Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  The detective examined the card again then raised his eyes, surveying all three of them doubtfully.

  “As you say, Ms. Fayard, this for me is certainly outside the sphere of normal understanding. I’m sorry but I just cannot see how I can persuade my superiors to spend time and resources on something so…so frankly unbelievable.”

  Blossom looked quickly at Silas and Clodagh. “Superintendent, I do not want your money. I would only call on your time and assistance if I need to gain access to places or people who might be able to help me. I know it’s all very difficult to take on board and I thank you for your time this morning.”

  She rose from her chair and Joe Tierney gestured to her to remain seated. “What I’m saying Ms. Fayard, all of you, is that I will continue to pursue what I see as normal lines of enquiry, credible theories, regarding missing persons. I won’t prevent you from conducting your own extraordinary investigations as long as they do not in any way prevent my officers from doing their job. Oh, and although I can’t stop you talking to the press, I would much rather you didn’t encourage them otherwise it will turn into more of a circus than it already is. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear as a bell.” Blossom told him, raising her hand to her forehead in a salute and drawing relieved laughter from the others. “And I suppose we say now that we’ll be in touch, isn’t that how we part?”

  Joe Tierney walked round from behind his desk to once again shake her hand. “Yes, Ms. Fayard. That’s how we part.”

  *

  They arrived back in Ennis earlier than expected and while Silas and Blossom returned to the hotel, Clodagh decided to go straight to the theatre to warm up before the show that evening.

  She could hear music and the clicking of dance shoes coming from the stage and, as she entered the auditorium saw that the group from Lighthouse were rehearsing a new routine.

  Erin was standing in the front row fiercely calling out directions so Clodagh chose a seat further away so that she could watch them for a while before slipping into her woollen tights and performing her exercises backstage.

  Although the two leads still did not possess the chemistry which she knew that Erin was looking for, the troupe itself was getting better, stronger and more confident, and Clodagh was once again aware of how much she missed the spirit of camaraderie that working as a team can bring. For a brief moment she allowed her imagination to superimpose the faces of her lost friends over those of the dancers on the stage and, in so doing, felt the all too familiar emotion of bereavement welling up in her eyes and throat.

  Swallowing back her tears, she suddenly noticed something happening on the stage which made her sit up and for a moment forget her despair. Was she dreaming or were the boys waving the fake swords and the long laser lights which Arcanum used in their Tarot finale? Then she saw four of the girls entering holding goblets, and another four with small candle lamps shaped in the form of pentacles. Clodagh stood up and moved closer, unable to believe what she was seeing. The dancers were using Arcanum’s props and Erin was directing them in what she perceived to be a dance based around the suits of the Tarot.

  Clodagh found herself running towards the stage. “Erin, what are you doing?”

  The dancers froze while the music tape continued playing. Different music from Arcanum’s but not that dissimilar. They looked awkward and apprehensive, sensing that Clodagh was not happy with what she was seeing and some of them wandered off into the wings.

  “Alright, guys. Take five.” Erin told them and turned to beckon Clodagh to sit beside her. But Clodagh remained standing.

  “Erin, you’re using our props. What’s happening?”

  “I was going to say something Clodagh, but you and Silas are always so preoccupied. The props are just sitting there, not being used. I thought I’d base a small routine on the Tarot which you can use as part of your set if you want to. I’m not using Silas’s choreography and it seems a shame not to…” She broke off as Clodagh interrupted her angrily.

  “Capitalize on it? Is that what you want to do, Erin? Use the loss of our dancers to work your own routine to Silas’s idea? To invite publicity? That is shameful, Erin. I’m surprised that you can stoop that low!”

  But instead of apologizing, the woman became defensive. “Clodagh, I was going to hire the props from you. Pay you for them. We will supply our own costumes. There’s nothing else we are doing that’s the least like Silas’s vision. It’s just a dance, Clodagh. Lighten up.”

  Clodagh couldn’t remember when she had ever felt so angry and hated herself for the negative resentment which sat in her stomach now like a pile of stones.

  “I’m asking you as politely as I can, Erin. Please do not proceed with this or I shall have to tell Deirdre we can no longer perform here.”

  Erin pushed some scripted papers into her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Alright, Clodagh. We’ll scrap it for here. But I’m telling you that if your dancers are not found by Christmas, I shall continue working on a Tarot routine for our tour in March. You know you have no legal right to stop someone else doing that routine. And if Lighthouse doesn’t do it, you can bet your pants some group of Irish dancers somewhere in the world will soon.”

  When she had swept out, Clodagh steadied herself and took several deep breaths before moving. Once again, Erin Shaw had set her thinking about the possibility of Arcanum never being found. Was she right? And would someone else steal their idea for the publicity it would attract? The more she thought about it the more likely a scenario it became.

  It was a human condition that she struggled to understand. There were always people who would jump on an easy bandwagon however much hurt and distress it could cause to others. And once again, not caring who could hear, she spoke aloud and with resolution into the now quiet theatre. “We’re going to find them.”

  *

  Co. Clare.

  1735

  The time had come.

  The old woman grimaced as the fork lightning zig-zagged across the ruins of the stone tower, painting yet another card of the Major Arcana. Sheltering from the midnight storm, she had no concept of time. Her fervent incantation had been continuing for what felt like hours, and she knew that if she had read the cards correctly then it would negate the old Master’s curse and thereby offer a solution to all of their woes.

  Rumour had it that Kathleen Dooley and that rakehell had run off together but she believed otherwise. She had gone to his house and the costume was there as was a bagful of gold coins which he would have rather died than leave behind.

  None of that mattered now as she had taken away the costume and he would never get to wear it again. He hadn’t been evil, just weak and immoral, a young man intent on worldly success, but by paying such scant attention to her late Master’s words, he brought discord where there had once been order. And for that, in her eyes, no punishment was too great.

  She had seen and lived through the long, cruel years. Years when her Master had risked his life in his desire to bring joy to the people who most deserved it. He had defied that tyrant Cromwell’s ban on dancing and had secretly gone about nurturing the great tradition in the face of moral and political adversity, knowing that Irish dance embraced the sufferings of an ancient people.

  Now as she waited for their salvation, for the first time she felt fear. The words she repeated were of an arcane language learned from her Master and as the thunder rumbled in the distance she noticed the pearly grey mist swirling ahead of her and her whispered chanting ceased as the sound of the thunder became louder and closer. A sound like she had never heard before, almost deafening and causing her to back away, raising her arms in a defensive gesture, unsure of what was coming towards her through the murky veil.

  There was a smell too. It blew through the now hot air reminding her of goose fat or strong rapeseed.

  Then the beast showed itself an
d the old woman cowered in fright. In an instant she realised that she might have taken her occult practices too far and summoned up a dark demon as warned by those who feared the Trionfi. Others in the village would be falling on their knees and making the sign of the cross but she only believed in the ancient wisdom and was sure it would not let her down now at such a crucial time.

  But the eyes. There seemed to be four of them, two large and two smaller each side of its sleek, black head, and they were burning white. Their glare lit up the immediate landscape and outlined the trees in the infinite forest space beyond in a blaze of power and which she knew beyond doubt was the work of supernatural forces.

  Then a fraction of silence before the lights were extinguished and darkness surrounded her once more. Darkness in which this monster lurked. Was it going to seek her out and kill her? She remained rigid until a sound reached her ears which allowed her petrified body to relax for a brief moment. It was the sound of human voices. Many voices chattering against each other. Then a light blinked above her and the old woman let out a gasp of wonder as she saw a group of human beings staring out of the monster and in her direction.

  She jumped as the eyes lit up again, blinding her vision, and above the voices she heard a creaking sound followed by a bang and into the light walked the figure of a man.

  She stood her ground as he lurched towards her, dragging his feet in the thick mud and she saw that there were purple spots on a face contorted with confusion and fury.

  He began to speak and she struggled to understand as his words sliced through the ether. “Where the feck are we? Who are you?”

  The old woman drew her shawl tighter around her in apprehension, as the man, dressed in a strange black suit, came closer.

  “I said where are we? Am I near Ennis?”

  Her fear of the now silent monster was slowly diminishing. She understood the name of the town the man spoke of and nodded her head vigorously, pointing behind her into the dark, tree-filled distance.

  The man was not appeased. “Where’s the road you idiot? Where’s the Ennis road?”

  “Stop that!”

  The old woman blinked into the light wondering who had called out and as curiosity and courage began to replace fear, moved slowly forward while the silhouette of a tall young man climbed out of the monster. Taking cautious steps towards him she was halted once again in her tracks by the sight of another young person, then another and another following him out of the large black devil.

  They were all so pretty. Young men and women, who although dressed in the most ugly of garments, filed out and walked towards her in an unthreatening manner.

  The voice came again. “I said, stop that! Stop bullying that old woman.”

  She tried to make out the odd word or two of English that she was hearing now and might have heard spoken over the years, but as her Master had only used old Irish and Latin, it was an impossible task. She would have to believe her eyes and her instincts and something was telling her that these young people were to be trusted.

  The man mumbled something and watched as the group surrounded her. Voices swam in her ears speaking words that she could not understand and she found herself grinning. There was absolutely nothing to fear, of that she was sure.

  “Can you tell the driver how to get back onto the road?”

  “Is there somewhere we can get a better signal? Our phone’s aren’t picking up.”

  “Is there anyone else who can help us?”

  And then – “An bhfuil Gaeilge agat, a seanbhean?” (“Do you speak Irish, old woman?”)

  The young man in a woollen hat with the soft brown eyes who had been the first to appear was speaking in an accent which she could just about grasp. Nodding, she moved to take his hand and he smiled at her kindly.

  “Mise Terry.” He told her, pointing to his chest and indicating his name.

  “Terry.” She lisped, still holding on to his hand. And then buoyed on by the excitement of the night’s events and longing to know if her incantation had really worked, she uttered the only English words that she could speak and the only ones that really mattered now. “Dance Master?”

  *

  It was a subdued threesome that returned from the Lough that afternoon. They had hoped that by visiting the same spot at around the same time, they might have once again encountered a vision of the past but it was not to be. No silver mist, no sound of silence and no dislocation proved a disappointment and after they had tucked into large bowls of fresh seafood broth at the local pub, Blossom told them that she wanted to go to the library in order to do some further research on the area.

  Finding a quiet corner inside the high ceilinged, wood panelled room she opened her lap top and clicked on to the search engine. Although this was not the first time she had studied the local history, she was once again struck by the terrible injustices the local people had suffered through the great famine, the cholera epidemic and of course the barbarous Penal laws which had persecuted those who wished to follow their Catholic religion and prevented them from holding any form of government office or joining the fighting forces.

  Blossom gazed out of the window at the gathering dusk. Children coming out of school were pulling on their mothers’ hands, laughing and skipping happily along with not a care in the world. Certainly with no thought of what had happened in times gone by or what was to come. Only considering the moment.

  Blossom stretched and returned to her screen, knowing that she was going to uncover a plethora of information but nonetheless typed ‘Myths and Legends in County Clare’ into the search engine. As anticipated, hundreds of titles confronted her and she scrolled down passing over the obvious. Countless manifestations in numerous castles, faery folk and banshees, battle-weary fighters and animals which consisted mainly of dogs, cats and horses all of which were black, as well as giant badgers and mad hares.

  She wasn’t sure what she was looking for but knew that they desperately needed more clues than the tenuous ones they had so far. It would help if she was able to pin point the time-slip into a particular period but what they had witnessed could have been set in any century prior to the early nineteenth when the churches in the town had been built.

  Blossom was obviously no sceptic but even she had to suspend belief at some of the experiences that were so colourfully described and when, by complete mistake, she hit on the subject of U.F.O’s, the amount of coverage the phenomena excited was seen to be enormous.

  Guiltily aware that she was wasting precious time, she scrolled through the country’s many eye witness reports from the first sighting of flying saucers to be documented in Kerry in 1947 up to the present day over The Burren where the very bones of Ireland’s landscape seem to break through its skin.

  A yellow pool of light flooded through the library for which she was grateful as her eyes were tiring from the intense mixture of concentration and frustration. Now she needed to dig out some of the dusty government files and parish records from as far back as they had been catalogued, most of which were simply showing the prominent families who had owned land in the immediate areas, together with lists of local traders, births and deaths.

  Strangely enough, the U.F.O information was also present beneath some of these historic headings. Blossom learned that the Irish had long believed in Tuatha De Danaan, which translated into Ancient Aliens, travelling in what they called demonships and first recorded as early as around 456 AD.

  She noted that the late, great poet Seamus Heaney had paid tribute to the monks of Clonmacnoise, just a stone’s throw away from where she was sitting now and who had recorded their experience of seeing such a ship coming down from the sky whilst they were at prayer. This close encounter had been chronicled in AD 1211.

  Fascinating as all this was, Blossom was still no nearer to finding out more about the time-slip which they had experienced and into which s
he was convinced the dancers had been drawn. Scrolling down the snippets of information from the twelfth century to the eighteenth, she read then re-read a few lines which began to stimulate her interest.

  ‘In the very pleasant hamlet of Rossroe’ – she noted that there was a double ‘s’ in the name then – ‘in the Barony of Tutlagh, parish of Kilmurry, in 1735, there were reports of a godless apparition found in a field which had caused consternation among the clergy and other dignitaries. The High Sheriff of Clare himself had been called to examine the strange black object but no-one was able to explain its presence or the materials from which it had been constructed.’

  Blossom’s heart began to race and it seemed as though she had been allowed to open a door just wide enough to see shadows but not enough to discern the forms that cast them.

  If the segment from the historic catalogue she had just unearthed described the place and the year of their time dislocation and the ‘godless apparition’ was indeed the coach, then she was near and yet still so far from a conclusion. For although those vital components were essential to their search, she would now need to discover why it had been chosen to cross the path of time and how on earth the people carried in it could be returned.

  *

  Co. Clare.

  1735

  Terry Riley felt like an alien. The only member of the group to have been wearing a watch and to have brought with him a pen and a note pad. Not that a watch was going to make a blind bit of difference, for like the engine of the coach, their phones and their tablets, it had stopped the minute they had arrived in this weird place with its similarly weird inhabitants.

  Since the moment of their first encounter with the old woman near the castle, things had gone from the absurd to the surreal and now today to the more frightening as the enormity of their capture, as it could now be described, had finally hit home. It seemed that he, in his capacity as tour manager and being the only one to speak passable Irish, had been firmly designated as leader in a situation which none of them had been able to grasp or work out how to overcome.