The Horizons of Doubt

The Horizons of Doubt was inspired by the story of St Catald, a 7th century Irish monk from Lismore who, returning from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, was shipwrecked on the Italian coast near Taranto. Despite his desire for solitude and a life of contemplation, Catald rose to become an archbishop. When his coffin was opened it contained a Celtic cross and a stick carved from Irish oak – perhaps suggesting some ambiguity that despite the many compensations of his new home, there was some lingering sense of loss at never returning to Ireland.

The work is a narrative with many divisions in the voices as well solo opportunities. Full use should be made of the dramatic nature of Catald’s story.

The Horizons of Doubt

I come from a pagan place where the sign of the cross falls
like softest of rain on a secret people, their eyes lit
with hunger. How they mourn the loss of their snake tongue.

I speak of sacrifice, but the trees are heavy
with fire leaf as the wind whips through the rock.
Where is God on such a night?

The white horse gallops across the waves,
his head is towards heaven, but his hooves
are devil froth. Only the drowning can hear
him coming, only the drowning are truly alone.

In the glen of Aherlow, dark men pray for the light of Bethlehem,
but I want to sail, set out alone across the shoreless seas,
Sail the horizons of my doubt.

I am no fisherman as the waves rise up
in their fury. The thunder curses us
gypsy pilgrims for our foolish faith in going home.

Throw me into a wild sea, I want to sink to the very bottom
where the fish have no eyes but can still smell loneliness.
I want to lie in my coral bed, undisturbed, unknown.

The white horse gallops across the waves,
his head is towards heaven, but his hooves
are devil froth. Only the drowning can hear
him coming, only the drowning are truly alone.

I am free from the weight of all anchors, but the fishermen
drag me, spluttering, gasping, on to a ragged shore.
Light pours through stigmata clouds in a baptism of fire.

I don’t speak the name of my country,
I don’t speak the name for centuries,
I don’t speak the name for a thousand years,

But I refuse to turn to dust and they dig me up clutching my Celtic cross
As if I have never stopped fighting the plagues of my youth.
(How I mourn the loss of my snake tongue.)

They know me in lands where the cathedrals are carved
from sunlight. The soft taste of oranges, a language that sews
the seeds of summer (like softest of rain on a secret people).
Why would I ever leave?

_{Text © Aoife Mannix}