by Joyce Good Henderson

Created on: June 10, 2009

One man's journey

She was nothing but trouble.

He should have realized that when he stumbled upon the naked, mud-caked body of a Celtic warrior-princess.

By Jupiter! he swore, she was not only trouble, but now, she had pushed him to cursing. God would forgive a Roman curse, but would he forgive the other thoughts in Marcus' mind?

He should have left her there in the ravine. What was he thinking? At the time, Marcus never stopped to consider that he might someday regret saving her life. She was his proof that he finally had a purpose for being there. Now, he could show everyone there was a reason he had come to Ere. He would finally save one Celt.

That morning, like every other day, Marcus could not decide whether it was the cold or the damp he disliked most. An ever-present mist crept into his clothing and hair and even through his skin to his bones.

He fastened his mind on his mission. Thus far, it had been easy to tack resolve to the edges of his thoughts for moments like this when all of his determination and commitment oozed out between his toes like the black goo that passed for soil.

But, today, discouragement clung to his mind like the mud on his feet. The doubts, the fears, the disappointments began to creep in along with the relentless chill that sucked any body heat harbored in the folds of his fur-lined mantle. Could he really have been so wrong about his calling?

Find one Celt and convert him. Then, Patrick will welcome me even though I cannot pay the price to become a monk.

So, Marcus slopped through the mire, trying to find one Celt who would listen to him. Night would soon be upon him, and he pulled his cloak more tightly around himself. His stomach responded with a growl as he brushed against the lump in the pouch tied to his belt.

One stale, hard oat cake. One fist-sized chunk of tasteless, solid, horse feed separated him from starvation and death.

At that moment, he thought he might rather choose starvation.

Tucking his chin against his chest, Marcus plodded on. He had not traveled far when he stumbled on something. Of course, the ground was not level, where in ire would there not be a hill? He slid straight down, head first into a ravine where a refreshing, little ice-cold stream should have been.

Plopped instead into a sea of mud, and covered with it himself, he looked about for any feature of the landscape he might use to pull himself from the mire and climb back up the slope. He suddenly

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