Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  That first night, although nerve-wracking, had been looked on as a bit of an adventure. One of those unexpected happenings that can occur then laughed about at some later time. The coach had become lost in a blanket of fog then juddered to a halt in some backward village that none of them had recognised. Dragging their wheelie cases through the mud, they had been led by the woman to the largest of three barns that stood next to a thatched farm-house. Once inside the barn they had been given milk, bread and cheese by the farmer and his wife and son who seemed very hospitable, if peculiar in their dress, speech and manner.

  It was made clear to them that they would have to sleep there and would not be able to get to Ennis that night. The farmer had no idea what they were talking about when they held out their phones and chargers and there was no visible electricity anywhere inside or outside of the barn.

  Their hosts also seemed mesmerised by the way they were dressed and the toothpaste and shampoo that they used before settling down for the night. The girls in particular had not been happy about washing in cold water from an outside well nor about the two rough towels that had been brought out to share between twenty-five people. They were also deeply embarrassed and shamed by squatting behind trees and bushes to perform their toilet functions.

  But whereas they had accepted these inevitabilities as temporary hardships, the driver had not. Refusing to leave the coach, he had slept the night there and forewent the offer of food. He would ‘get the feckin’ ting working,’ he said, but of course he hadn’t and stormed into the barn the next day demanding to be driven to the nearest fuel station. This had once more been met with what appeared to be genuine bewilderment and the driver had become apoplectic with rage until handed a jug of porter which he drank thirstily before slipping into a drunken stupor.

  Terry looked around at his friends huddled together in the straw, lit only by one solitary lantern. Sinead and Michael were deep in whispered conversation, others were praying and a few of the girls had been crying again, their faces as pale and damp as Victorian heroines, and although the boys were trying to be strong for them, he knew that beneath the bravado lay genuine terror and uncertainty of what was to come. “We’ll miss the show” had now been poignantly replaced by childlike pleas of “I want to go home,” from each and every one of them.

  He had tried to tick off the days as best he could from the time they arrived and realised to his dismay that it had been roughly eight weeks. It was also not hard to notice the sharp change from autumn to winter while dozens of brittle leaves floated around the yard in an air laced with frost.

  The farmer who was called Mick had told them that they could not leave until the time was right and if they did he insisted somewhat ridiculously that they would be captured by the authorities and thrown into gaol. The man seemed so convinced of this, that despite their protests, Terry felt in his bones it might just be a possibility and they had obediently only left the barn in the mornings and evenings to wash and to collect drinking water, fiercely guarded over by a large black dog who he knew would not hesitate in bringing them down if they tried to make a run for it. One or two had ventured further, but soon returned, terrified by the dog, the foul weather and not having the faintest idea in which direction they were heading.

  Only the driver had fled after trying to attack the farmer and his son. The dog had gone for his leg clenching it between its powerful jaws while the man had screamed like a banshee trying to tear himself free. The farmer had then called off his dog and the driver limped away into the dense countryside, never to return.

  Before he had become aware that they were being held prisoners, Terry had tried to make sense of what the old woman was talking about through her language of stressed syllables and consonant changes. He had explained to her that he was not a dance master and if she meant choreographer, then Silas Murphy was not travelling with them. This had upset her greatly and she had hunched herself into a corner of the barn where she produced a small velvet bag from her petticoats, rocking to and fro and muttering words that he was unable to decipher. He had tried to comfort her but she had pushed him away.

  The following day she was gone. Terry had asked the farmer who she was and why she was enquiring about a dance master, but the farmer was not talking. Terry could sense however that he and his family were anxious to find her and was pretty sure that they were taking it in turns to search when the cart was driven out of the farm at daybreak every morning.

  He turned his head sharply as another scream from one of the girls announced the familiar visitation of a mouse or a rat scurrying across their bodies as they tried to rest. Most days they had spent limbering up and exercising in order to keep supple, aware that as precision dancers they had to retain as much training as possible. It was as natural a function for them as drawing breath, and Terry was filled with admiration at their dedication and discipline, knowing that it also helped keep them motivated and optimistic.

  The biggest mystery of all was why nobody had yet found them. They had gone off the road only a few kilometres from Ennis so how in God’s name could it be taking so long? He could only imagine how worried Silas and Clodagh would be, not to mention their families and loved ones, and it was impossible to believe that the Garda hadn’t been alerted and mounted a search operation.

  This morning they had put their heads together for yet another group discussion and decided that they would pool their financial resources in an attempt to bribe the farmer to at least drive them to the nearest town in his horse and cart. Terry would also ask him for a map of the area as they were desperate to know where precisely they were.

  He collected a total of one hundred and twenty euros and when Mick appeared with their now regular breakfast of a large pot of lumpy porridge with creamy milk straight from the cow, a couple of wooden spoons and something vile which passed for coffee, Terry knew that they could wait no longer to make a serious effort to escape.

  But once again their plans were to be thwarted. As Terry pushed the coins and notes into the farmer’s hand, he saw him gaze at them in total incomprehension.

  “It’s yours.” Terry told him. “Please get us out of here now.”

  The man shook his head and tried to return the money. Some of it fell onto the ground and as Terry bent to retrieve it, he heard Sinead cry out.

  “What do you want from us? What do we have to do to get you to let us go?”

  The others circled round to comfort her as Terry squared up to the farmer who was roughly the same height although of a much bigger gait. “Okay, I get it. You don’t want our money. That’s grand. Can you please get us a map? I’d like to know where we are and we’ll take our chances on finding our way.”

  That was when things began to get even weirder. Mick Gilligan then put his hand into the pocket of his shapeless, stained trousers and pulled out some coins which he thrust under Terry’s nose. “Money!” He said loudly, his tone matching Terry’s in the attempt to communicate. “See! Our money.”

  Terry took the coins as the others crowded around him. They were made of heavy copper and on one side there was a woman playing a harp and on the other the head of another woman with a fleshy neck and long hair.

  “Who’s this?” Terry asked.

  Mick Gilligan shook his head in confusion, pointing at the coins. “It’s herself. Mary.”

  “Mary? Mary who?”

  “The bloody Queen, that’s who. Dead now.”

  Terry didn’t turn when he heard the others laughing nervously behind him. Looking closer at the coins he saw to his amazement that the writing around the edge read ‘Hibernia. 1722.’ Handing them back to the farmer, he asked quietly.

  “Mick. What year do you think this is?”

  The farmer rubbed his ruddy cheek, rocked slightly on his large boots and turned to address them all. “It be the start of November. 1735.”

  *

 
You’d have thought that as a born and bred Catholic he would have experienced some degree of guilt during his thirty-two years of life on the planet, but Silas never knew what a burden it could be until today. An accusing, stifling weight that rested on his head and shoulders and which could possibly be alleviated by the power of prayer or a visit to the confessional, but that was a path he had chosen not to follow.

  Guilt for not travelling with them on the coach then guilt for not having found them, and now this afternoon, more guilt in declining to join Blossom and Clodagh, who had formed a very special bond, on their daily pilgrimage to the Lough, for try as he may he could not ignore the disturbing vision of his two dearest friends being swallowed up by the past and lost to him forever.

  But he had so badly needed time for himself. Time to reflect on just where they were now in the light of Blossom’s remarkable discovery at the library and time to try and work out his future if the worse case scenario meant that the dancers were never coming back.

  If it had been anyone but Blossom who had offered up the presence of the coach appearing in early eighteenth century archive material, he would have dismissed it as fantasy. But then he had witnessed so many unexplainable events in the last couple of months that nothing could be that easily dismissed and it had been Blossom who had taught him that coincidences didn’t exist, contending that thoughts or events that shared some common meaning were attracted to each other like magnets without a known causal relationship.

  The theatre for once was empty. Perfect for self-reflection but on a more pragmatic level also perfect for trying out a new pair of shoes which he had ordered weeks ago and which he now slipped on, testing the hi-tech heels for superior sound and also for their lightness and flexibility essential to the jig he was performing nightly. The shoes were his support system, for if the size varied one centimetre it could throw his balance askew, but unlike the old ones which meant wearing in the soles against the consistency of the stage floors over a period of time, these split-soled new ones enabled him to control the technique of his exacting spins and turns almost immediately.

  The backstage area carried the usual rancid, though evocative scent of greasepaint and sweat within a space which was never entirely light nor dark and Silas decided to first work his steps there in front of the large gilt-framed mirror spotted with age and which leant at an angle against the rough brick wall.

  He had learned by now which movements were the most fulfilling and which were defiantly more dangerous. Through years of experience he had employed cleverly worked out short cuts and pain saving devices so knew how much breath was needed in order to pace himself.

  The shoes were comfortable, that was a good sign, and for some bleak reason he was suddenly reminded of Nijinsky who was presumed to have gone insane when working out the choreography to “Sacre.” Some blamed the savagery of the music and in keeping to its spirit he had danced without shoes, using flat pounding rhythms with his bare feet. Others had suggested that it was an over-reach on his part, a will for perfection which could not be humanly achieved, not even by the fabulous Nijinsky.

  Now as he slowed down, preparing to continue his moves on the stage, Silas was diverted by what seemed to be a slight change in the tincture of the dark silvery glass of the mirror, which appeared to be draining everything it reflected of its colour.

  At first he thought that someone must have opened one of the fire doors causing a draught that had filtered moisture onto the glass, and hoped that it wasn’t Erin. He hadn’t spoken to the choreographer since Clodagh had told him that she had been using their props for a Tarot routine, as he didn’t have the will or the energy to get into an argument with the woman.

  Pausing to listen for footsteps, he heard nothing and returned his attention towards the mirror. Now, his heartbeat accelerated, as he was sure he could see some sort of transformation occurring within the vaporous glass. He was reminded of that day by the Lough when they had unwittingly moved back in time and suddenly he realised that someone or something was trying to make contact with him. How different it was now though, for he was on his own and the degree of nervous excitement he was experiencing was made all the more overwhelming by his innate sense of isolation.

  What if he got it wrong and interpreted some vital message incorrectly? He looked wildly around as if willing Clodagh and Blossom to appear beside him to offer moral support but there was no-one other than him and his slowly decreasing reflection.

  Then it happened. A swirling, cappuccino mist filled the mirror and he strained his eyes to see what lay behind. He was vaguely aware of a seated figure in a strangely shaped tall hat. As the mist cleared, Silas could now make out the face of an old man with white hair and beard and twinkling blue eyes. His right hand was raised as if in blessing and the upper and lower part of his body was swathed in the dark material of a cloak.

  Silas recognised the figure immediately. It was one of the Major Triumphs and the design was once again from the Renaissance deck. The Hierophant was a symbol of alliance, captivity and servitude. He was also represented as a teacher who was regarded as the male counterpart of the High Priestess.

  Silas held his breath as the figure ceased to be just a painting on a card. Life gradually flickered behind the eyes and the hand that was raised now moved slightly, curving into a beckoning gesture which seemed to summon Silas to join him inside the mirror.

  “What do you want?” Silas heard himself demand, but the figure made no sound, simply continuing to beckon with its long fingers before slowly fading from his fevered gaze.

  “Don’t go!” Silas shouted, but the image had disappeared and the mirror once again produced his own solitary reflection.

  He remained motionless, struggling to assimilate what he had just seen and to translate it into some kind of purposeful structure. Blossom had said that she was trying to connect the dots and Silas, now trembling from a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension realised he had received the message that could do just that.

  This latest symbol from the Major Arcana had surely made it clear. The Hierophant calling to him, coupled with Dennis Ahearne’s chilling assertion was enough of a sign to announce that in order to get the dancers back from the past, he would have to sacrifice himself.

  *

  An unexpected red herring surfaced briefly then dived back into the water and headed out to sea. But it made enough of a splash at the time to persuade Joe Tierney that it might just be what he had been praying for.

  A letter had been delivered to Dublin headquarters which stated that the writer was holding the coach and its passengers at a location somewhere between Dublin and Ennis and was demanding the sum of two million euros for their safe return. It also claimed that the kidnapper or kidnappers could show the Gardai proof of authenticity.

  The few long months of false hopes and alarms, disappointments and conjecture were now something that felt depressingly normal and even the press were slowly and quietly beginning to reduce their copy to brief paragraphs on inside pages while broadcasters were conspicuously silent, proving that stalemate could not be considered news.

  Was it possible that the biggest search ever to take place in Europe had lost its momentum and that the media were really that fickle? It was true that neither he nor Gerry Doyle had given any more press conferences because there was no real news to speak of and they didn’t want to raise the families’ hopes by suggesting that there might be.

  There had been so many crank claims, and although it was a time-consuming and tedious process, they were regularly sorted and dismissed. The coach had been spotted in almost every country in the world and the dancers had been seen in Turkish brothels performing with jewels in their navels as well as living like brainwashed zombie members of a religious cult in Arizona.

  This particular claim though had demanded attention because just as he was poised to make contact with the writer of the anon
ymous note through the media, Joe had received a package left at headquarters overnight, which contained a pink mobile phone bearing the initials M.C. and which had belonged to one of the missing dancers, Maureen Connelly.

  The last call made on her mobile was on the morning of the disappearance and there was no DNA evident other than the girl’s own fingerprints. Texts and messages were all to friends and family and held no indication of what was to come other than the journey to Ennis that night.

  Maureen’s mother, a sweet-faced divorcee with blonde, poker straight hair, clutched a handkerchief and wept as she examined the phone, clearly not wanting to return it, but he explained that as that they were treating the kidnapper’s request seriously it was a necessary piece of evidence. Did she know what Maureen’s movements had been that day before going to the theatre and whether she might have left it somewhere?

  Mrs. Connelly didn’t know. She simply reiterated that her daughter had left the house as usual to go to work and was definitely carrying her mobile with her then. Joe asked the usual questions about boyfriends but was rewarded by a shake of the head and another storm of tears.

  Then, on the morning that he was scheduled to attend a meeting with the Criminal Investigation Bureau to discuss what their next move should be and whether to release some of the charity funds that had been promised online, he received a call which confirmed that this lead was dead in the water.

  He had left messages for Silas and Clodagh and only Clodagh had returned his call.

  Asked whether she knew anything about Maureen’s personal life, Clodagh had told him that as far as she was aware, there was no boyfriend.

  She then volunteered the information that she had seen Maureen dropped off at the theatre that evening by her mother’s partner Steve and had waved to him as he drove away in his souped-up MGB sports car.