THE STORY OF SAINT COLMAN A long time ago in a lonely part of Ireland where the green cliffs meet the white waves, there lived a monk called Brother Colman. Colman liked to talk and laugh, and to make life pleasant for himself and his fellow priests by telling a good story or a joke as he worked in the garden among the radishes and turnips, or as he scrubbed the long table where the monks took their meals. Often the faces at Colman's table were the happiest under the monastery's low-pitched roof, and many times voices raised in song reached up to the rafters and startled the brown wren who made her home there. As in other years, summer gave way to autumn with its scudding clouds. Winter came, and the white waves froze, rearing up like strange beasts, each one wilder than its neighbors. Days grew short and the nights dark, for the sun had taken shelter from the bleak wind on the other side of the earth -- yet its far-off rays always seemed to shine brightly where Colman was. But one day during the cold months when he was pulling the last of the winter vegetables, a hand descended over the monk's brow and covered his eyes so that everything before him was cast in shadow. "What has come over me?" asked Colman, much afraid. The hand was featherlight and did not hurt him, so rather than strain against the dark, Colman shut his eyes. At first all was black. But as he stood in the garden he saw a growing brightness, like the moon rising. In it he saw the faces of his mother and sisters, whose house he'd left as a young man, once he knew that he was meant to live his life in the service of God. The faces of his childhood friends shone in the sky above them like stars. Then Colman saw the figures of his fellow monks, now his everyday companions -- one brother whitewashing the fence by the priory, another sweeping the floor under the long table -- and then he saw all of them at prayer, heads bent before dawn, and then again when the sun set over the wild sea. How he loved them all! And so Colman saw, with the feathery hand still light on his brow, that in his habit of constant laughter he had neglected, a little, his duty to God. And he saw too, as the deft hand over his eyes lifted and the garden glinted again in the late-afternoon sun, that he must leave even this remote windy spot where he lived with his brothers, and retreat to a farther place. A green hill with a crown of hawthorn trees lay half a mile inland, away from the monastery, and it was there that Colman built his hut of stones. "Don't go," cried his brother monks, for they knew they would miss him sorely. But when they saw he was in earnest they said good-bye, and watched as, carrying only his small load of books, he made his way to his hut on the hill. A little while after, a small gray mouse came too, to make her home with Colman. Her games pleased him greatly, for she liked to run and hide behind a chair and peep out at him suddenly, and Colman, who was quick with his hands, made her a ladder out of thread. To his delight she learned to climb it, and to jump from one chair to another. In the evening as dusk fell the cock and the mouse would chatter together, and in turn nibble at the pieces of bread Colman had saved for them. A long time ago in a lonely part of Ireland where the green cliffs meet the white waves, there lived a monk called Brother Colman. Colman liked to talk and laugh, and to make life pleasant for himself and his fellow priests by telling a good story or a joke as he worked in the garden among the radishes and turnips, or as he scrubbed the long table where the monks took their meals. Often the faces at Colman's table were the happiest under the monastery's low-pitched roof, and many times voices raised in song reached up to the rafters and startled the brown wren who made her home there. As in other years, summer gave way to autumn with its scudding clouds. Winter came, and the white waves froze, rearing up like strange beasts, each one wilder than its neighbors. Days grew short and the nights dark, for the sun had taken shelter from the bleak wind on the other side of the earth -- yet its far-off rays always seemed to shine brightly where Colman was. At first all was black. But as he stood in the garden he saw a growing brightness, like the moon rising. In it he saw the faces of his mother and sisters, whose house he'd left as a young man, once he knew that he was meant to live his life in the service of God. The faces of his childhood friends shone in the sky above them like stars. Then Colman saw the figures of his fellow monks, now his everyday companions -- one brother whitewashing the fence by the priory, another sweeping the floor under the long table -- and then he saw all of them at prayer, heads bent before dawn, and then again when the sun set over the wild sea. Besides the company of his fellow creatures, Colman loved to read, and it was because of this pursuit that a fourth came to join the trio. One day a storm suddenly blew up over the sea and drenched the meadow, and Colman rose in haste from his book, without marking his place, to close the wooden shutter he had made for his window. When he returned, he found, to his surprise, that a bluebottle fly was waiting patiently on the page, at the very word where he had stopped reading. Colman was astonished, and shook his head, thinking it must be happenstance. But soon he began to trust in the fly, and he never thereafter marked his place in a book, confident that it would be held for him until his tasks allowed him to take up his reading again. And sometimes too, while the monk was reading, the fly would settle on the page at a place of particular interest, so that Colman would take note and read it again! But one day during the cold months when he was pulling the last of the winter vegetables, a hand descended over the monk's brow and covered his eyes so that everything before him was cast in shadow. "What has come over me?" asked Colman, much afraid. The hand was featherlight and did not hurt him, so rather than strain against the dark, Colman shut his eyes. Colman took great joy in his new friends, and he gave thanks to God, who had sent them to ease his loneliness. How he loved them all! And so Colman saw, with the feathery hand still light on his brow, that in his habit of constant laughter he had neglected, a little, his duty to God. And he saw too, as the deft hand over his eyes lifted and the garden glinted again in the late-afternoon sun, that he must leave even this remote windy spot where he lived with his brothers, and retreat to a farther place. One morning when Colman was lying in bed before the dawn it happened that a cock appeared at the window and with his hearty voice bade the monk good morning. "Good morning to you!" said Colman. And he pulled on his slippers in a hurry, for if not for the rooster's greeting he would have been late to say his morning prayers. At breakfast Colman saved a few crumbs of bread and left them on his windowsill, in hope that the rooster would come again to share his solitude. So passed the days of the monk now called Saint Colman, because of his obedience to God and the delight he took in his fellow creatures, especially his staunch companions, the cock, the mouse, and the fly, whom he loved dearly. Soon there was a path through the high grass in the meadow, for Colman came once a day to fetch his bread, which the monks left for him in a cloth by the door, and each day the brown wren who lived in the rafters shed a tear, for she knew how lonely he was without companions. Text copyright (c) 2006 by Cynthia Zarin Excerpted from Saints among the Animals by Cynthia Zarin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
