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course, the Holy Father left long before then, and with the world so big we may not ever have the blessing of his presence here again. But yours is a different story. He set you apart, that day.’
    It was a good story.
    But when, at age fifteen, he left behind everything he’d ever known and journeyed to the great man’s monastery on lona, it was as if the story had never happened. There was no special welcome, not even any kind of acknowledgement. The Columba who had saved him – he might have remembered Adom. But not this gaunt, silent old man.
    He barely saw the Holy Father that first summer, so caught up was Columba in his vigils and fasting and wrestling matches of prayer with God. Adom did see a lot of Brother Drostlin, though, the monk in charge of the boys and novices. And Adom was even less special to him.
    ‘Lazy. And stupid.’ That was his verdict on the new recruit. And the reason was simple: weedy youngsters half Adom’s age were learning in days and weeks what months of Brother Drostlin’s beatings failed to teach him.
    It had never occurred to Adom what the hardest part of his new life was going to be, because he had never had to deal with the written word before. You didn’t need to read to plough your scrap of land. You didn’t need to know how to write to catch enough fish to feed your family. Books and book learning were the provinceof the Church, part of its magic. But for Adom, it was a magic for which, it seemed, he had no aptitude. He could not make the letters speak to him. His hand was perfectly capable of everything else he’d ever put it to – but it could not control a quill.
    But I’m not lazy ! Adom yelled inside his head. I’m not stupid! Why can’t I do this? I don’t understand !
    Some days it felt as if the world had become very small, crushingly small, no more than the square of table before him and the tormenting symbols that inhabited it. It may be that the summer felt that way for the Holy Father as well. Whatever the reason, one fine autumn morning, Columba burst into the scriptorium, where Brother Drostlin was, as usual, berating Adom for his laziness and inattention.
    ‘God forgive you –’ he was saying – ‘do you never pay attention?! A beast could write better than that!’
    And Columba’s voice, sounding positively jovial for the first time in months, broke in with, ‘Gently, Brother. Maybe God meant him to be thick of head as well as thick of arm. He can row my boat for me even if he can’t get his wits round Holy Writ!’
    Not fair! Not true ! Adom cried out silently. The injustice of it was so enormous he was numb to everything else – the escape from the hated books, the excited bustle of preparations, the last-minute inspection of the curraghs and oars, all passed in a blur.
    And now he was on the water, on the way. Columba’s journeys to preach and heal were the stuff of legend, and here he was, a part of it all.
    A part. Set apart. Who believed that any more? He knew he was nothing. He was just a pair of strong arms…
    It was late in the day when the curragh finally turned towards shore. They pulled into an inlet, where a river flowed into the sea and there was a shingle beach to drag the boat out on. And, further back in the hills, the welcoming smoke of a settlement could be seen, hanging above the trees.
    ‘Where are we?’ Adom asked one of the brothers.
    ‘Don’t you know, boy?’ he said. ‘That’s the hall of the Bard up there, just beyond the village. Bard Devin. Surely you’ve heard of him?’
    Adom shook his head.
    ‘Don’t know much, do you? He came out from Ireland at the same time as Columba. They were friends in the old country, you know. They still are, only they don’t meet so much these days, of course. Oh, we’ll get a warm welcome in Devin’s hall, don’t you worry – and likely a tale or two as well! There he is now!’
    The figure approaching them from among the trees could not have been less like Adom’s idea of