Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  She, the woman, opened her eyes and smiled gently. “No, Clodagh, I am not Mary but I represent the spiritual independence that you seek. I embody all that is feminine and intuitive and empowering.”

  Clodagh struggled in her dream to understand. “But you’re a. ..Pagan figure of mythology and I’m a Christian.”

  Her own voice answered in a tone that was stern but kindly.

  “I understand why you worship Mary. She is a wonderful role-model in many ways, but she is empowered only by men. Impregnated by a man and giving birth to a man. That is what you worship her for. Think, Clodagh. Understand only what you can see and feel. Above you is our lady moon. The female symbol that controls our bodies and our souls. Our twenty-eight day cycle, the waxing and waning of our moods, our dreams and our secrets. I am only saying ‘trust your intuition rather than what you have been taught to obey.’ This way you will find the secret key to your hopes and fears and be able to unlock the mysteries which lie ahead. ”

  “What mysteries?” Clodagh asked, her mind a tangle of sleep-jumbled emotions.

  But she, the High Priestess was dissolving rapidly into a blue mosaic of tiny lights, and her final words brought Clodagh out of her dream. “Connect with your inner Wisdom for therein lies the path to Enlightenment.”

  Her heart was beating less rapidly now as the sweet song of a blackbird jolted her back to full wakefulness. How strange was that dream? Did it hold some deep significance that she should strive to understand?

  She turned over and reached for her mobile. Unplugging it from its charger she was surprised to see several texts from Silas. “Ring me. It’s urgent”.

  “Ouch!” She’d forgotten her swollen leg as she swung out of bed and checked the time. Six-thirty. Anxiety lodged in the pit of her stomach. What on earth could be so urgent at this hour?

  *

  Once the wild storm had subsided, Silas fell into a composed and dreamless sleep. He had set his alarm for eight knowing that Justin would probably be unable to fix an appointment before ten and planned to take croissants and coffee over to Clodagh before they left for the hospital.

  When his phone rang for the first time at five-thirty, he was sleeping so deeply that it only vaguely registered behind the filmy curtain that covered his consciousness. When it rang again, this time seeming more urgent, he cursed and groped for it in the darkness, finally growling an incoherent hello.

  It took him a few moments to register what the woman from the hotel in Ennis was saying and, aware that he sounded as thick as the Dublin Bay mist, he repeated everything parrot fashion while trying to think of an intelligent response to her questions.

  “Not arrived. What do you mean, not arrived?”

  “Sure, they should be there by now. Three hours ago they should have been there.”

  “Sure, yes. I’ll make some calls and get back to you. Ring me as soon as they turn up.”

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his body craving the sweet dark allure of caffeine. Before that though he knew he had to gather his racing thoughts into some kind of order. Try not to panic. There must be a logical reason why his troupe had not yet reached the hotel and the first obvious one was that the bloody coach had broken down.

  “God,” he spat angrily to an empty room, then located Terry and Michael’s mobile numbers. “If I’ve paid all that money….”

  He shook his head in bewilderment as the message displayed on both numbers read ‘Unable to connect.’ Then he tried Sinead and a similar message was repeated. The dancers’ numbers continued to roll up before him and however much he had told himself to stay calm, panic now rose in his throat with a wave of nausea.

  Sean…..’Unable to connect,’ Sarah…..’Unable to connect,’ Danny…’Unable to connect,’ Val, Cheryl, Maureen, Sam….his fingers stabbed like an automaton upon a phone now damp with perspiration. Not even a recorded voice asking the caller to leave a message. Nothing but those three intractable words which were striking a deep chill in his heart.

  He realised it might be an idea just to take five minutes, make some strong coffee and think…

  Pacing his small kitchen while the jug bubbled and the first shaft of dawn light pushed its way through the leaden clouds, he tried the office of the coach company. Only an answering service. No surprise there. Perhaps he should ring round the hospitals, but in which area? Similarly the police, but where? And surely to do this was a last resort and a total over-reaction.

  Silas took his coffee into the sitting room and opened his lap-top, scouring the local map routes for any reports of accidents between Dublin and County Clare. Nothing major showed up immediately. He scrolled down and checked another site. One motor-cycle casualty at just after midnight on the motorway, a few road-works as always, then something caught his attention and he enlarged it, his tired brain hungry for more information.

  An accident between a lorry and two cars at around 1.00 am had partially closed the M18 to Ennis. As he read again slowly Silas experienced the dual sensation of relief and despair. Relief because a coach wasn’t mentioned but despair that he was none the wiser. Would they have taken that route? The possibility presented itself that if they had and the M18 had been partially closed, then the driver along with others would have gone off the motorway, in other words diverting through some pretty dense countryside. The timing was about right and this was all he had to cling on to for now.

  He checked his watch and downed the rest of his coffee. If that prick had taken any stupid chances and put the coach in danger he would swing for it. He hated waking Clodagh, particularly as the painkillers Justin had given her would have surely knocked her out, but there was no-one else with whom he could share this unwelcome information.

  *

  She stood in the kitchen of her flat and gazed at Sinead’s favourite mug, trying not to let shadows of gloom invade her mind.

  When Silas had told her that the coach hadn’t arrived, she wanted to believe it was just another dream. It all sounded so surreal and she tried frantically to search for an explanation but kept returning to the vision of some ghastly accident where the coach had overturned and the broken bodies of her friends and her flat-mate were strewn across some darkened road.

  She ran the shower and although hampered by her bandage washed as best she could. Pulling her long hair back with a rubber band she knotted it into a pony tail, slipped on an old pair of grey jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt and rubbed her face vigorously with moisturiser. Peering into the steamy bathroom mirror she became unsettled by its pallor and added a brief hint of blusher to her high cheekbones.

  Now she waited with tense anticipation for Silas, hoping that he would bring some news of the dancers’ arrival in Ennis, but when she opened the door to greet him she knew from his expression that he had nothing further to impart.

  “I’ve spoken to the coach company.” He told her, brushing her face with a distracted kiss. “They’ve heard nothing. They’re going to ring the Garda and the other emergency services and keep in touch with me.”

  He followed her into the kitchen where she offered him coffee and breakfast which he declined.

  “We ought to eat. Keep our strength up.”

  “I can’t reach them, Clodagh. Not one of them”

  She abandoned the soda bread she had taken from the cupboard and sank on to a small Perspex chair looking up at him. He seemed to have aged since last night. “Neither can I. What do you think has happened?”

  He shook his head, pulled up a matching chair and sat beside her. “I wish I knew. I just don’t understand. They should have been there hours ago.”

  She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t worry, there’s bound to be a simple explanation. They can’t just have disappeared. I think they’ve broken down in some country spot which is out of range.”

  He found himself squeezing her hand
which he continued to hold. “So do I. At least that’s what I want to believe.”

  “Do you think we should check on Facebook and Twitter? A long shot I know, but just in case any of them have put anything up in the last few hours?”

  “It’s worth a try I suppose. You take the girls, I’ll do the boys.”

  An atmosphere of intense silence descended on the bright room as they began to search the dancers’ social media sites. After fifteen minutes, the ticking of the Micky Mouse clock on the mantelpiece and the buzz of early morning traffic began to intrude upon that silence, and they met one another’s eyes questioningly, each hoping for the other to provide some sort of clue to the mystery that had presented itself.

  Silas spoke first. “I’ve found nothing for the last twenty-four hours. You?”

  “Nothing. The latest entries are from five of the girls two or three days ago. Nothing since.”

  At that point, a text tinkled on Silas’s phone which he scanned with urgency, then grimaced.

  “It’s from Justin. I’d forgotten all about your hospital appointment. It’s at 10.30. I suppose I should tell him, but I’ll do that at the hospital. I ought to keep the cell free for incoming calls.”

  The MRI showed that Justin’s prognosis had been correct, although it could have been worse. A Grade One tear was how it was described and the doctor suggested staying off the leg for at least a week. She told Clodagh that physiotherapy was essential to her recovery and that she should rest her leg as much as possible.

  As the three of them left the hospital there was only one thought on their minds and it wasn’t Clodagh’s injury.

  “I’m going to hire a car as planned.” Silas told them. “I feel pretty useless sticking around here and I know they’ll turn up in Ennis eventually.”

  “I want to come with you.” Clodagh told him. “Even if I can’t dance I want to be there.”

  “Count me in then,” added Justin. “I can’t be your physio if I’m in Dublin.”

  There was somewhere Silas wanted to visit before setting off and that was the headquarters of the coach company to meet the manager whose name was Conor Ferguson. He was a large man with tightly combed salt and pepper hair and matching stubble, wearing a suit which seemed too small for his broad frame. He greeted the three of them anxiously, ushering them into an office where a thin, peroxided woman of about forty was talking loudly on the phone.

  “Come in and tell me what you know,” he said, waving them towards a leather sofa which had seen better days. “I can’t make head nor tail of this.”

  They squeezed together on the sofa and Silas explained that he had seen the coach off at approximately eleven-thirty the previous night. The journey to Ennis was anticipated as roughly three hours and the hotel had been expecting them to arrive around two-thirty to three a.m. He told Ferguson that he had tried every one of his dancers’ cell phones and they were all unavailable.

  The woman finished her conversation, scratched her brassy mane of hair and offered them coffee which they accepted like desperate junkies. Ferguson stood behind the desk, too nervous and fidgety to sit, his jacket having been discarded and exposing an ample belly that protruded over his tight trousers.

  “Same here. Can’t get the feckin’ driver to answer. I dunno what the feck’s happened but I’ve been speaking to a Detective Superintendent Joe Tierney at the Garda. He’s okay but they’ve got this beaurocratic crap which is holding everything up, like, should it be traffic division or missing persons? Anyways, as soon as they’ve sorted themselves they’ll be alerting the police, hospitals and break-down services between here and County Clare. I’m waiting to hear back. Bloody mystery if you ask me!”

  “Do you know what route they would have taken?” Silas enquired as the coffee arrived and was distributed.

  A map was already laid out on Ferguson’s desk and he loosened his tie as he followed with his finger the map lines while the others craned forward.

  “I’m pretty sure they’d have gone on the motorway up to the toll at the Shunnel.”

  Silas looked puzzled so he elaborated.

  “Oh sorry, the Shannon/Limerick tunnel. Basically, my driver would have taken the M18 to Ennis. Pretty standard stuff since the dual carriageway has been extended. We know there was a crash between a lorry and two cars just before the by-pass and that the road was partially closed for a few hours.”

  “So you’re thinking that they would have left the motorway? What route would they have taken then?” Silas enquired.

  “Ah, well…” Ferguson shook his head. “Could be a number of off-motorway routes in order to get onto the R458, the Limerick road. I think that’s where he would have made for.”

  All three were standing now and peering at the area to which Ferguson was pointing. A cluster of small towns and villages with names that meant nothing to them only served to lower their spirits even further.

  The office phone rang and Mrs. Peroxide answered, waving to Ferguson to pick up the extension.

  “Superintendent Tierney for you.”

  There wasn’t much the detective had to say. The coach and its passengers had not yet been traced. He asked for Silas’s number and said he’d be in touch. Also that his colleagues in Shannon were going to dig out CCTV footage which would have been available at the toll stations.

  Despondently, they filed out of Ferguson’s office, each promising to share any news if and when it was forthcoming.

  Silas checked his watch for the umpteenth time. It was now half past one and the absence of his troupe was gnawing at his guts like a peptic ulcer. There was a text from the theatre reporting that the van carrying the scenery and props had arrived but the Arcanum dancers had not shown up for rehearsals. Silas texted back. ‘Problem with journey. Will keep you posted.’ His mind just could not get around a more detailed explanation at the moment as none existed.

  “We should have lunch.” Clodagh ordered sensibly. “Then we’ll hit the road.”

  *

  Co. Clare.

  1735

  He had to admit that the turn out was more spectacular than he could possibly have imagined.

  Girls and boys, men and women of all ages, shapes and sizes crowded the barn as he weaved his way through the farmhouse gate to greet them. Faces weathered and furrowed from a lifetime of outdoor toil and faces that had not yet experienced the ravages of time smiled with undisguised pleasure as they watched him approach.

  The long grass made it a difficult walk in his dancing shoes and the brambles from the hedgerow threatened to snag his jacket, but there was no doubting that the welcome he was about to receive was one of near idolatry.

  Apart from the families paying sixpence a quarter for his services they had also brought gifts of sustenance. A large table expertly crafted from oak and ash which had been lifted from the house by the farmer and a team of strong helpers was covered with offerings of gratitude. It had been a good summer so the early harvest was bountiful, with sheaves of ripe corn, raffia baskets filled with shiny apples, dark plums, firm potatoes and onions. Barley bread was knitted into spiral shaped loaves, and oatmeal, eggs and mushrooms resided in earthenware pots. Honey comb and fresh garlic were used to fill the few spaces left between jugs of buttermilk and mead and the scent of honeysuckle wafted towards his nostrils along with lavender and musk roses.

  A girl of around five or six with hair the colour of mustard seed ran towards him holding out a daisy chain, her chubby cheeks warming as he stooped to receive it and patted her curls. He smiled as she ran shyly towards her beaming mother and buried her face in her apron.

  The men drew him towards the table slapping his back in hearty greeting. The women, some of them barefoot, kept their distance but looked on giggling as he took a swig of mead and turned to admire their full skirts and petticoats painstakingly chosen and sewn for the occasion. />
  A few of them were ripe for bedding he thought wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. One in particular was certainly worthy of his fancy. Kathleen, the wife of the blacksmith Thomas Dooley, her hair as ebony as raven’s wings and skin like polished marble placed her hands onto her slim waist in as seductive an invitation to the dance that he could imagine.

  Another sup of mead and he wouldn’t keep them waiting any longer. Slightly unsteady but also drunk with the power that came with the legacy, he began to form them into lines as the farmer who owned the barn pushed forward a blind fiddler in torn and dirty garments to stand by his side ready to play.

  The old ones weren’t worth bothering with so he chose only the young men and women and when he had positioned them in the order he had selected, the new Dance Master then cued the fiddler and watched as the small assorted company metamorphosed into a whirling, rhythmic kaleidoscope of pure motion.

  They had been tutored well by his silver-haired predecessor and their discipline and control matched their enthusiasm. They held their bodies rigidly, moving only from their hips downwards, their arms flat by their sides until suddenly the fiddler broke into a wild jig and then they clenched and waved their fists to the music in the threatening gesture of opposition to foreign occupation.

  From her position on a mossy knoll a few feet from the action, the crone who had served her Master for two decades observed the pageant with intense interest. She scrutinised the amount of mead that had been imbibed and the boy’s hand lingering a little too long around Kathleen Dooley’s waist. She noticed too his apparent impatience with the older members of the community and a certain arrogance that she had missed when first her Master had made his choice.

  Reaching into the folds of her long skirt, the toothless hag took out a precious item wrapped in a velvet pouch and stroked it lovingly. Her Master had told her of his many travels in distant lands before she had given her life to his service. He had visited ancient Egypt where he had become fascinated by the myths and cultures he had encountered there. He had also worked in the courts of northern Italy and talked of that period as Renaissance, translating it for her benefit as ‘Rebirth’.