by Ann Mann
This was enough to occupy their thoughts for the rest of the night and the few encouraging words that Mick had left behind meant they could sleep a little easier in their makeshift beds. At least they were now aware that nobody appeared to want to harm them and that it was only through a seemingly endless waiting game that they would be rewarded with their freedom and the chance to be home for Christmas.
They’re like children, Terry thought as he watched the hope on their faces, apparent even in sleep. The spectre of their spirits having been raised only to be dashed was too cruel to contemplate and for all of them the following day would either be one of joy or immense disappointment.
*
The card had gone.
Blossom studied the two detectives’ faces and saw bare incredulity combined with a primal fear. She watched them separate, moving further away from where it had been left, their torches beaming in the dull dawn light, almost willing it to re-appear and return their stressful lives to the everyday normality to which they were accustomed.
She glanced across at Silas who was staring at the ground with despondent resignation and once again felt so much empathy for where he was right now. She knew he loved Clodagh with the kind of love that was only ever fated to be unrequited and his suffering was heightened by the reality of what was to happen next in the extraordinary chain of events that were taking their inevitable course.
Clodagh had not come. After the show last night she had returned to Dublin to somehow try and explain to her family that she may be going on a journey and that they would not see her for a while. Blossom wondered how on earth she would handle it. The countless amenities of parting would not be called upon in this context, for true honesty would have to be concealed and she knew how hard that would be for Clodagh of all people.
What would happen tonight was still uncertain. So many elements had to come together to co-ordinate the plan and she knew that it would not simply be a small group of people other than herself, Silas and Clodagh involved in the operation. How many others and just who they might be, remained to be seen, but they would all be instructed to group at midnight in the spot where the time-dislocation had taken place.
She moved towards him and touched his arm, realising there was nothing she could say to ease his pain except “Perhaps it won’t happen?” But they both knew that the cards had spoken, affirming in true Tarot fashion the value of imagination, suffering and the sacred aspect of experience through a possible personal journey.
*
Co. Clare.
1735
The old woman was finding it difficult to tear her eyes away from the brightly painted card and clutched it to her bosom once again, her waxen features unexpectedly stung with the bloom of ripe apples, for this was the sign she had been waiting for.
At first she wasn’t sure that it was indeed Herself. The blue was so vivid and the pillars and fruit surrounding the throne hinted of a Biblical significance, as did the book containing the universal knowledge resting on her lap, but the more she looked, the more she became convinced that this was HER High Priestess, the fount of all knowledge, reliable, sincere and revered.
From whence it came she had no doubt. Somehow, through her intense entreaties, the connection had veered off course, the cards picking up on young spirits of the dance from another time and the profound secret and mystery after which they were named as well as the dance in which they had been instructed.
She would have to move quickly to get to the farmer Gilligan for there was much to be done before the appointed hour. The people would need to be persuaded that this time all would be well and the barn must be prepared sufficiently with offerings set to bestow on their visitor.
It promised to be a fine, clear night, although bitterly cold. That at least would keep any servants of the High Sheriff close to their warm homes and unlikely to stir them even if the distinctive sound of a fiddle was carried over the countryside on the icy wind.
Alhough the day was still young she had swept and scrubbed the house and tidily folded snowy linen for the feather bed on which her guest would be sleeping. Every pot and pan gleamed as the weak morning rays crept through the now shiny window panes and she had raked the dirt into neat patterns in the yard so that feet of such esteem would in no way be endangered.
As she set off for Gilligan’s farm with the card now pressed into the velvet pouch along with the others, she knew too that she would be responsible for guiding the dancers to their chosen destiny. They had not understood the act and language of divination that revived the lost world of soul, magical helpers and significant landscapes, although the one called Terry she was sure had not completely retreated away from nature and into himself. His eyes had been opened to all manner of possibilities and that would serve him well in the dimension to which he would return.
And so she hobbled on, her body weight assisted by her sturdy hazel stick, her sense of purpose never so keen and drawing strength from the forest that surrounded her, that army of sentient trees; the mighty oak, ferocious elms, hawthorn, willow and rowan as well as the stalwart firs. The keepers of the secrets and myths of her predecessors that would always be there long after she had turned to dust.
*
For some people life-changing moments can happen more than once. In Silas’s case he knew there would never again in his lifetime be a moment so profound, so desperately, bafflingly sad and one which he was powerless to prevent. A time when the unreal finally becomes the real and the anticipation of grief becomes a kind of madness that claws at the heart and somehow finds its way into your bones.
He could still do it. He could still take her place for he believed that the message had been meant for him and him alone. And then what? There would always be a life without her. But even if she stayed he knew now that she would never allow him to love her in the way that he wanted and that would eventually create dissent in what had always been a harmonious working relationship.
“Are you okay?” Blossom was once again at his side, and for the first time since arriving at their planned location that night he became aware of the degree of frenzied activity which surrounded them.
If he didn’t know better he’d have thought he’d just stepped on to the set of a movie. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to see Steven Spielberg gliding towards them preparing for that famous one track shot, while calling for action through a large megaphone.
The place was lit with dozens of precision-beam arc lamps and enclosed within a one and a half mile radius by yards of black and yellow hazard tape. There were four portakabins, a number of police vehicles and ambulances as well as a few official looking cars parked a distance away which, as far as Silas could tell, included a black Mercedes Benz S-class and a silver Audi, both with tinted windows. That’s the sinister part of the movie, he thought grimly. The scene where the guys who are supposed to be good, turn out to be the ones whom we trust the least.
The characters on the set comprised of Joe Tierney and Gerry Doyle and at least half a dozen uniformed Gardai. There was a middle-aged Priest, and Silas’s curiosity was heightened by the presence of a tall albino in a dark wool coat with a fur collar. Because his imagination was now on a roll, he wondered with a kind of hallucinatory light-headedness why a supporting player from a James Bond movie would wander into a Spielberg production.
The loud whirring of a helicopter blew the trees and bushes into submission at which Blossom exploded with rage. “I told them no planes,” she yelled furiously and ran in the direction of Joe Tierney, while Silas turned to see Clodagh walking towards him pulling her wheelie case. It struck him as weirder than ever that she should bring luggage. What did she have in there? Ointment for joint pain? Chocolate?
They hugged and he was once more and maybe for the last time intoxicated by the scent of her freshly washed hair and the familiar perfume of her skin. Not for her the lavish fragrances of th
e top designers for she always possessed her own distinctively natural aroma, a mixture of summer roses, peach and jasmine.
She was wearing a black velvet cloak that he had never seen before. It was fastened at the neck with a pewter brooch which he recognised as the design that represented the Celtic Warrier and which he assumed was specially chosen for its significance.
He slipped off his woollen gloves, stuffing them in his pockets so that he could hold her cold hand. He felt her grasp tighten and knew that words would make no difference now to what was almost certainly inevitable. Blossom joined them as a man’s voice echoed through a megaphone, not Spielberg’s but Superintendent Gerry Doyle’s, firm, direct and issuing instructions that each person present strained to absorb and understand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is precisely ten minutes to midnight. In a moment, the lights around the lake will be dimmed and I will request utter silence from all of you. When Ms. Fayard and Ms. Trevor approach we simply wait. No-one must make a sudden movement or a sudden noise during this time. Whatever you see, whatever happens after that, you must control any impulse to move towards this area or make contact with anyone until I give the order. Thank you.”
The performance had begun. Clodagh gave him a look that spoke of love but for the first time he also picked up on a sense of her own empowerment and began to understand. Fingers untangled and broke away. He tried to hang on but she was leaving with Blossom and they walked swiftly and with purpose towards the predestined spot where all eyes were now focussed.
And then the wait… The final agonising trick that time was to play before the anticipated treat…if there were to be one. His eyes darted fearfully between the two women and his watch as the minutes and seconds moved towards the hour when magic was supposed to be at it’s most effective. Midnight. And still they waited…Two church clocks chimed simultaneously, breaking the tense silence and which everyone except the Priest cursed for their intrusion.
Despite the freezing temperature, Silas felt his gloveless hands turn clammy and his dry mouth was crying out for water which he had forgotten to bring. Now his watch showed five past midnight and he could sense that the gathered congregation was getting restive. The small noises that humans make penetrated the desired stillness. The nervous clearing of throats, vegetation shifting beneath restless feet, excited whispers carried on the wind, and still nothing. Just the heavy blanket of intolerable suspense which pleaded to be lifted.
He wondered if the trigger factors that Blossom had explained were in fact in place. He couldn’t imagine how there could be any more than were present at this moment. Surely the emotional content alone was enough to reproduce the earlier picture as well as Clodagh’s readiness to accept the command, if that was how it could be described.
Then suddenly it was happening so quickly that they almost missed it. A soft, curling fog that eased itself out of the lake and drifted towards the two women, lit only by a similarly pearly moon. In an instant, Clodagh removed her long, black cloak and handed it to Blossom, who turned to make her way back up the hill and away from the manifestation.
He drew a sharp intake of breath as he saw that Clodagh was once again wearing the copy of the original costume of the High Priestess. The one that she had discarded in the fear that it was inhabiting more than just her skin. Seeming impervious to the bitter winter chill, she turned gracefully like the dancer she was and with a wave that he interpreted was meant for him and him alone, his beloved girl slipped into the silver mist and vanished from his gaze.
*
Joe Tierney stood in solemn contemplation. Gerry Doyle looked aghast. The others appeared uncertain as to what they had just witnessed. Mute and motionless, now arranged in an impressive tableau like actors in the scene from The Passion Play.
Had they really experienced something paranormal or the work of a stage illusionist? Where had the dancer gone?
Those higher up the chain of command spoke in hushed voices through lowered car windows. The barest hint of activity was tentative, draped in caution. Would Superintendent Doyle address the group as he did before, or would they simply wait for the climax to this mysterious drama of which only a few had read the script?
Protocol demanded communication but the mist was swirling, spreading like a voluminous cloud and none of them dared to give the order to speak before it had cleared.
Blossom climbed the short distance up the hill to meet Silas halfway, where they stood gazing down towards the lake area.
She wondered if any of them had actually grasped the fact that what they had experienced was the fusion of past and present. And if that fragmentary introduction to such mystical phenomena had blown their minds then that was nothing compared to what was to come.
*
Drained and desensitised, Silas took the cloak from Blossom and buried his face into its dark softness. It still carried her scent. The velvet chrysalis after the winged insect had flown.
Then, alerted by a collective gasp that fluttered around the site and sensing that Blossom was tugging at his arm, he raised his head.
He hardly recognised them, for their body shapes seemed to have changed. As they stumbled out of the fog, clinging to one another, tearful and bewildered, he immediately noticed that some of the thinner ones were carrying more weight, while the ones that had built up muscle through years of training were far slighter. On every one the torn and soiled clothes they were wearing hung like rags on a scarecrow.
The boys appeared dazed and confused and had grown beards and hair that touched their shoulders. The girls were uncombed, with complexions duller than before, and he felt an overwhelming longing to run towards them, envelope them in his arms and welcome them home with all the love and relief that their safe return deserved.
They were being instructed to line up behind the taped barricade by four figures clad from head to foot in nuclear protective clothing. It was a scene that Silas and Blossom found dauntingly familiar to those they had enjoyed over the years accompanied by cartons of popcorn. These menacing figures then proceeded to select each nervous dancer individually in order to pass radioactive detectors across every area of their bodies as well as their hand luggage before guiding them towards the waiting ambulances.
Both he and Blossom were desperate for answers to the torrent of questions that were now waging war on their minds. Had Blossom’s theory about a Dance Master been correct? Who had been communicating to them through the Tarot? Had they encountered Clodagh on the way out of the past? So many answers which maybe they would never get to hear, for it was obvious that after being thoroughly checked over for any contamination, his troupe would be whisked away for de-briefing before finally returning to the arms of their loving families.
The lake had returned to its former serenity leaving not even a whisper of fog and the set was being struck. Joe Tierney and Gerry Doyle had released the uniformed Gardai who made their way to their respective cars. Some of the lamps were dismantled but there was just enough light for the activity which was continuing near the portakabins and ambulances, and the cars which Silas assumed belonged to government officials waited silently for their cue to participate in the extravaganza.
He noticed that the albino with the fur-collared coat had been collected and accompanied away by a paramedic. Only the Priest remained, and on seeing Silas turn around, hurried towards them.
“Mysterious ways…” he said, breathlessly, tugging at his cassock in order to keep his balance on the grassy incline. “How are you, my son?”
The enormous lump that had settled in his throat prevented him from speaking and the Priest nodded towards Blossom who saved him from the embarrassment of a non-reply.
“Silas and Clodagh were very close.” She told him. “He’s not sure if he’ll ever get to see her again.”
“I understand.” It was an obvious statement in the circumstances, but then he surpris
ed them by saying. “I came to know her quite well. During the last few months.”
So, he was from the church in Ennis that she used to visit. Silas held her cloak even closer, like a child with a security blanket that he would never allow out of his sight.
“I was asked to come here by Superintendent Doyle,” the Priest continued. “He thought I might be of some assistance.”
He glanced towards the area where the dancers were being held. “If I can be of no help to you, Silas, then I will see if there’s anything I can do for them.”
Silas loosened his grip on Clodagh’s cloak and in a voice that quivered with the despair he was now feeling, startled Blossom by blurting out.
“It seems I am experiencing the one sin that cannot be forgiven, Father. So pray for me.”
*
The Huffington Post. December 2015.
“Mystery of Arcanum dancers solved?”
Article by Victoria Kline
It is now nearly two weeks since the Irish dance troupe Arcanum was discovered in County Clare in the Republic of Ireland having escaped from a remote location where they had been held captive by person or persons unknown after one of the greatest search operations in history.
The Co. Clare Garda and officials from the CIB have been unusually coy about releasing information regarding the circumstances in which the twenty-five young people were abducted and it is believed that their captors absconded with the tour bus and as yet have not been caught and apprehended.
Some of the dancers who have spoken to the media have described the bus as having broken down just off the M18 while on diversion to Ennis following an earlier accident in the early hours of Tuesday 15th September.
They have described being led to a farmer’s outbuildings by an elderly woman where they were informed they could not be released as they would be arrested. The farmer, who told them his name was Mick, forced them to sleep in a barn where they were fed simple food and guarded over by a fierce black dog.
