Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  Clodagh nodded with an overwhelming sense of relief. At last someone - this new and extraordinary person had put precisely what she had been experiencing into words. She had read about these seven energy centres but never really understood their meaning in relation to her own physical or spiritual self. Somehow, maybe through dance, she had released this centred energy by which the soul was thought to be connected to the body. It could explain the dream occurring on the night of the disappearance, the long walk which she had done without fatigue, and the Tarot dance in its modified form wearing clothes which did not inhibit her, for while portraying the intuitive and mysterious figure of the Major Arcana she was also retaining her individuality as the figure in her dream had advised.

  She looked across at Silas who was staring at her in bewilderment and felt sorry that Blossom had somehow unwittingly divided and separated them in this way.

  “What do we do now?” she heard herself asking.

  “I certainly don’t believe this is a straightforward abduction by human forces.” Blossom answered. “Therefore I’d like to visit Rosroe and the surrounding area as soon as possible. Could we do that today?”

  “I’ll get the car.” Silas said, reaching for his jacket. “If we set off now we can be back in time for the show.”

  “I’ll go check in and freshen up.” Blossom told them. “And get out of these killer heels.”

  Despite the November chill there were many people milling around when they arrived at the bridge that led to the lake area. There was also a television camera crew setting up and Silas explained that the charity Facebook page for missing persons was attracting much attention from volunteers who were willing to give up their time to participate in area searches stretching from the town of Newmarket-on-Fergus and beyond.

  Yellow ribbons, that now familiar symbol of hope of a safe return, were tied to trees and lamp-posts and streamed through the air like a flock of golden winged birds almost as far as the eye could see. The innocuous sight of an out of season ice-cream van parked behind a Garda patrol car reminded them of the continuous volume of curious visitors regularly flooding through the town, as well as the on-going police presence, sadly no nearer to their goal than they had been three months earlier.

  Blossom, now cosily ensconced in a black puffer jacket, jeans and thick walking boots had done her research. As they walked, she took on the mantle of a tour guide, remarking in an amazingly knowledgeable way about the Neolithic and ancient Celtic history of the area, the complexity of the ley-lines which ran between the Burren and a town called Clonmacnoise situated on the Shannon and revealed her study of the old local rural townlands, many of them pre-dating the Norman invasion.

  When they reached the footpath near the lake where they had discovered the card, most of the other walkers continued their way further up the hill towards the castle ruins so that they were now a lone trio in a landscape already touched by the long fingers of an early afternoon mist rising from the still water.

  To her concern, Clodagh suddenly noticed that Blossom was crying. Large tears ran down her face streaking mascara as they slid towards her chin before dropping like dark raindrops on to the collar of her coat.

  “Blossom, what is it? What’s the matter?” Clodagh moved to comfort her while Silas looked hesitant, unsure as to how to react to a friend whom he knew so well and yet now appeared so different.

  Blossom produced a man’s large cotton handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped her face, then looked around as though aware of some invisible force.

  “There is so much sadness here.” She told them in a low voice which they strained to hear. “It’s tangible and it’s reaching out to me. To us.”

  “The place is full of history going way back in time.” Silas said gently. “I’m not surprised that someone like you can feel it.”

  Blossom shook her head. “It’s not just that. Somebody or something is trying to make contact. Of that I’m sure.”

  “Should we go?” asked Clodagh. “Is it frightening you? If so, we should leave.”

  “No, no. It’s not frightening or hostile. It’s pleading, appealing to us for help. Desperate I would say.”

  “Is it the dancers?” Silas asked her, looking suddenly anxious. “If so, can we communicate with them in some way?”

  As Clodagh waited expectantly for Blossom to answer, she realised with a degree of unease that the mist from the lake was starting to creep ever closer to the spot where they were standing. Not just the bog-standard Irish greyness any longer but a pale silvery presence which threatened to entirely surround them blotting out the rest of the landscape.

  The dislocation that she felt now was different from what she had experienced on her last visit. Mainly because everything was so unnaturally quiet. Not a bird could be heard nor even a rustling from the trees. It was as though she was passing through a threshold of utter silence.

  Then the mist cleared, leaving everything stripped of its colour, a light honey hue which reminded her of old photographs she had seen as a child in the local library. She was aware that all three of them were standing in the same spot, but as she looked down towards the road and the town beyond she could tell at once that something was wrong. Releasing a gasp of astonishment, she realised that there was no road and no town.

  The hedge that divided the fields from the road was there but what had been the road was now a wide, unmade up dirt track. There was no bridge and not one of the three church spires that were there previously could be seen rising against the skyline. She could make out only a handful of thatched cottages dotted sparsely in the area where the town had been and set amongst acres of pastureland on which cattle and sheep now grazed.

  Her heart almost stopped as she saw a figure driving a horse and cart slowly along the bumpy track. Although he was quite a distance away, she could see that he was old and had thick whiskered sideburns and a shock of greasy hair. He was wearing a leather waistcoat and filthy boots and she could have sworn that he glanced up in her direction, then shook his head as if in disbelief and rode on.

  It was impossible to measure the experience as far as the passage of time was concerned and almost as soon as Clodagh had recorded the snapshot in her mind, the silver mist rolled in again then evaporated, leaving her trembling.

  Silas was the first to speak, his voice hoarse with amazement. “What was that? Can someone tell me what the hell just happened there?”

  Clodagh ran towards him and took his hand. “You saw it too. Oh, thank God.”

  They both looked towards the woman beside them to provide the answers and who seemed to be glowing, her eyes bright with a strange excitement.

  “Well, you guys. Whoever would have believed it? And of course nobody will. We’ve all just experienced our first time slip!”

  *

  Co. Clare.

  1735

  He knew at once that she hadn’t written the note, for Kathleen Dooley was illiterate. The coarse piece of paper sat on his table and he re-read it with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. The writing seemed to comprise of two completely different styles. One, scrawled and withered then changing to bold black-inked capital letters which were more than a little threatening.

  It had to be the farmer Gilligan who had sent this missive on her behalf. Its contents were a stark five lines.

  A matter of life and death.

  Remember the Curse.

  Come Soon.

  You will be rewarded well.

  Love. K

  There were many reasons why he should ignore it, mainly because he didn’t need these people any longer. They had served their purpose in terms of free food and drink and what dull learners most of them were in the matter of the dance.

  His appetite was now well provided for following his lessons at the big houses but he had not yet managed to seduce the flame haired harper wh
om he was now encountering there on a regular basis. She was, it seemed, only bestowing her favours on the gentry and although at times her eyes held unspoken promises during those civilised musical evenings, he was no closer to introducing her to his own instrument which was well practiced and ready to give service.

  Despite his unrequited lust, it was Kathleen who without question knew how to play him and he recalled with pleasure her wild laughter, her unpredictability and her stamina to stay the course during days and nights of constant fornication. But she had become a liability. He had been publicly humiliated when officials descended on her house and had kept a safe distance since the day he had been discovered in her bed.

  It was now obvious that she wanted to continue their tryst and had thus instructed Gilligan to pen the cryptic letter. But he was baffled by the mention of some stupid curse. Surely she couldn’t be referring to the ramblings of the senile old Master on his deathbed. He had taken little notice of it at the time, having been so enamoured with the most lavish costume he had ever seen, that he couldn’t remember the content of the words uttered.

  His attention was diverted by the sight of a large spider spinning its silvery web between the rough stone wall and the head of his bed. Mesmerised by the ingenuity of it he wondered if this was what he was being drawn into? Some sort of trap designed to keep him dancing to their tune. He looked around the hovel that had been his home for the past few months, knowing it was time to move on. He had suffered enough verbal abuse from the locals and from the rotten fruit and vegetables being hurled daily at his door. Perhaps he should return to County Galway where the old man had found him and offer his services to the large houses there. At least he would be able to provide references of value now and with the money he had earned could afford to pick and choose rather than wasting his time tutoring the under-privileged. If he moved stealthily and without notice, he would avoid having to pass on his talents to a new Master.

  But what to do about Kathleen? Maybe he would go to the barn one last time, take her down on a bed of hay and give her the satisfaction she craved. In fact, he felt as horny as a spring cock just thinking about it. For once it was a clear dry night and he made the decision to take the brisk walk to Gilligan’s farm and then at daybreak fly the coop.

  *

  Silas found his mind wandering during the performance that night. Inhabiting another character and with applause once more ringing in his ears it seemed as though everything that had happened earlier was just another scene change in another show, but one that was totally unrehearsed.

  He was also mulling over Clodagh’s revelations. Now he could understand the added layer of preoccupation that she had been demonstrating since the disappearance and wished that she had shared them with him.

  If they hadn’t all witnessed it, then this morning’s events would have convinced him that he had finally flipped, the stresses and strains of the past few months having taken their toll and only the sterile environment of Dennis Ahearne’s medical facility would be his best option.

  But Blossom had made the incident appear to be just another one of those things in life to be experienced either by luck or by choice. Like watching a sunset in Kuala Lumpur or sky-diving over a steaming volcano in Iceland. You either get to see it or you don’t but it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

  She explained to him and to Clodagh that time slips had been frequently catalogued by people from different backgrounds and in various countries over the years and that the time-phenomenon was something which had been studied by physicists and writers from Einstein and H. G. Wells to Stephen Hawking. She was not going to play with their minds discussing quantum physics but putting it as simply as she could, at the centre of it all was the existence of energy which might perhaps survive in another dimension where the concept of past, present and future differs from our slavish devotion to the calendar and the clock. She told them that when encountered, albeit unconsciously by a person or persons, that moment in time could play like a recorded image. What they had witnessed was an instance of retro cognition and precognition. Through a tear in the fabric of time they were all peering into the past which was retro cognition. The stranger in the cart who looked up and apparently saw them would have experienced precognition. In other words seeing into the future.

  Silas had to ask “Why us? Why has no-one else reported this happening in that particular spot?”

  “Because we were giving out a very powerful energy at that moment.” Blossom replied. “We were avidly searching for answers there and I am certain that is why we experienced the dislocation. And who’s to say no-one else has experienced it? Many wouldn’t report it for fear of ridicule.”

  “So, are you saying it’s connected to the disappearance?” Clodagh ventured.

  Blossom nodded. “I’m convinced of it. Somehow there’s a connection which I’m still trying to work out.”

  “And you think the Tarot plays a part in all this?” Silas probed, struggling to hold on to logical thought and failing miserably.

  “Of course.” Blossom suddenly looked tired. “I’m jet-lagged guys. I’ll go catch a nap and see you at the show tonight.” And that was where they had left it.

  As they came off stage, Silas led Clodagh into his dressing room.

  “So, what do you think? Is Blossom on the right track?”

  Clodagh nodded. “I’m sure she is. However bewildering it is to us right now, if anyone’s going to get our dancers back she will.”

  He so much wanted to tell her he loved her at that moment that the intensity of his feelings alarmed him. His nerves were still on edge and he knew that he was in danger of blowing it. But needing to understand how she felt, he said it, then immediately felt better. Out in the open where it belonged and to hell with the consequences.

  She moved forward and touched his cheek with her fingers, looking at him with such tenderness that for one brief moment his spirits soared.

  “And I love you too, Silas.” She told him gently. “But not in the way you want me to.”

  He longed to ask why, but realised it would probably come out sounding like a petulant whine, so he just said. “That’s a shame. I think we would have been really good together.”

  “But we are.” She kissed his brow this time, raising hopes which were once again to be dashed. “You’re my best friend and we work together brilliantly. I have never been as close to anyone as I am to you and probably never will be.”

  He studied her for a moment, then turned away to uncork a bottle of wine knowing that Blossom would be joining them soon and needing to have just a few more moments to try and learn what it was that she wanted from life.

  “How do you see your future?” He asked, handing her a glass and clinking it against his in a mock toast.

  She shook her head, smiling at his directness. “I know what I don’t see. I don’t see Clodagh married lady with two kids and a car in the garage and a regular husband.”

  “Do you want to become a nun?” In trying to understand, he knew he was going about it in a clumsy way but it was too late to retract the question now.

  This time her smile turned to laughter. “No, Silas, I do not want to be a nun. What I do see, or rather what I hope for, is to continue dancing for as long as I can and maybe contribute any talent I might have to those who need it. Dancing is my life and always will be.”

  “So you want to teach?”

  “Maybe. Silas, I have so many random thoughts racing through my mind with all the strange things that are going on that I can only see my life in the present.”

  He didn’t want her to feel she was in any way under pressure and so drew the conversation to a reluctant close with what he hoped were not cheesy sentiments.

  “I just want you to know that whatever path you decide to follow, mine will never be far away.”

  Her laughter faded and with tears
glistening in her eyes she gave him the gentle kiss of a soul-mate, their night of impulsive passion now seeming as distant as the vision of another century glimpsed earlier that day.

  “Thank you.” She said simply. “That means everything.”

  *

  “What about the swear-box?” Joe Tierney heard his wife yell on her way upstairs as he switched off the television uttering yet another expletive. “I knew you wouldn’t last the year.”

  A new year’s resolution made all too rashly many months ago and it took this crazy case to break it. But really this was the last straw to add to the ever growing pile of shite that was being heaped upon him, his colleagues in Clare and his team of conscientious detectives and uniform who were working day and night to try and crack it.

  The tabloids worldwide were having a field day and he wondered if he could really blame them for unleashing their lynch mob mentality given the circumstances. While there was no-one being held accountable for the abduction, the press had to create scapegoats so naturally that honour fell upon the Gardai .

  Certainly, he was no wiser now than he had ever been and the pressure from his superiors wasn’t making it easy. Even the Taoiseach and other members of the government had joined the chorus of disapproval but no-one, it seemed, had come up with a plausible explanation or solution to the mystery or what form the next move should take.

  And now tonight’s latest irritation. Dennis Ahearne’s fuzzy-haired wife appearing on The Late, Late Show bemoaning the inadequacies of the police and stating that she and her son were bringing her husband home from ‘that place in Clare’ as the ‘so-called specialists’ were not doing much to help him. She also spoke about seeking compensation from the coach company and possibly from the Gardai, although try as he may he couldn’t see how she stood a cat’s chance in hell with that notion as her husband had been the one driving the coach and therefore the one responsible for its safety.

  Downing a slug of Jameson’s, he ignored the texts from well-intentioned fellow officers telling him exactly what he had just seen. Did they think he wouldn’t have been watching? Dennis Ahearne’s condition remained much the same as it had when he first turned up, and as far as Tierney knew, he had offered no more pronouncements since that day when the two dancers had visited.