Two Visitors
The track was rough and twisted, the stones so varied in size and barely far enough apart for the fleet footed donkey to walk without slipping. Astride him sat a long, thin man in a thick, red robe with a bedraggled fur edge, a long face to match, and perched on his head an odd looking three cornered hat of rich red brocade suggesting money and status, quite out of place in so lonely and wild a spot.
Beside the donkey trudged a young woman, fair of face and no resentment showing at having to walk the rough road while her partner rode.
Neither spoke, neither needed to for both fully understood and agreed the reason which had made them leave their comfortable home and prosperous town many weeks ago.
That very morning they’d spent an hour kneeling on the cold flagstones of the grand cathedral some three miles back where each had dared to whisper their dearest wish in prayer.
The great building had grown from the tiny white shack built on the southernmost tip of wild Galloway by the Blessed Ninian himself. Now it had become the Candida Casa, a centre of learning and training for those who followed the Christ and revered the simple monk whose name would survive the centuries ahead.
None of this concerned the travellers.Their interest was in Ninian the cult figure, whose reputation spoke of healing the afflicted if only they would undertake a ritual which was known to invoke his power.
The first part had been completed in the great cathedral. Now they were moving on to the quiet place, away from the pomp and ceremony where it was said the great spirit still waited to assist the needy.
When they turned into a long birch wood flanked by deep, ferny banks their pace seemed to quicken and minutes later they were over a tiny humpbacked bridge, glimpsing the sea and knowing their long journey was almost over.
With a nod between them they left the wood to follow the path as it wound through small hillocks until suddenly they were out on open shingle staring at a wide, curved inlet protected by rocks as steep as any castle battlements.
Here the man was forced to slide from the donkey’s back and allow the beast to pick its way forward as best it could. Now it was obvious why the man rode and the woman walked for the great, long figure swayed with such uncertainty that the woman’s arm was needed to keep him upright.
They made a pathetic sight stumbling and slipping across the wide space.
Whenever the man flopped down the woman stood anxiously watching and waiting. And each time he tried to rise she helped him, and coaxed him ever closer to the shingle edge.
Here she eased him out of his thick robe and there he was clad only in a long woollen vest.The dark weals which covered both arms and legs were exposed and now it was easy to see why this strange pair had made such an effort to be here.
Today the weather was kind.The sea all but still.And the woman urged her companion into the gentle waves, leading him ever deeper until it seemed they might simply float away. But there they remained with water lapping round their heads.
Finally they turned towards the land again and very slowly made their way back to the shingle.
The effort or the chill or maybe the whole experience had the man tottering to the nearest flat rock where he sank down and could move no further. Immediately the woman hurried to retrieve his robe and an extra blanket from the donkey’s pannier.
Wrapping him up she held him like a baby, cradling his head and seemingly unaware or unmindful of her own sodden dress.
It was a long time before the man could sit up let alone support himself. Once he did the woman patted his arm in reassurance then bowing her head she took something from the small, velvet pouch at her waist and quickly slid it under the nearest stone.
After this they turned away with the woman almost carrying her frail companion as they followed their donkey back towards the path.
Now they smiled to each other and seemed content as the man remounted the donkey and rode as before with the woman walking alongside. And neither seemed troubled by the prospect of such long journey that surely lay ahead.
From the cliff above a pair of sharp eyes watched their progress and once they were safely out of sight a short, stocky man scrambled down to the shingle. He ran across the rough stones with no trouble at all and stopped on the same spot the woman had stood only minutes before.
“Here’s to another miracle,” he whispered and reached below one stone in particular,
Out came five golden coins, one for each year of the stranger’s suffering.
“Aye,” he smiled, “a miracle indeed,” and pocketing the precious coins he climbed back up to his vantage point to await the next visitor.
Ethyl Smith is an artist. She writes short stories and novels.
