Christmas in Legend and Story Part 10

Thou art large and strong. Therefore go thou and dwell by this river and bear over all who desire to cross its waters. That is a service which will be well pleasing to the Christ whom thou desirest to serve, and sometime, if I mistake not, he whom thou seekest will come to thee."

Offero was right joyful at these words and answered, "This service may I well do."

So he hastened to the river and upon its banks he built himself a little hut of reeds. He bare a great pole in his hand to sustain him in the water and many weary wayfarers did he help to cross the turbulent stream. So he lived a long time, bearing over all manner of people without ceasing, and still he saw nothing of the Christ.

Now it happened one night that a storm was raging and the river was very high. Tired with his labors, Offero had just flung himself down on his rude bed to sleep when he heard the voice of a child which called him and said, "Offero, Offero, come out and bear me over."

Offero arose and went out from his cabin, but in the darkness he could see no one. And when he was again in the house, he heard the same voice and he ran out again and found no one. A third time he heard the call and going out once more into the storm, there upon the river bank he found a fair young child who besought him in pleading tones, "Wilt thou not carry me over the river this night, Offero?"

The strong man gently lifted the child on his shoulders, took his staff and stepped into the stream. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more and the child was heavy as lead. And alway as he went farther, higher and higher swelled the waters and the child more and more waxed heavy, insomuch that he feared that they would both be drowned.

Already his strength was nearly gone, but he thought of his Master whom he had not yet seen, and staying his footsteps with his palm staff struggled with all his might to reach the opposite sh.o.r.e. As at last he climbed the steep bank, suddenly the storm ceased and the waters calmed.

He set the child down upon the sh.o.r.e, saying, "Child, thou hast put me in great peril. Had I carried the whole world on my shoulders, the weight had not been greater. I might bear no greater burden."

"Offero," answered the child, "Marvel not, but rejoice; for thou hast borne not only all the world upon thee, but thou hast borne him that created and made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Christ the king whom thou servest in this work. And for a token, that thou mayst know what I say to be the truth, set thy staff in the earth by thy house and thou shalt see in the morning that it shall bear flowers and fruit." With these words the child vanished from Offero's sight.

But Offero did even as he was bidden and set his staff in the earth and when he arose on the morrow, he found it like a palm-tree bearing flowers and leaves and cl.u.s.ters of dates. Then he knew that it was indeed Christ whom he had borne through the waters and he rejoiced that he had found his Master. From that day he served Christ faithfully and was no more called Offero, but Christopher, the Christ bearer.

ST. CHRISTOPHER OF THE GAEL

FIONA MACLEOD

Behind the wattle-woven house Nial the Mighty gently crept From out a screen of ashtree boughs To where a captive white-robe slept.

Lightly he moved, as though ashamed; To right and left he glanced his fears.

Nial the Mighty was he named Though but an untried youth in years--

But tall he was, as tall as he, White Dermid of the magic sword, Or Torcall of the Hebrid Sea Or great Cuhoolin of the Ford;

Strong as the strongest, too, he was: As Balor of the Evil Eye; As Fionn who kept the Ulster Pa.s.s From dawn till blood-flusht sunset sky.

Much had he pondered all that day The mystery of the men who died On crosses raised along the way, And perished singing side by side.

Modred the chief had sailed the Moyle, Had reached Iona's guardless-sh.o.r.e, Had seized the monks when at their toil And carried northward, bound, a score.

Some he had thrust into the deep, To see if magic fins would rise: Some from high rocks he forced to leap, To see wings fall from out the skies:

Some he had pinned upon tall spears, Some tossed on s.h.i.+elds with brazen clang, To see if through their blood and tears Their G.o.d would hear the hymns they sang.

But when his oarsmen flung their oars, And laughed to see across the foam The glimmer of the highland sh.o.r.es And smoke-wreaths of the hidden home,

Modred was weary of his sport.

All day he brooded as he strode Betwixt the reef-encircled port And the oak-grove of the Sacred Road.

At night he bade his warriors raise Seven crosses where the foamswept strand Lay still and white beyond the blaze Of the hundred camp-fires of the land.

The women milked the late-come kye, The children raced in laughing glee; Like sheep from out the fold of the sky Stars leapt and stared at earth and sea.

At times a wild and plaintive air Made delicate music far away: A hill-fox barked before its lair: The white owl hawked its shadowy prey.

But at the rising of the moon The druids came from grove and glen, And to the chanting of a rune Crucified St. Columba's men.

They died in silence side by side, But first they sang the evening hymn: By midnight all but one had died, At dawn he too was grey and grim.

One monk alone had Modred kept, A youth with hair of golden-red, Who never once had sighed or wept, Not once had bowed his proud young head.

Broken he lay, and bound with thongs.

Thus had he seen his brothers toss Like crows transfixed upon great p.r.o.ngs, Till death crept up each silent cross.

Night grew to dawn, to scarlet morn; Day waned to firelit, star-lit night: But still with eyes of pa.s.sionate scorn He dared the worst of Modred's might.

When from the wattle-woven house Nial the Mighty softly stepped, And peered beneath the ashtree boughs To where he thought the white-robe slept,

He heard the monk's words rise in prayer.

He heard a hymn's ascending breath-- "Christ, Son of G.o.d, to Thee I fare This night upon the wings of death."

Nial the Mighty crossed the s.p.a.ce, He waited till the monk had ceased; Then, leaning o'er the foam-white face, He stared upon the dauntless priest.

"Speak low," he said, "and tell me this: Who is the king you hold so great?-- Your eyes are dauntless flames of bliss Though Modred taunts you with his hate:--

"This G.o.d or king, is He more strong Than Modred is? And does He sleep That thus your death-in-life is long, And bonds your aching body keep?"

The monk's eyes stared in Nial's eyes: "Young giant with a child's white heart, I see a cross take shape and rise, And thou upon it nailed art!"

Nial looked back: no cross he saw Looming from out the dreadful night: Yet all his soul was filled with awe, A thundercloud with heart of light.

"Tell me thy name," he said, "and why Thou waitest thus the druid knife, And carest not to live or die?

Monk, hast thou little care of life?"

"Great care of that I have," he said, And looked at Nial with eyes of fire: "My life begins when I am dead, There only is my heart's desire."

Nial the Mighty sighed. "Thy words Are as the idle froth of foam, Or clas.h.i.+ng of triumphant swords When Modred brings the foray home.

"My name is Nial: Nial the Strong: A lad in years, but as you see More great than heroes of old song Or any lordly men that be.

"To Modred have I come from far, O'er many a hill and strath and stream.

To be a mighty sword in war, And this because I dreamed a dream:

"My dream was that my strength so great Should serve the greatest king there is: Modred the Pict thus all men rate, And so I sought this far-off Liss.

"But if there be a greater yet, A king or G.o.d whom he doth fear, My service he shall no more get, My strength shall rust no longer here."

The monk's face gladdened. "Go, now, go; To Modred go: he sitteth dumb, And broods on what he fain would know: And say, '_O King, the Cross is come_!'

"Then shall the king arise in wrath, And bid you go from out his sight, For if he meet you on his path He'll leave you stark and still and white.