As any parent or older sibling knows, no matter how intelligent a child is, there are always times when they're young, or even when they're older, that make you seriously contemplate the possibility that they may have brain damage.
I'm absolutely certain, considering some of the things Brenden does, that that boy is no exception. I mean, he's smart and mature, sure. But so are my siblings, one of them aged the same as Brenden, and they both make me question their sanity and brain function on a daily basis. Yea verily, there are times when I stare in shock at them and think Are you brain damaged?
And so, in honor of children everywhere, I give you this Moment.
Moment Two: Love
Cellach had wanted to protect many things in his life: the Abbey, his sister, his mother, and his home. He'd lost the last three in a blaze of flame and the hollow swish of axes and broadswords. Years later, he'd loose the Abbey in much the same way.
But when he'd made his weary way back to the Abbey of Kells after going to the charred remains of his village, he carried with him a baby.
His sister's son, the baby was a miracle. Everyone said so. He'd survived Northmen and flame, smoke and snow, days without food or water… Yes, God had looked down kindly on the boy named Brenden.
Cellach had loved many things in his life, and all those things had been, or would be, taken from him. Except, though he didn't know it, that baby.
And the baby… oh, the baby usurped all.
He was grafted into the Abbey, and grew quickly. He looked like his mother, and his grandmother, with their eyes and their hair, and their pleasant, kind features. He was quick and curious, too much for his own good really. Cellach felt like a housewife, worrying over that child every second of the day.
Sometimes he was very certain that Brenden had brain damage. That maybe he hadn't gotten out of that chaos quite as unharmed as he'd originally thought.
Why else would he run down the stone steps of the abbey a mere moment after Cellach had specifically ordered him Don't run down the stairs, Brenden. And, of course, he fell and cracked his head open. And the little idiot had cried, but later he laughed. As if cracking one's head open on the steps of an abbey and getting blood all over everything was a fun and exciting experience.
"Did you see, Uncle? Did you see?" He asked excitedly as Brother Tang held back laughter and sewed the gash on his scalp shut. Cellach held his head in his hands and tried to make his heart settle into a regular rhythm. It had skipped several beats when the boy tumbled down, and the blood, oh the blood…
"Yes, Brenden…" He assured the boy tiredly. "I saw."
And why else would he consistently bother the goats when every brother in the abbey, even the abbot himself, had warned him not to? And, of course, one of the goats head butted him across the lawn, leaving him winded on the ground with three bruised ribs. Even that was, later, cause for excited retellings and painful bouts of giggling.
"I guess it doesn't like me, Uncle." Brenden giggled, wincing as his ribs ached painfully.
"Maybe if you didn't throw sticks at it?" Cellach proposed, glancing up from his drawing. "Or if you didn't try to ride it?" Brenden grinned sheepishly, and his uncle rolled his eyes.
He was only five at the time, but still… Cellach didn't remember being that stupid as a child.
Yes, Cellach thought sullenly, glancing at the child as he squirmed during Mass. He has brain damage. It's the only explanation.
As he grew older, the Northmen that had taken the family he and his uncle shared grew closer. They made their way down the coast, sacking every village they passed, leaving only those lucky enough to run fast enough in their wake.
When Brenden turned seven, Cellach was named the new Abbot. The first thing he decided to do was begin the construction of The Wall.
The child watched as Cellach covered his walls with equations and blue prints. He helped his uncle draw out what the abbey would look like one day, maybe when he was twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen.
Cellach made the wall to protect the Abbey. But, in the back of his mind, the driving force was Brenden. Protecting him the way Cellach couldn't protect Brenden's mother, or Brenden's grandmother.
The walls grew higher, and Brenden grew older. He was accepted as a brother of the abbey, and helped the illuminators of the Scriptorium gather quills. He would scuttle up the scaffolds, which grew taller and taller as he did, and run errands for his uncle. Shockingly, the amount of times he fell from the scaffoldings numbered in only the single digits. Cellach, having watched him do a number of ridiculous things that a boy of his apparent intelligence should have known not to do, expected to be carrying the boy to the infirmary every few days.
As Brenden grew older, the fact that he had brain damage entered less and less into Cellach's mind. At least, it didn't enter the forefront as much. But it was still there, in the back of his head.
The walls grew higher and Brenden grew taller, until Cellach realized with a start that it had been twelve years since he'd found the boy under that bed. Twelve years of wincing whenever some loud noise echoed across the abbey. Twelve years of fretting and sitting over the boy's bedside when he was ill and pinching the bridge of his nose when Brenden did something that screamed brain damage.
Sometimes Cellach felt like a hairsbreadth from strangling him, or shaking him by his shoulders. But that wasn't exactly fair.
After all, Cellach thought dryly, but with affection, as he watched Brenden crash through layers of scaffolding chasing after a goose. The boy has brain damage.