Often, after their meal, Emlyn was prevailed upon to tell a story. He possessed a fine, expressive voice and a seemingly inexhaustible trove of tales from which he drew extraordinary stories-some of them lasting two or three nights altogether. They were, he said, just old stories of his people-some of which he had undertaken to put down in writing in the Abbey's scriptorium-and old they undoubtedly were. Yet, they produced a curious effect in Murdo, who felt drawn to them, and fascinated by them in a way he would have been embarrassed to admit to anyone aloud.

The Briton told them well, adapting his supple voice easily to the various tones of the tales-now hushed with fear or sorrow, now shaking with anger, or ringing with triumph. Emlyn also sang, and that was even more peculiar, for he sang the most beautiful songs in an impossibly obscure tongue; and though Murdo could not understand a single word, he found himself moved to his very soul by the power of expression alone.

If, when the song was finished, Murdo asked what it was about, Emlyn would say something like, 'Ah, that is Rhiannon's Birds…' or, 'That was Branwen's lament for the loss of her poor child…' or, again, 'That was Llew Silver Hand's triumph over the Cythrawl…' and Murdo would agree that yes, he had heard the birds, and plumbed the depth of Branwen's grief, and had indeed taken flight on the wings of Llew's exultation.

As the months passed, the intermittent songs and tales began to produce in Murdo a curious and potent longing-a yearning after something he did not know. It was as if he had been allowed the taste of an unimaginably pleasurable elixir, only to have it snatched away again while the cup was at his lips.

Occasionally, he caught the familiar echo of something his mother might have said, and then it was as if he had heard a call from the Otherworld-a voice reaching out to him from across the abyss of years, a distant shout, faint as a whisper and intimate as a kiss-and the shock of recognition made the hair stand up on the nape of his neck, and his heart beat faster.

One night, he listened to Emlyn sing a tale called Rhonabwy's Dreamy and for days afterwards he felt empty, yet oddly stirred. He felt restless within himself, and fidgeted so much that Jon Wing, noticing his agitation, told him he was merely growing impatient with the close confines of the ship. 'It will pass,' Jon assured him. 'It is best not to think about it.' But Murdo knew his disquiet had less to do with confinement than with the queer world Emlyn's stories described.

If anyone else was likewise affected, Murdo never learned. He kept his yearning to himself, hiding it deep within, clutching it tightly as a rare gem lest anyone try to steal it. He went about his chores as one bearing an illness that produced both pain and rapture in equal measure, gladly suffering the torment for the sweetness of the affliction.

On and on they sailed, further and further from the lands he knew, and with each sea league, the place described by Emlyn's songs became more real to Murdo, slowly usurping the features of his native homeland in his memory. Whether by day or night, Murdo looked out at the all-encircling sea and dreamed of that enchanted realm, the Region of the Summer Stars, of which the round-faced Briton sang. Slowly, Murdo began to feel that he belonged there.

One night, despite the clamour of the Norsemen for a song, Emlyn professed himself to be out of voice. 'Singen! Singen!' they insisted. 'We are wanting to hear the Battle of the Trees?

'Ah, now that is a fine tale-a splendid tale indeed. Tomorrow maybe I will sing it,' he told them, and said he must rest himself for a tale so exuberant and profound.

They let it go at that and, as the sailors returned to their ale cups, Murdo crept close to Emlyn, who was sitting with his feet propped on the rail, staring out into the west as the last glimmer of a violet sunset faded into twilight. He settled himself beside the monk, but said nothing. After a time, Emlyn sighed.

'Is it the hiraeth?' Murdo asked. 'The home-yearning?'

'Oh, you know it is,' he replied. 'And it has taken the heart out of me this time.'

Murdo nodded sympathetically. He had begun to feel something of the same thing himself. They sat in silence, listening to the smooth-rippling waves against the hull, and staring into the gathering gloom as night deepened around them. After a time, Murdo said, 'The clear light – what is it?'

The monk turned his round face towards Murdo. 'However did you come to hear of that?'

'You told me,' Murdo replied. 'You said you were the keeper of the clear light, remember?'

'Sanctus Clams-the Holy Light,' the monk corrected. 'We are the Keepers of the Holy Light, and Guardians of the True Path.'

'Yes, that was it,' Murdo agreed. 'But what does it mean?'

'Ah, well now,' answered Emlyn, 'it is not a thing we tell just anyone.' He paused, and Murdo feared he would say no more, then added, 'Still, I see no harm in telling you a little.' He settled back, folding his hands across his paunch. 'Where to begin, that is the problem.'

He thought for a moment, and then said, 'Before the sainted Padraic established his hut among the wild tribes of Eire, before blessed Colm Cille took the rock of Hy for his abbey, the learned brotherhood of Britain and Gaul have held to the Holy Light: the inspired teaching of Jesu the Christ. This teaching was kept by the apostles themselves, and passed down and down through the years from one generation of priestly believers to the next.'

'The teaching of the church?' wondered Murdo, his heart sinking. He had hoped for a better explanation than this.

'No,' Emlyn allowed. 'At least, not as any would know it in this benighted day and age.'

'Then, what -'

'Just listen, boy. Listen, now, and learn.'

Composing himself once more, the monk began. 'Padraic was not the first to learn of the True Path, no-nor was he the last. Far from it. But he was a tireless servant of the Holy Light, and he -'

'Is the Holy Light the same as the True Path, then?' wondered Murdo.

'No, the Holy Light is the knowledge-the knowledge derived from the teaching. The True Path is the practise, see-the use of that knowledge day by day. The first -'

'Why did you say it was a secret?'

'What, and we are to have endless interruptions now?' Emlyn huffed. 'I did not say it was a secret. I said it was a thing we do not tell those who are not ready to hear it.'

'I was just-'

'If you will but hold your tongue between one breath and the next, we will reach an explanation.' He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Murdo waited, itchy with expectation. After a moment, the monk said, 'This is the way of it: Padraic was not the first, and he was not alone. There were others before and after, as I say-men like the Champion Colm Cille, and the venerable Adamnan-men of courage and long obedience who kept the flame burning bright through many long and bitter years.

'But the Darkness is greedy. It is insatiable. Ever and always, it seeks to devour more and more, and the more it devours, the greater it grows, and the greater it grows, the more powerful it becomes, and the hungrier. There is but one thing strong enough to stand against this all-consuming darkness: the Holy Light. Indeed, it is the most mighty thing on earth, and therefore we guard it with our lives.'

Murdo could not let this assertion go unchallenged. 'If it is as powerful as you say, why does it have to be guarded at all?'

Emlyn clucked his tongue in disapproval. 'Teh! To even ask such a question shows how little you understand of the higher things. Still, I am not surprised. How could you know? For you have spent the whole of your young life in error and confusion. You, like all the rest, have been led astray, like those poor sheep wandering lost in the night.'