One stormy late summer evening, the community on Iona was hunkering down for a long night. Already strong winds were getting fiercer with driving rain and even hailstones. On the east side, the crossing from Mull was ugly and sullen – no boat would chance that short passage until the storm had blown over. On the west side, with nothing between the island and a far distant Atlantic coast, breakers were pounding the beach, while further out boulders were scooped from the seabed to be hurled ashore. Above the beach, cloudy shadows chased each other over the machair.
Martin, the youngest novice, was doing kitchen chores. A slight dark lad of eleven years, he was a favourite of Columba, who spent his time generously with the young. Martin was tidying up before going to bed, and bent down to smoor the crumbling peats in the kitchen fire, so they could be stirred back into life at dawn.
As he worked, Martin became aware of a shadow looming over him in the lamplight. Looking up he found Columba’s light blue eyes fixed on him intently.
‘Martin.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘We are expecting a visitor tonight and I want you to go and meet them.’
The boy was now standing beside the tall lean figure of Columba, and of necessity still looking upwards.
‘How can a visitor cross over tonight?’ asked the puzzled Martin.
‘They will land below the west machair,’ replied Columba, ‘driven by the storm. I am not sure exactly when, but you had better go now to be sure.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Columba had gone.
Martin pulled a cowl over his rough woven cassock and set out from the monastery enclosure. Immediately he had to bend his head into a full frontal wind laden with driving rain. But he pushed stubbornly on, and in gathering darkness reached the machair. This open meadowland ended in a sandy bank above the beach. Swaying before the wind the boy looked out over the sea.
In his first year on Iona, Martin had seen a few storms but this was different. The waves were like mountains which seemed to crash onto the beach, closer and closer to the machair bank. Scanning the horizons from beneath a sheltering hand he could see no sign of vessel or sail. How could any boat survive such conditions?
He stood, colder and wetter by the moment, until he could bear it no longer, and turned to leave. But as he turned his eye caught a smudge on the horizon. Looking back he fixed his eye on that point. Yes, there was something just above the sea. He watched closely as the smudge grew, and then began to take shape. It was a bird, a big bird, flying low toward shore.
Martin jumped down onto the beach to get a clearer view. Yes a crane, with a large wing span, but even with a following wind the creature was tiring, sinking with a weight of salt sea spray. Would it make landfall? Martin was now at the water’s edge, dodging the breaking waves. The crane came nearer and lower, and crashed into the nearer waves. But in the backwash Martin plunged into the shallower water and dragged the sodden creature ashore.
The huge bird lay shocked and trembling. Without thinking, Martin gathered its wings, and wrapping the crane in his cowl, with great effort he lifted it in his arms, hugging the shivering creature to his own body. Then he staggered up the bank and began the long walk home.
This time, despite the bird’s inert soaked mass, Martin had the wind behind him. Muttering a prayer, he cleared his mind and numbly fought onwards with the determination of two grown men. Soon he was surprised to find himself at the monastery.
He went straight back to the kitchen, and laid the crane beside the fire, which he woke again into flickering life. Next he got some dry straw and rubbed the bird down, before wrapping it in straw and sacking. Lastly he put some milk on the fire to warm. And Martin sat, keeping vigil by the bird through a long turbulent night.
At some point as the youngster half-dozed half-dreamed, constantly checking the bird for warmth and a heartbeat, he became aware of a shadow looming over him. Looking up he found the light blue eyes of Columba fixed on him intently.
‘Martin, my dear son, I see you have found our visitor.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Take good care of your crane, for he was nested like me in Erin.’
And with that Columba was gone. Had Martin imagined his presence?
For two days the storm raged on, cutting Iona off from the world. But the crane gained in strength hour by hour. It took the warm milk and then some oats mashed in the milk. Martin remained at his post in the kitchen, day and night.
On the third day, morning came with blue skies and slow white clouds sailing out to sea. Martin gathered up the bird and began to retrace his steps from the monastery enclosure to the beach. As he crossed the machair he could feel the crane, no dead weight now, tensing and stretching. Nearing the bank Martin picked up pace, and then ran. As he cleared the bank in one leap he opened his arms and the bird’s wings opened to fly free.
The steady beat of its wide wings, carried the crane out to sea, gaining height and distance, until the bird was no more than a smudge, then a speck on the horizon. Martin stood for a long time gazing into the distance and then turned back over the machair.
Bless to me,
The waves beneath my oars
The stars by which I steer,
The earth beneath my feet,
The path on which I tread.
Bless to me,
That on which my mind is set,
That on which my love is set,
That on which my hope is set,
The way in which I go.
Note: machair is a Scottish Gaelic word describing a flat, grassy meadow by the sea
The story is adapted and translated by Donald Smith from Adomnan’s ‘Life of Columba’ which is Scotland’s oldest work of written literature, originally in Latin
© 2026 Donald Smith