Treasure of the Celtic Triangle

by Michael Phillips

  With a finger between the pages, Steven took the book and candle to one of the library’s reading chairs and sat down. He turned to the beginning of the chapter and read it in its entirety in order to gain more of the context of the passage that had drawn his attention. Before he retired for the night two hours later, the book lay on the table in his own room. He had completed its first fifty pages before sleep overtook him.

  The single word compel remained with him in sleep. By the time he awoke the following morning, his way had begun to become clear. If love required compulsion to do what was best for the beloved and set things right, then he would not shy away from it.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Lugnaquilla

  Percy was at the base of the mountain called Lugnaquilla shortly after daybreak on the following Sunday morning. He had been given directions and a map by Father Abban, along with precautions of the mountain treacheries if a thick morning fog or afternoon mist off the sea obscured his way.

  The priest invited Percy to remain with him in Arklow as his guest for as long as his business made it necessary. He had been with him for three days, during which time the two young men had had many lively and informative discussions on matters of faith—discovering more points of commonality and brotherhood than either would have anticipated. In the meantime, Father Halliday returned to Laragh.

  According to Father Abban, any of a half dozen sheep tracks and walking paths led to the summit of Lugnaquilla. Bogs and boulders and cliffs and ravines, however, were everywhere, and one must be attentive and vigilant. Having not the remotest idea from which direction the mystery girl he had heard about from Vanora Maloney came up the mountain on her weekly trek or when, Percy resolved to be at the top as early in the day as possible. He would remain until sunset if need be so as not to miss her.

  He dressed warm and, at Father Abban’s insistence, had packed food and water. Father Abban took him to the base of the mountain by buggy shortly after sunrise then returned to town for his weekly priestly duties presiding over Sunday’s scheduled masses. As he began the assent, in his right hand Percy clutched one of his new friend’s stout walking staffs.

  The way gradually steepened as he went. He made his way across boggy fields and meadows, through light woodlands bordered by a few thickly forested glades and hillsides, up and down dells and valleys, jumping a dozen small brooks and watercourses, and sloshing through several chilly, frothing streams whose waters plunged down to meet the Avonbeg River where it flowed around the base of the mountain toward the sea.

  Next to one of these, his step was arrested by an unexpected sight. It reminded him that death was slowly relinquishing the earth from its temporary prison, and that the Son of liberating spring was on its way to set the captives free. So near his foot that his step nearly crushed it, in the shadow of a large stone, the tiny yellow face of a new spring primrose peeped up at him from amid its rough cabbage-like leaves.

  The sight of the simple blossom stung him with nostalgic reminders of many things—both conscious and subconscious … of Hugh Sutherland and Margaret Elginbrod and the fir wood of their story, of Florilyn and Snowdonia’s green hills, of sunrises and sunsets and high overlooks above the sea, of angels and mysteries and floral bouquets. He paused, set down his staff, and stooped to pluck it. He stood again, drew in a deep breath of satisfaction, and slowly continued on his way.

  It was not an especially steep or arduous climb. As he had been forewarned, however, he found his way long and circuitous and filled with many tracks and paths that appeared promising but that led nowhere or ended abruptly at the edge of some ravine or cliff. Thankfully, though the ground was wet, the day was relatively clear. No thick fog topped the mountain, though clusters of mist clung here and there to some of its low-lying valleys. Thus, it was after many retracings of his steps, as the spring sun rose high in the sky and began to send down what warmth it possessed in this first week of March, perspiring freely in spite of the chilly morning air, that Percy at last approached Lugnaquilla’s expansive flat summit that had been given his own name, “Percy’s Table.”

  What he had expected, Percy himself could not have said. Reaching the top of the three-thousand-foot hill and finding it desolate and empty, without hint that another human being was within miles, filled him with a vague sense of disappointment.

  He stopped and gazed about. Slowly he turned in every direction until he had peered into the distance toward all the 360 degrees of the compass. A few clouds of mists obscured visibility here and there. But the sea, east toward Wicklow fifteen miles distant, was easily visible stretching out to his right and left.

  He strolled aimlessly about for a few minutes then found a dry bit of grass and sat down. He began his wait with an apple, a hunk of cheese, a piece of bread, and water from the canvas bag of provisions provided him by Father Abban. For the first time he now regretted that he had not thought to bring a book from the well-stocked library at the rectory.

  He had arisen for his day’s quest while it was yet dark. The walk had been easy enough, but the cumulative effect had fatigued him. After his brief breakfast, with the sun beating down and warming earth and humanity as one, it was not long before sleepiness began to overtake him.

  Percy stretched out on the grass and began to doze.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Percy’s Table

  The walker whose weekly habit for two years had been to make this solitary trek did not often encounter fellow sojourners at this time of year. Heart and mind were free to wander where they would without distraction or interruption.

  Her thoughts on this day, as always, were of the one she came here to remember with the tiny bouquets that would be meaningless to any other. Her mind was filled, too, with the great change that was soon to come upon her. She would not long be able to continue this weekly habit. She had set out this morning knowing that today’s journey would likely be her last. She would be married in two weeks. As another man’s wife, she could not continue paying tribute to one from her past whom she would never see again.

  The one to whom she had been pledged was a good man, and she must be a good wife to him. Love found easy reception in her heart toward all of God’s creation. She could love, and therefore she would love. Her father had chosen him for her, in spite of the difference in their ages, because he knew he would be a caring husband for his daughter. She honored her father. And thus she would learn to love.

  But on this day, one last time, her love would look back, not forward … and she would remember.

  There came a breath of something in the west.

  Percy stirred from where he lay, half rose, and looked about.

  What had awakened him? No hint of wind caressed his face, unusual on such a peak as this. But some rustling, some far-off sound, some presence had intruded into his brain.

  He sat … listening intently. It seemed that all the world was waiting in stillness for something at hand.

  It came again.

  Percy froze. A chill swept through his body.

  A faint, far-off tune came floating up the mountain from somewhere. Someone was singing, but in no voice of this world. The sound was of some melancholy lament … haunting, mysterious, as from some ancient Celtic love ballad whose ethereal melody remained forever unresolved.

  Slowly he rose to his feet, searching to detect from which direction it came.

  As she softly sang, the walker stooped to grasp a handful of spring grasses and added them to the earthy bouquet clutched in her other hand. If this was indeed the last bouquet she would leave in memory of the one who lived in her heart, she was sorry it contained no flowers. But spring was still early, and she had seen none today.

  She rose again to continue to the summit. As she did, she saw a figure ahead. The sight startled her.

  A man stood in the distance staring at her.

  Abruptly her singing stopped. It must be a vision, born in her imagination. She gazed at the figure in disbelief then slowly walked toward it.r />
  A gasp escaped Percy’s lips.

  The rays of the sun, falling on the girl’s head from behind, gave it a radiant golden hue. But as she came nearer, he saw that the wild crop of luxuriant hair was of purest white.

  He stood transfixed. He could not move. He could only stare in wonder.

  Closer she moved, gliding noiseless over the ground. Every line of her countenance came into focus, and he knew he was gazing at no mirage.

  The eyes … deep blue-green … eyes that spoke of the sea! Changeable … depthless … radiant … liquid … alive with the light of life.

  The face … the same, yet new … older, wiser, if possible more beautiful, full of mystery … and at peace.

  The angel of his dreams had materialized as from out of Lugnaquilla’s mists. Was she indeed, as he once said, an angel from on high? Had she always been an angel?

  As he beheld her features, seeing them for the first time in more than three and a half years and now contained in a woman’s face, suddenly all the eyes from the portraits on the landing at Westbrooke Manor leaped out at him. The truth had been in plain view all along. How could they not have seen it!

  She slowed then stood before him.

  “Gwyneth!” he breathed in a reverent whisper. “Is it … can it be … is it really you I have been searching for?”

  For answer, she merely took another step forward, the smile on her face saying that somehow she did not find it incredible that the weekly vision she cherished in her heart had become real.

  Percy opened his arms and swallowed her into his embrace. “I cannot believe that you are here,” he whispered.

  “I am always here, Percy,” Gwyneth said. “In my heart, I am always with you.”

  They stood long minutes in silence. Or perhaps it was an hour. On the top of Percy’s Table, for these two, time would nevermore have meaning. They were swallowed up in eternity.

  “Until you spoke, I did not know if you were real,” said Gwyneth at length. “I always see you when I come here. But the real you is older than the you of my imagination.”

  The spell was undone. She was the same Gwyneth of old!

  Percy stepped back and broke into the laughter of pure joy. The sound of his happiness ringing out over the hilltop was as enchanting to Gwyneth as her mysterious voice of song was to him. She broke out in a giggle of delighted girlish pleasure.

  “Here, Percy,” she said, handing him the bouquet of weeds and grasses. “I picked these for you.”

  “Surely you meant them for someone else?” said Percy with a humorous smile.

  “I come here every week and leave you a bouquet, Percy.”

  “Surely you don’t give flowers to every stranger you meet.”

  “Only those who are going to become my friends,” rejoined Gwyneth with a smile of her own.

  “You knew that about me?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw on your face the look of a friend.”

  Again Percy laughed with delight to be reminded of their first meeting on the hills of Snowdonia. He turned and stooped to find the faded primrose where it had slipped from between his fingers when he had fallen asleep. “And I have something for you,” he said, handing it to her.

  “A new spring primrose! Oh, thank you, Percy!”

  “Gwyneth, Gwyneth … I cannot believe it! But it really is you, isn’t it?”

  “I think so, Percy. I think I am me. Have you been in Wales?”

  “Several times since you left. I visited your cottage. No one is living in it now. You will never guess who I saw—Bunny White Tail!”

  Gwyneth smiled. “It was hard to leave the animals. I still do not understand why we had to leave. But my father said there was no other way. I know there was something he did not tell me. But I trust him to know best.”

  She glanced away. An expression crossed her face that Percy had never seen before. Then she looked earnestly back into his face. “Are you and Florilyn …” she began then hesitated.

  “No, we are not married, if that’s what you were about to ask,” said Percy. “But I hear you are to be.”

  Gwyneth smiled and nodded. She had tried to hide it, but Percy saw that her heart was filled with complex emotions at the prospect. “My father thinks it best,” she said. “He wants me well taken care of when he is gone. Oh, my father!” Gwyneth exclaimed as if suddenly remembering. “He will be so happy to see you!”

  “Yes, and there are things I must talk over with him as well,” nodded Percy. “Where do you live?”

  “Just down the slope, in one of the dells along the side of the mountain. My father raises sheep now. We have a fine house, and he has a large flock. I think he is happier now than when he worked in the slates. Come, Percy,” she said excitedly, taking his hand and beginning to run off down the mountain, “I will take you to him!”

  “Wait, let me get my things!” laughed Percy. He quickly returned a few steps for the knapsack and staff then hurried after her.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Factor and Son

  As Gwyneth skipped merrily down the slope with Percy chasing after her, back at Westbrooke Manor, Steven Muir had sent through one of the housemaids in his mother’s charge the request to Courtenay in his apartment, where he knew him to be at present, that he would be grateful to see him in his office at his earliest convenience.

  Steven knew it would rankle Courtenay thus to be summoned as if he were the servant and Steven his master. In all likelihood it would ensure that the ensuing interview began in a combative tone. But he had done so intentionally. It was necessary to establish his authority, even if but briefly, to demand from Courtenay what the viscount’s son would never condescend to give him by simple request—a straight and honest answer to a direct question. In other words, the truth.

  Courtenay walked through the open door of the factor’s office without benefit of knocking or announcing himself. He was breathing fire. “What is the meaning of this, Muir!” he demanded, striding angrily across the floor where he stood glaring down at Steven behind his desk. “Let us get one thing clear—you do not summon me! If you have business with me, then you come find me. I am not your lackey. I had been considering keeping you on after I am viscount. But if there are more incidents of this kind, I will turn you out on your ear without notice, and your mother with you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Steven sat calmly staring into Courtenay’s eyes until he had finished his rant. Slowly he rose, walked from behind the desk and across the floor, closed the door of the office, then returned where he stopped and faced Courtenay. “Please sit down, Courtenay,” he said in a soft voice, gesturing toward one of two chairs.

  “Did I not make myself understood?” rejoined Courtenay. “I will not have you telling me what to do!”

  “Courtenay, please,” repeated Steven. “Just sit down. I would like to speak with you about a serious matter.”

  “I have no intention of speaking to you about anything, Muir!” Courtenay shot back. “Now get out of my way before I dismiss you on the spot.”

  He took two steps toward the door. But he did not take a third. With a swiftness and strength of which he scarcely guessed the other capable, he found his shoulders clasped helplessly between Steven’s two huge hands. As if he were a rag doll, he was unceremoniously thrown back and shoved down into the chair he had a moment earlier been invited to take under his own power.

  Courtenay’s face glowed crimson. “How dare you lay a hand on me, Muir!” he cried, his eyes flashing fire as he leaped to his feet. “You will pay for that!”

  Even as a clenched fist shot toward Steven’s face, his arm was arrested in mid-flight by the vice-grip of Steven’s right hand. Courtenay stood glowering, though obviously powerless. Steven squeezed his arm then slowly twisted it and pushed backward until, with a cry of pain, Courtenay fell back again into the chair.

  “You could have broken my arm!”

  “I would have been sorr
y had you forced matters that far,” said Steven. “I told you I wanted to talk to you. You and I will talk, with or without your cooperation. You took the whip to me once, and I did not defend myself. I had my reasons. But do not mistake me, Courtenay. I know something of your strength, for I have been watching you for years. I also know my own. I could put you on the ground without raising so much as a bead of sweat. You fancy yourself a powerful man, but I fear you no more than I would a ten-year-old. So I suggest we have our talk, that you answer my question, and that you go your way. It will be simpler for us both if you cooperate.”

  “What do you want, Muir?” said Courtenay in sulking fury.

  “I have a simple question to ask, and I want a simple answer. Are you the father of Rhawn Lorimer’s child?”

  “Go to the devil, Muir.”

  “I will have to ask you for directions. Now I put you the question again—are you the father?”

  “And I give you the same answer I gave you before. I will tell you nothing.”

  Standing before him, Steven drew in a breath then turned and paced about a few moments.

  Courtenay’s eyes darted toward the door. For a brief instant he considered trying to end this humiliation by making a dash for it. But he did not relish the consequences if he failed. Nor was his pride fond of the notion of running away like a frightened child.

  “You will be viscount in what, nine or ten days,” said Steven, turning again toward him. “Not that you may care about your reputation either in the community or the House of Lords, but there may come a time when what is said of you will be of some consequence. If you do not tell me, I will let it be known that you refused to answer me. You know what people will assume.”