banquet, but it’s reported that Margaret’s cousins met Lachlan outside the hall after dinner and administered some rather severe Scottish justice.” 
    With a twinkle in his eye, Michael added, “My understanding is that it was all handled very quickly… without lawyers!”
    Patrick took a long last sip of his pint, and looked at Michael.  “Michael, what do you know about Iona?”
    “Sounds like you already know a good bit about Iona,” Michael answered.  “It’s a tiny island of course, just three miles long and a mile wide, and about as remote a place as you can imagine.”  Michael took a quick gulp of his ale, then continued, “The usual history goes something like this… An Irishman named Columba and twelve followers came to Iona in 563.  By the way, Columba was a member of the Ui Neill clan—what’s called the O’Neill’s today—so he really was your relative.
    “Columba and his followers built a community on Iona.  The history books call it a monastery, but it wasn’t the kind of monastery most people think of.  It wasn’t even Catholic, at that time.  It was more like a town...  a cluster of thatched huts, surrounded by a stone and earthen embankment.  Their ‘monks’ were allowed to marry and have children.  They tended fields, raised livestock, practiced crafts, and worshipped God.
    “As remote as it is, it’s amazing the influence Iona had.  At one time, the place was known all over Europe.  Kings of many lands sent their sons to study on Iona.
    “It’s always been an unusual place.  Many strange things happened there.  Visitors sometimes comment that the barrier between the material and spiritual realms is very ‘thin’ on Iona.” 
    “What kind of things happened