by Ann Mann
It was then that Clodagh began to experience a curious sense of weightlessness, gratifyingly welcome after the melancholia which had become so much part of her daily existence but nonetheless bewildering. The frosty grass felt springy beneath her trainers and the further they walked the less weary and more energised she became.
It was though everything she was seeing and touching was dissolving into her very being, resulting in a heightened awareness of the elements but a sense of detachment from what was happening around her. Voices swam in her ears, Silas and Dec in intense conversation, the occasional laugh or shout or bark almost magnified and somewhere else totally. Vaguely comparable to the experience of coming round from anaesthetic after having her appendix removed as a child. An odd sensation but not a frightening one. There and yet not there. Certainly alone, maybe without identity.
She couldn’t remember when she last laughed but had a desire to do so now and wondered if this was what it was like to have taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug. The indigo curtain sweeping across the mountains, the cold clouds bubbling up and chasing the day and the piping birdsong were all part of the one-ness which she was now experiencing and strangely enjoying.
She inhaled the cool air deeply and felt even stronger. Now, as the group neared the area around the abbey, she realised they had all been walking for almost two hours and that she had lost all sense of time.
“Take a break.” She heard Dec call out and the search party slowed to a halt then sank thankfully onto the low and ancient stone monoliths in the shadow of the gothic ruins to drink from their flasks and eat their sandwiches.
She was aware that she might be emitting some kind of vibe that whispered to be left alone, for even Silas was keeping his distance. She had no desire to be unfriendly but as she sipped from her water bottle and nibbled on a piece of dark chocolate she knew without knowing why, that she would have to break away and wander her own path in pursuit of the truth behind the mystery that had left such a unique mark on their lives.
*
Peter Sheridan, the consultant psychiatrist, was an albino. Everything about him was milky white and in his hospital coat he almost seemed to disappear into himself. His eyes were pink with deep red pupils and Joe Tierney hated himself for thinking that if he were Dennis Ahearne he’d be even more terrified than he already was discovering Sheridan at his bedside.
The press had caught on and had followed Ahearne’s wife and his son Luke to the hospital unit that morning. A newspaper had offered her money for a story, but as she explained to Joe Tierney and Gerry Doyle, she had so little to say that it simply wasn’t worth it.
Sheridan flicked down his plastic venetians obliterating the crowd outside and offered chairs to the two detectives and the Ahearnes. He came to the point swiftly, while presenting X-ray results for them to pass around.
“The results from the PET scan show no apparent physical malfunction of the brain. The psychotic disorder from which he appears to be suffering is strongly suggestive of schizophrenia and that accounts for the delusions, mainly persecutory, which he firmly believes to be real.”
Mrs. Ahearne stared at the film image in bewilderment and passed it to her son.
“But he has never suffered from schizophrenia. Why should he now?”
Sheridan shook his pale head and sank into his high-backed swivel chair. “That is what we are trying to establish, Mrs. Ahearne. We have seen cases like this before but they are rare. They can be triggered by external pressures which are not the result of an injury but which affect the orbitofrontal area of the brain, an area which is still demanding further research and exploration.”
“So, whoever he encountered and is responsible for the kidnapping shocked him into something similar to schizophrenia?” Joe Tierney enquired.
“That would be the trigger in this case. Almost certainly, yes.”
“So what is the prognosis and how do you treat it?” asked Gerry Doyle.
“As far as the treatment is concerned we tailor for the individual so it will be a combination of therapy and medication. Dennis needs support and care to help him recover from the shock he has experienced. I have no doubt that in time he will regain his faculties, his moments of clarity lead me to believe this. Meanwhile, we have to wait until that time comes.”
He rose from behind his desk, a cue that their meeting was over.
“How we going to handle the press?” Luke Ahearne asked Joe Tierney. “They won’t give up following us around.”
“I’ll release a statement saying that your dad is unable to give us any information at the present time due to his medical condition. I would also appreciate if you do not mention the meeting with the dancers yesterday. We have to tread very carefully so as not to allow the mounting hysteria and conspiracy theories to flourish.”
The young man nodded. “I understand.”
They each shook hands with Peter Sheridan who agreed to keep them in touch with any new developments and bracing themselves for the onslaught of cameras and questions they hurried to their respective cars.
*
Blue faded to grey as the day melted and Clodagh continued her now solitary journey of hope. Fields and pastureland stretched endlessly into the far horizon each forming part of a repeating pattern trodden without weariness or limit of endurance.
The sweet woody aroma of burning leaves filled her senses and for the first time since leaving Dromoland she checked her watch. Nearly three. Soon she would have to return but she told herself that a little further would make no difference.
She paused beside a tiny rivulet and caught her reflection in its silver water mirror. Was it her imagination or did a streak of pale blue light briefly appear across her image? Dismissing it, she carried on, becoming aware of distant voices and peals of merry laughter accompanied by the unmistakeable sound of a fiddle.
She blinked as she saw them coming down the hilly slope towards her. A group of young men and women in brightly coloured clothes of another era, carrying long silk ribbons which fluttered in the wind. One of the women beat a tambourine and the man beside her held a stone bottle and a goblet while he danced to the music.
Every one of them wore make-up and the women’s scent was heady and intoxicating. They allowed their long hair to blow free, thrusting out tightly corseted chests and laughing from their ruby painted lips as they grew closer.
Clodagh held her breath as one of the women brushed against her, greeting her in Irish. “Dia dhuit.”
The man who had been holding the goblet and bottle now poured a trickle of liquid and offered it to Clodagh. “Honey mead.” He told her. “Sup.”
Almost trancelike, Clodagh raised the goblet to her lips and allowed the sweet wine to act as an elixir to her mellowed spirit.
“Who are you?” She whispered.
The man removed his tricorn hat with a bow. “We’re the entertainers for the medieval banquet up at the Castle this evening. Do come.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Clodagh stammered. “I have to get back to Ennis.”
“Shame.” He studied her face curiously as he took the goblet from her hands. “Beidh lá maith.”
She watched them wend their way across the fields towards the castle, their voices blending in a haunting madrigal which lingered in the late afternoon air for a magic moment then disappeared with them behind a trail of silk ribbons.
Now darkness was threatening and she quickened her steps back along the path she had remembered coming. Much of it was downhill which made it easier and she was pleased to note that her strange burst of energy had not yet deserted her.
After an hour she reached Rosroe, passing the prehistoric tombs that surrounded the lake gleaming and still in the silent evening light, and paused to offer up a spoken, fragmented prayer for Sinead and the rest of her friends, as simple as the prayers of her childhood
, pleading once again for their safe return.
She didn’t jump when the beam from a torch interrupted her and Silas appeared quietly at her side, his familiar presence indicating comfort and safety.
“Where did you get to? I was worried to death.”
He really was worried. She could see it in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I had to break away.”
“That’s alright.” He told her gently. “But you’ve got to be careful. I don’t want to have to report you missing as well.”
“Did they find anything?” She asked, knowing full well what his answer would be.
He shook his head. “Nope. As they say, tomorrow is another day.”
They linked arms as Silas shone his torch along the murky footpath leading to the town where they would catch their bus back to Ennis, when Clodagh suddenly stopped, noticing what appeared to be a small flat item on the ground close to their feet. Releasing her arm from his she bent down to pluck it from its resting place and held it against the light to examine exactly what she had found.
“What is it?” Silas asked her. “Some kind of card?”
“Yes.” Clodagh answered quietly. “But not just any card. Look…”
Silas peered closer and then stared at Clodagh in disbelief. “A Tarot card? Can it really be a Tarot card?”
The enigmatic robed figure of the High Priestess stared back at them under the torchlight, faded and yet discernable.
Clodagh’s paralysis was instant, as gooseflesh seemed to begin in the column of her rigid spine, flooding outward, covering her shoulders and arms and racing down her thighs. This is no coincidence, she thought wildly. This is something else. Something beyond our understanding.
Silas was still inspecting the card, taking it from her and turning it over in his palm, unaware of her torpidity. “Interesting. Not the Pamela Coleman-Smith design which we copied for our costumes and set.”
She knew that he had taken some basic instruction on the tarot from an American psychic while working on the choreography and she tried to make sense of his words as he pressed on, clearly excited by the discovery.
“No, this is a card design of the oldest surviving tarot deck from the Italian Renaissance. Probably painted around 1400. Clodagh, this is one of the Triumphs, the Trionfi.”
As he spoke the dusk deepened and unease floated in as suddenly as the dark wings of a preying bird. He caught Clodagh’s fearful expression and immediately wrapped her in his arms.
She knew he wanted to kiss her like a lover now and she allowed it to happen. The chill disappeared in an instant and the heat of desire took its place. He began to kiss away the tears that had crept down her cheeks and she returned his kisses hungrily, drawing him in, touching and kindling his eager body until he was on fire, hard and urgent against her. Their rucksacks hit the ground as she stumbled backwards, he not letting her fall, guiding her towards the trunk of an oak where they tore off their clothes, exploring hitherto secret places which they gifted to one another gladly, releasing months of tension and pain. The old tree took the force of their rhythm while diamonds of light pierced the sky and the smell of the rich earth they had disturbed provided the perfect archaism to their coupling.
When it was over they clung to one another, quietly dressed and resumed their journey, for the interval had ended and a new act was beginning.
She was silent, lost in thought, but she knew he was right when he told her.
“So the search starts again. In a very different direction.”
*
The mixed emotions that Silas experienced on opening night were many and inextricably linked. The raw agony of missing his dancers seared through him with a new intensity augmented by the fact that the troupe from Lighthouse were clearly overjoyed to be performing and their exhilaration was contagious. His feelings for Clodagh were now in a zone which he wished he could penetrate and define and although he knew they were deep-rooted, he sensed that her desire was not as strong and that he would have to tread carefully on the journey forward. Then there was the fear that their relationship might never resume the familiar ease it had so enjoyed and that particular thought was too depressing for him to even begin to contemplate.
His mind was also still absorbing the extraordinary discovery of the Tarot card and Dennis Ahearne’s malevolent outburst. He had already decided that as soon as the show had settled into a comfortable routine he would begin his own investigation with or without the aid of the Gardai but hopefully with the assistance of Clodagh. It was set to be a journey into the unknown which he would map out as best he could with the very few tangible facts at his disposal.
Right now though there was a performance to deliver, and the weight of expectation was bearing heavily on his and Clodagh’s shoulders. The press and many local dignitaries would be in the audience tonight and as far as future bookings were concerned Deirdre had told him that every seat had been sold stretching up to and beyond Christmas.
He could hear the crowd clapping along to the beat of the Lighthouse dancers. Safe and traditional stuff that he had left behind but which the audience were embracing fervently and he guessed that they were also in some way extending that embrace towards Arcanum.
He stood in the wings stretching his muscles to the point of pain and watching the line of girls with their shiny, ringletted wigs topped with tiaras and their short bright velvet dresses performing perfectly choreographed slip jigs. Then the boys joined them, almost absurdly uniformed in their white shirts, black ties, vests and black trousers. Erin Shaw was certainly no slouch in picking a tight team, although Silas was aware that her lead dancers were not of the high standard that some of the routines demanded.
He knew that Clodagh’s mother and father were in the front row, together with her Auntie Peggy and he had extended the offer of tickets to all the other parents but they had declined. It wasn’t hard to understood why for it was obvious that they would have found the whole experience far too harrowing.
When it was time for he and Clodagh to make their entrances in the second half, a hush descended on the auditorium, despite the bar doing great business during the interval. This is what they had all come to see. The young man and woman who, in the physical sense, had not been lost like the others, but who were just as adrift and isolated in their grief and confusion.
Silas took the first set and performed a light fast reel. In his scarlet silk shirt, deep red and black waistcoat and leather trousers he rose, clicked and landed with all the skill and precision he could muster to loud cheers from the crowd. As he danced, his mind returned to that last night in Dublin when he and Clodagh and the troupe had brought the house down with their unique Tarot-based finale.
When Clodagh entered, the cheers subsided. The lights had dimmed and a blue gel followed her entrance as the haunting reed pipes opened the lilting, specially composed music which Silas had commissioned. An edited version had now been cut to fit the new choreography and he prayed that it would work.
For some reason which was unknown to him, she had ordered a different costume to the one worn originally and the copy of which she had rehearsed in. This new dress was white with a satin top and knee length lace skirt which floated as she moved, disturbing tiny particles of stage dust that twinkled like fireflies around her. A blue sash was tied to her waist in a loose bow and her titian hair was braided as before.
Yet again he was mesmerised by the way she used her body to express herself, creating stage magic of a very special kind, mysterious and ethereal, allowing the audience a glimpse of mind, body and spirit fusing in the art of the dance.
This was something that the audience had rarely witnessed. A purely balletic performance given by an Irish dancer who had moulded the choreography to reflect her inner feelings and emotions.
Time seemed frozen to all who experienced it. She could have been dancing for fiftee
n minutes or fifteen hours for the effect was spellbinding. But when she bent like a willow into the blue light and the music faded with the lone call of a curlew, there was a pregnant pause before the audience rose to their feet, clapping and cheering the slim figure on the stage who disappeared before their eyes as the lights went to black out.
When they came up again the stage was empty and Silas entered to the steady beat of an Irish drum. As the Diviner he played to a selection of giant cards that formed part of the scenery, the characters on which were originally depicted by his dancers. First The Fool, and his mime and footwork reflected the frenzy and extravagance that the meaning of this card represented. The drum was now joined by the strings of a dozen fiddles as Silas moved from card to card, The Emperor – power and protection, The Hermit – prudence and circumspection and on and on until he has translated the unspoken symbolism offered to an unseen Enquirer and members of the audience through dance.
Punctuated by wild bursts of applause, Silas was drawing the routine to a close. He paused before the empty throne of the High Priestess, the only figure he had not acknowledged, as Clodagh glided slowly in behind him wearing a hooded blue robe.
He turned to face her before embarking on a flexuous step dance then slowed to a different pace as she whirled around him, an enigmatic moth circling a flame. While he, the Diviner, struggled to convey her mystery and wisdom, she positioned herself quietly upon the throne as the sound of a final solitary drum echoed like a heart-beat and Silas’s head bowed in prayer.
Once again there was a lull before the storm of approval and as the two dancers moved to the front of the stage to take their bows they could almost touch the emotion written on the faces of the crowd standing and cheering in front of them. Clodagh’s mother and her Auntie Peggy were crying freely as they hugged one another and when two young dancers from Lighthouse entered from either side of the stage with giant sprays of peach roses, purple thistles and lilies, a roar ascended to the rafters which Silas could have sworn was loud enough to reach Dublin’s fair city.
