by Ann Mann
When it was over, she wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep. He wanted to talk.
“Not tonight, Silas. I’m very tired.” She told him, packing up her bag and collecting her jacket and scarf.
He wasn’t going to allow her get away with it that easily. “I need to understand Clodagh,” he said, blocking her exit towards the dressing-room door. “You must explain to me why you are doing this. Do you really know what you will be giving up if this crazy plan goes ahead?”
She let her bag drop to the floor with a weary shrug. “I’m not stupid, Silas. Nor am I a child. I don’t expect you to understand my reasons, but I have no illusions about what I’ll be giving up or what I’ll be going into. No proper medicine, no electricity, showers, I-pods, burgers, mobiles…the list is endless. Of course I know. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because twenty-five people will be free and in a way that you could never understand, so will I.”
He could only stare at her miserably, still unable to believe she would willingly take herself into the dark, cold past without any of the comforts and essentials she had always taken for granted. It was as if two women inhabited her body, one infected by a powerful sense of urgency to embrace this uncertainty and the other the person he had known for so long, curious, yet grounded and certainly not reckless.
“What about the people who love you, Clodagh? I can accept you don’t care about me, but what about your mum and dad. Auntie Peggy?”
“Don’t you think that hurts me, the thought of losing all of you? Of course it does. But I can only hope that in time the sadness will fade and you will all continue to remember me lovingly and with joy. Don’t forget you told me that whatever path I chose to follow, yours would never be far away.”
He hadn’t forgotten, but he didn’t mean for her to disappear into another century. He knew then that it was useless to try and apply reason to a situation where there was none. He also knew that there was no sense of ego involved. She wasn’t playing the heroine and there was no hint of seeking fame or gain in her decision. She genuinely believed that she was doing was the right thing and if he couldn’t talk her out of it then no-body could.
He decided as a last resort to try doubt. “And if it doesn’t work? After all, it’s one hell of a long shot. I really don’t think you can change the past. You can only try and change the present and the future, that’s always possible, but not the past.”
She smiled her gentle smile and kissed him lightly on the cheek, picking up her things again as he allowed her to pass.
“It’s already been changed, Silas. And not for the good. So I can only try in my small way to make it work.”
*
Joe Tierney wanted to discuss strategy at headquarters and had summoned the three of them to Dublin when he had heard that Blossom had worked out a way forward. He had also given them strict instructions to revert to calling him Superintendent for the purpose of the meeting.
Silas was unsurprised to see Gerry Doyle there but was not expecting the Commissioner plus a representative from the CIB, and realised that this was going to be a pretty high-powered, full on meeting. Obviously, it was such a massive issue that others would have to be involved, but he hoped that Blossom would not be fighting too much scepticism from those on the other side of the desk whose minds would certainly need some persuasion to accept the strangeness of the story so far.
Joe had filled his colleagues and superiors in and to their credit they did not interrupt Blossom but listened intently when she was invited to explain just what was going to happen next.
Silas was so proud of his old friend. Dressed today for the seriousness of the occasion in a black trouser suit with a plain, white silk shirt, she appeared assured and sophisticated. The jewellery, of course was evident, but her hair was drawn back with a coral clip accentuating the cheekbones which he had always remembered Billy having, though since the surgery seemed more pronounced and chiselled.
Clodagh as ever, looked beautiful. Even with no make-up and her long hair tucked inside the high-necked collar of her green sweater, she still seduced his heart into performing a series of double jigs and he tried to control the desire to move his chair closer in order to hold her hand.
He became suddenly aware that Blossom had been speaking for some minutes and he hadn’t taken in a word she was saying. Pulling himself back from the wanderings of an overstretched mind, he heard her respond to a question that had come from the Commissioner, a tall man in his fifties in full uniform with dark grey, neatly combed hair.
“How do you see this so-called exchange taking place? You’ve told us where. We know the characters involved, but just how do you see it happening?”
“We have to take this in stages, gentlemen.” Blossom answered. “The first thing I want to do is send a message to the person or persons who has been contacting Silas and Clodagh. They’ve been communicating through the Tarot so we will begin with leaving a Tarot card in the same place as the other one was found. It will still be the picture of the High Priestess. Only this time it will be one from the best known pack which was created in 1910 and with which those from the other side will not be familiar.”
Silas studied the men’s faces with interest. Only Joe was following what she was saying with any degree of solid consideration and Silas knew the others were trapped between a rock and a hard place. They had nothing else to go on regarding a case that had captured the world’s attention and so were forced to listen and indeed learn.
“But what if someone else picks it up? Someone who isn’t from ‘the other side?’” The Commissioner asked with the air of superiority his job commanded.
“We will place it down at a very late hour and we’ll check that it has gone at sunrise the following day. I am convinced that no-body will be walking around in an unlit, fairly boggy area on a winter’s night and notice something as small as a card.”
“Surely someone from the Gardai should be there all night?” Gerry Doyle volunteered. “Then we can apprehend whoever it is that’s going to take it.”
Blossom’s expression suddenly changed from pleasantly business-like to sternly adamant. “Absolutely out of the question, Superintendent Doyle. The paranormal doesn’t work like that. Nobody must be present once the card is left in the place we specify.”
There was a pause until Joe asked the question that had been on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
“And what happens if it’s not there the following day?”
“If it’s not there, we will know that the message has been received. The following night we’ll accompany Clodagh to the spot where we experienced the dislocation. I think that as it’s not too far from the road then that area should be cordoned off just in case people are still wandering around. If the mist rises and spreads from the lake as it did before then that will be our cue and Clodagh, if she still feels willing and able to commit to this, will pass into it. We can only hope then that the dancers will come out.”
Silence and stillness. Just the monotonous click of a giant clock resonating on the wall above Joe’s desk. Then a cough, followed by a sound that resembled a laugh, but wasn’t quite. The man from the CIB, stocky with enormous eyebrows, then asked for a private meeting.
“Go and get some coffee.” Joe told the three of them. “We’ll call you back in soon.”
They needed to stretch their legs so took their hot drinks outside where Blossom raised a huge yellow umbrella as a faint drizzle crept into the air and Clodagh pulled the collar of her sweater into a hood. Silas realised he couldn’t care less about the cold or the rain, for his nerves were jangling like bells calling the faithful to Mass on Christmas day.
“How do you think it’s going?” He asked Blossom anxiously.
“Fine.” She told him. “Much easier than I expected.”
“Why do you think they wanted us out?”
&nbs
p; “They needed a reality check. They’re still trying to absorb something which they have never in their lives encountered.”
“I think Joe’s handling it brilliantly.” Clodagh said, stamping from one foot to another in order to keep warm. “He really seems to be in our camp.”
“And which camp would that be, I wonder?” Silas didn’t mean for it to come out as hard-edged as it had but knew that he couldn’t contain his over-sensitivity towards anyone who might support Clodagh’s decision. Before the others could react, a young uniformed woman popped her head out of the door and summoned them back into the meeting.
Tierney and Doyle again greeted them pleasantly while the Commissioner and the man from the CIB sat unsmiling behind the long table studying a pile of official looking documents which had not been there before.
Joe cleared his throat. “Blossom, Silas and Clodagh. I am going to have to ask you to sign something for us. This is essential before we are able to proceed with what has just been discussed.”
He picked the bunch of collated forms off the desk and handed each of them copies together with three biros.
Silas stared at the heading at the top written in bold capitals. “Official Secrets Act? You can’t be serious?”
Blossom, to his amazement tried to quiet him. “It’s okay, Silas. Not a problem.”
“What do you mean, not a problem? Blossom, you of all people should not be signing this. If what we are about to do is successful, then the world should know about it. You will be able to confirm the existence of things that no-body so far has been able to prove. We should be shouting it from the roof tops.”
Blossom remained silent and turned her glance to Joe who was happy to assist.
“Silas, this OSA has come down to us from the Attourney General who has been briefed on what has occurred and what will be occurring. There is no discussion, I’m afraid. You have to sign it or Blossom’s careful analysis and work will all be for nothing.”
Silas looked desperately to Clodagh but her head was bowed while reading the document.
“And if we get the dancers back? How are you going to shut them up?”
As soon as he asked the question, he realised that it was a lost cause and sat back in his chair feeling defeated. Blossom knew the score. Everybody knew, because this is what happened every time. Whenever, throughout history, an event like this had been uncovered it had to be immediately and irrevocably covered up, even when government ministers, NASA, police and members of the armed forces as well as reliable members of the public had born witness to them. From UFO’s to hauntings to time-slips, organised religion and the state must be seen to sustain order and prevent chaos among its citizens. It was the way of the world.
“I see. Bring on the Men in Black, why don’t you? Let’s go the whole hog!”
Blossom laid a hand on his arm, feeling his frustration and anger, but urging him to sign the form that would never allow him to tell the truth.
“Silas, you’re not wrong. Everyone in this room knows that. But if you don’t do as they say we will never have a chance to get them back.”
“Why not? We can just go ahead without these guys, can’t we?”
Joe Tierney shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t work, Silas. Because of what we now know, all three of you would be placed under police surveillance. It could even mean deportation.”
Silas stared at him blankly. “You’d actually invent something to make us look like criminals? Or nut cases?” He looked at the others behind the desk who refused to meet his eyes. “Yes, of course you would.” He said, suddenly too tired to argue any more as he flipped over the papers on his lap and his pen hovered over the final page. “Okay, here goes my integrity.”
“Silas, would you have said that Dwight Eisenhower and Winston Churchill were men of integrity?” Blossom asked, placing her signed copy of the form on the desk.
Silas looked puzzled. “Sure, but what’s that got to do…”
“You may not know that in the United Kingdom’s national archives are letters and photographs that prove both men covered up a UFO sighting during World War II to avoid mass panic. I have seen one of the letters which describes an incident just off the English coast and involved an Air Force bomber crew which was returning from a photographic mission in Germany or France. It describes the aircraft as being intercepted by an object of unknown origin which matched course and speed with the aircraft for a while, then underwent an extremely rapid acceleration away. It was described as hovering noiselessly and seemed metallic. Sadly, I wasn’t allowed access to the photographs.”
The top brass exchanged looks which revealed that they had never heard the story.
“Okay.” Said Silas. “But our case wouldn’t cause mass panic.”
The Commissioner spoke up now, in a softer voice than he had used earlier. “The area where all of this paranormal activity has taken place is, as Gerry Doyle will contest, one of outstanding natural beauty. It’s managed by the National Heritage and contains not only rare fauna and flora and monoliths of historic significance, but a lake which is popular with those who enjoy fishing and who visit from all over the world. Apart from being an immensely popular tourist destination, many people from our own country holiday there every year and yes, if any of those visitors thought they might get sucked into another dimension and disappear forever, it could cause panic and certainly religious confusion among believers.”
“I think the opposite,” persisted Silas stubbornly. “I think the tourist trade would flourish. It would be like a religious shrine. A nod to an historic past that crossed the barriers of time in order to overcome adversity. And…” He paused then, giving a choking sigh. “And to remember a woman who offered herself to the unknown in order to save others.”
He stood up and reluctantly handed Joe Tierney the signed act of silence.
“Just be very careful with my troupe if we get them back. That’s all I ask.”
*
Co. Clare.
1735
A full December moon illuminated an otherwise black night and a lantern was lit once again inside the farmer’s barn. On the brick wall behind his head, Terry had noticed the reddish-brown stain of something that looked like faded blood and told himself it had once belonged to some injured animal.
An owl hooted way in the distance, a melancholy sound which transported him back to his childhood home in Cork and only served to make him feel as restless and dislocated as the driftwood carried on a high tide.
Flickering shadows chased the strokes of his pen moving across the note pad as he attempted to use the moon and elementary mathematics to locate the date as best he could and as he tried to settle down for another night of snatched sleep and brooding dreams, hoped that at last freedom was within their reach.
To his frustration and to add to his sense of loneliness, each and every one of the dancers believed they were being held prisoner by a family of backward culchies, inbred and ignorant and totally against adjusting their lives to the present day.
Michael had been vehement in this conviction, citing the Amish population in America who refused to move out of the habits and lifestyle of the 18th century, travelling in ramshackle buggies and shunning modern dress and all things electrical as well as speaking in the ancient dialect of their ancestors.
Terry believed differently and couldn’t understand their reticence in recognising that they might have become trapped in some kind of time warp. He pointed out what he considered to be clear indications. The money that the Gilligan family was using and Mick’s refusal to take euros, no street lights as far as the eye could see, no nearby railway stations and one which he constantly specified, no sound of planes overhead. Even the Amish families couldn’t control the propagation of 21st century air travel.
But they had all clung stubbornly to their belief and, he had noted,
become more religiously fervent, spending almost as much time in whispered worship during the day as exercising and stretching their noticeably thinner bodies.
And yet, he couldn’t really blame them. Everything that had happened was so difficult to accept that adding another layer of uncertainty to their already traumatised lives might be a step too far.
That was why when Mick Gilligan entered the barn earlier that evening to distribute their supper, Terry greeted his words with caution while experiencing heart-stopping excitement.
“You’ll be off soon.” The farmer had stated gruffly as he placed a large tureen full of thick vegetable soup on the sturdy table that had been erected since their arrival, accompanied by the regular duo of wooden spoons.
“What? When?” The dancers jumped up as if in a choreographed routine and gathered round him. “Has someone come for us?”
Terry once again took charge and asked what seemed like the obvious question. “How are we going to get back Mick? Has the coach been fixed?”
But Mick Gilligan’s eyes glazed over and he simply shook his head, repeating the words. “Off soon.”
His parting gesture was to hand Terry two small items which he insisted he shared around. This he demonstrated by expanding his arms and sweeping them in a circle indicating that they were all the recipients of his gift.
When he had left, Terry untied the strings that held the muslin bags and showed the others what was inside. Twelve fine gold coins that felt light in the palm of his hand and were engraved with dates that ranged between 1636 and 1647.
“What do we do with them?” asked one of the dancers in bewilderment.
“Are they real gold?” enquired another.
Terry nodded. “I’m pretty sure they are and one thing’s for certain. If we ever get out of here, these will provide a nice little nest egg for our future.”
