Iona Portal by Robert David MacNeil Read Free Book Online Page B

Michael and Patrick grabbed a quick lunch at the inn across from the ferry terminal, then found the waiting area for the tourist coach that would carry them westward to the town of Fionnphort.
    By the time the bus for Fionnphort arrived, big drops of rain were spattering the ground around them.  They were soon inundated by a cold, steady downpour.  Boarding the bus, Patrick and Michael took a seat together with Patrick by the window.  The bus was packed, with nearly every seat occupied.
    Almost immediately, the driver began a cheerful monologue that seemed somehow out of place on a day that had suddenly turned so gloomy.  “Good afternoon,” he said in his delightful Scottish brogue.  “Welcome to Bowman’s coach service.  We’ll be motoring today through Glenmore, along the shores of Loch Scridain, to finally arrive at Fionnphort on the western tip of the island.” 
    The driver continued with a rapid patter describing the scenic details of Mull, apparently using a memorized script.  “On the right, weather permitting, you might catch a glimpse of Ben More , which in Gaelic means ‘Tall Hill.’  At 3169 feet high it’s the tallest mountain on the island, but it was once much taller.  Ben More was the last active volcano in northern Europe.  Geologists tell us Ben was 10,000 feet tall before it blew.”
    As the driver droned on, Patrick leaned back in his seat and tried to relax.  The driver’s voice was soon lost in the sounds of wind-driven rain.  The bus traveled a winding, one-lane road across the island, stopping at times to let sheep cross, and pulling over frequently to allow cars traveling the opposite direction to pass.   When most of his passengers appeared to be dozing, the driver abandoned his efforts as tour guide, leaving them to travel the rest of the route in relative peace. 
    Patrick gazed out at a lonely landscape of desolate moorland and steep, heather-clad hills.  Ancient brooding castles flashed past the coach window.  Deep lochs, impassible bogs, and deserted glens appeared and were quickly lost in the driving rain.  Patrick had never imagined a place so desolate, yet so beautiful. 
    It was raining harder now.  Dozens of waterfalls cascaded down every hill, turning small streams into rushing torrents.  
    Watching the fog-shrouded hillsides gliding past the window, Patrick felt he was being transported to a different world.  Time itself seemed to have ceased.  The whole island was brooding with a gloomy, other-worldly charm.
    He leaned his seat further back and listened to the rain thundering on the roof of the bus.  Perhaps it was the surreal setting, but Patrick suddenly had a great fascination to learn more about Michael.
    Noticing that Michael was still awake, Patrick began, “Michael, how did you decide to become an angelologist?”
    “Well…” Michael responded, smiling slightly, “you might say I was chosen.
    “It began with an experience I had as a child.  I still remember every detail.  I was nine years old and was in bed on a rainy night about to go to sleep.  As I lay there, listening to the rain outside my room, I heard a strange noise and opened my eyes.  Standing at the foot of my bed was a figure, glowing in bright light.  His hair was as white as snow, but he didn’t look like an old man.  He was dressed in a white robe, too bright to make out any details. 
    “At first I was terrified.  I tried to lie still, but my whole body was shaking.  Then a sense of incredible peace settled over me.  I felt completely secure.  My mind couldn’t process what was happening, but I knew I wasn’t in danger.  
    “Finally, the man saw I was watching him.  In a smooth motion he unfurled huge white wings that hadn’t been visible a moment before.  He extended his wings horizontally, rose quickly from the floor, and disappeared up through the ceiling of my room.
    “I closed my eyes, rolled over and tried not to breathe.  Finally I fell