by Lyn Hamilton
I told them the story, with a lot of help from Malachy and Kevin.
Throughout this conversation, Breeta said nothing, although she looked shocked enough when she heard the story. She seemed sort of out of it, somehow, her mind somewhere else entirely. I’d offered her a drink, but she didn’t take me up on it, and sat, instead, holding a glass of soda water, which she barely touched, as she stared into the flames of the fireplace across from us.
“I’ve lost my job,” she said, suddenly rousing herself from her torpor.
“Oh dear,” I said. “That’s too bad. What happened?”
She was silent for a moment or two. “I’ve been working in a dress shop,” she said finally. “A very fancy dress shop, in Killarney. I think,” she said slowly, “I think—they didn’t say so, but they didn’t think I looked good enough to work there. They wanted someone who looked better in the clothes.” Her lip trembled, but she didn’t cry.
“What do you mean, Bree?” Michael exclaimed. “What do you mean you didn’t look good enough to work there?”
“I’ve put on so much weight,” she said. A tear slipped out of one comer of her eye. She brushed it away angrily. “And they’re right. I don’t look good in the clothes. I don’t care about the job. It wasn’t very interesting,” she went on. “But I’ll have to give up my flat in a couple of weeks, and I don’t know where I’ll go.”
“I think you’re just beautiful, Bree,” Michael said, his voice hoarse. “And you can stay with me. I know I’m not good enough for you, working on your family’s estate and everything. But I have that little flat in the staff cottage. Now that John Herlihy’s gone, maybe I can get his. It’s bigger, with a little kitchen and everything. There’s room for ...” He stopped and looked down at his rough hands. “There’s room for all of us.”
I wasn’t sure who all of us were, but I thought his offer was very nice, and Breeta could do a lot worse. Michael wasn’t exceptionally bright, maybe, but he was smart enough, and he was also kind and generous, and obviously sweet on Breeta.
“Thank you, Michael,” Breeta said softly. “I appreciate your offer. Very, very much. It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I will have to think about it, but ...” Her voice trailed off, and they both sat looking at each other.
Ain’t love grand? I thought. Certainly it was thawing Breeta, which was nice.
“That settles it. We’ll have to look for that treasure,” Michael said suddenly. “Really look for it. I mean it. Everything will be all right, Bree. There’ll be lots of money. We can all look together. I’m sure there will be enough to go around when we find it. You can have my share.” He paused. “I forgot,” he said, turning to me. “What happened when you went to ask about Breeta’s clue?”
“We were stunningly unsuccessful,” I said, as Alex nodded. “Your mother,” I said looking at Breeta, “insists it was an ordinary robbery. Some money was taken from the safe along with the clue, if we believe the clue is really missing, and a map or two. She also said the family has decided to have nothing whatsoever to do with the hunt for your father’s treasure.”
“I don’t believe that,” Malachy said indignantly. “What was that shite Conail O’Connor doing at our place if he wasn’t looking for the treasure?”
“But we don’t need them, do we?” Michael persisted. “Breeta knows the poem. Come on, Bree. Tell us about the poem. Please!”
“Oh, Michael, you’re such an optimist. Touched in the head. Maybe Da was just making a joke, teasing us all.”
“And maybe he wasn’t! It’s worth a try, anyway. What do we have to lose?”
Breeta looked over at him affectionately. “All right,” she said at last. “It’s called ‘The Song of Amairgen,’ and it is supposed to be the words spoken by Amairgen of the White Knee as he set his right foot on Ireland’s shore. My father made me translate it from the Old Irish, and to memorize it. It goes something like this. I am the sea-swell, the furious wave, the roar of the sea.” The sound of her voice was lovely, the Irish lilt and cadence carrying the words along.
“Her Da taught her well!” Kevin exclaimed, his hand cupped over his ear. “Young people today, hardly any of them are interested in the old tales, want to pretend the past doesn’t matter, but Breeta always was. She’s like her Da in more ways than one.”
“Hush,” Malachy said.
“I am a ray of the sun.” As she spoke, Michael reached out and took her hand. This time she did not pull it away.
“I am the beauty of a plant.” These were lovely images, and I found myself falling under the spell of the words. And so it went until she came near the end. “Who drives cattle off from Tara,” she said. “That fine herd that touches each skill.” She paused for a moment. “That’s the translation, but there are some who have interpreted these phrases about the cattle as being about the stars, rather than the herd. It’s a question, almost, like ‘Who calls the stars? On whom do the stars shine?”’
“I hope they shine for us,” Michael said fervently.
One thing was certain, the stars were not shining for Conail O’Connor. The door of the bar burst open, and a very drunk Conail lurched in. His hair was matted down by rain, and his jaw looked swollen and sore, his face flushed with alcohol. I felt a surge of panic as I saw him look our way. But it wasn’t us he was looking for.
“Nuala,” he roared. “Get your coat. We’re going home! As for you, gobshite,” he said, grabbing the man next to Fionuala, one who’d been the object of her charms since Rob had left, “keep yer fecking hands off my wife.”
The man stumbled as Conail pulled him off the bar stool.
“Now, Conail,” Aidan, the proprietor and bartender, said. “Calm down now, will you?”
“I wasn’t doing nothin’,” the other man said. “Just talking, that’s all.”
“Talk to somebody else,” Conail shouted. “Come, Nuala. Now!”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Conail,” she replied. “And it isn’t your home, anymore. You and I are finished. Don’t you dare darken my door or come anywhere near Second Chance ever again!”
Conail grabbed her arm, his face contorted with rage. Several people stepped back. I sensed rather than saw a few people slip out the door preferring to brave the rain than to be involved in this nasty little scene.
“Mr. O‘Connor,” Garda Minogue’s calm voice said. She was out of uniform, looking softer and rather pretty, in fact, but there was no ignoring her tone. “Might I suggest you get a room at the hotel down the street before you find yourself spending the night in jail. Let go of Mrs. O’Connor’s arm, please.”
Conail, still holding Fionuala’s arm, ignored her and started yanking his wife toward the door.
“I believe Garda Minogue has asked you to let go of Mrs. O’Connor and leave the premises,” Rob said. I hadn’t seen him come back, but I made a mental note to tell him his timing was impeccable. “I suggest you do exactly as she says,” he said, with an emphasis on exactly. He was standing very still, arms down at his side, but there was a degree of readiness there, I could tell, to move very fast if he had to. There was also something in his voice I’d never heard before, something that said Conail had better comply. Conail apparently heard it too, because after a second or two, he let go and left the bar, shoving a table by the door very hard as he did so, sending several glasses crashing to the floor.
Absolute silence greeted his abrupt departure. A few more guests followed Conail out into the street. The Conail O’Connors of this world could not be said to be good for business.
“How about a jig or two, Malachy,” Aidan said finally, grabbing a broom and dustbin. “Free drinks all evening for you if you’ll help me entertain my guests here.”
“Done,” Malachy said. One of the waiters took the broom and started working away at the trail of broken glass Conail had left behind. Aidan disappeared into a back room for a moment and came back with a fiddle and a Celtic drum. “Where’s Sheila?” someone called
from the crowd.
“In the back, where else?” Aidan said. “But I’ll get her out for this.”
Sheila, Aidan’s wife and co-proprietor came out of the back room, her face pink and steamy from the kitchen. “Where’s your flute?” the man in the back called. Sheila grinned. “We’re having a bit of a ceilidh, are we?” she said, pulling a tin flute out of her back pocket. “I had a feeling we might when I saw Malachy and Kevin come in. It’s grand to have you back, Breeta,” she said.
“What’s a ceilidh?” Jennifer asked.
“A musical event,” the man at the next table said. “Brought your dancing shoes, have you?”
Aidan watched as Malachy pulled the bow across the strings a couple of times, tuning his instrument. “Pick the tune, Malachy,” he said, “and we’ll follow you.”
“Best call your uncle,” Kevin shouted to one of the young men at the bar, who nodded and headed for the phone. “One of Denny’s sister’s boys. Denny should be here.”
Malachy launched into a rousing number, followed by Sheila on the flute. Aidan marked the beat on the bodhran. It was a real toe-tapper, and pretty soon the crowd was swaying in time to the music, and one of the older women in the crowd started to dance. Within a minute to two, the furniture was moved back against the wall, and Malachy was fiddling as fast as he could. Jennifer grabbed Alex’s arm and pulled him up. Breeta shyly reached over and took Michael’s hand. Maeve even convinced Rob to get up and dance, an event I considered extraordinary. Kevin stood up, a little shakily, and bowed very formally. “May I have the pleasure of a whirl around the floor?” he asked me. I didn’t know the steps, but it didn’t really seem to matter. In truth, it seemed impossible to sit still. Everyone who was able to was laughing and drinking and dancing enthusiastically. Those too old to dance were smiling and clapping in time to the music and singing along. Everyone that is, except Fionuala, who stood for a few moments at the edge of the crowd, clapping half-heartedly in time to the music, her face a study in conflicting emotions. After a few twirls with Kevin, I turned to look for her again, but she was gone, and soon both she and Conail were quite forgotten, as the music and the conviviality restored everyone’s spirits.
When most of us were breathless, Aidan yelled above the din. “We’ll have to take a break for a moment!” he shouted. “I have to make a living, don’t I? So who’s for another drink, and for some of Sheila’s food? Best bar fare in town!”
Breeta and Michael collapsed, laughing, onto the stools at our table. Jennifer and Alex joined us shortly thereafter. “That was brilliant!” Jennifer gasped. “Absolutely brilliant.” And it was. The whole evening had an exuberance and spontaneity to it that was sadly lacking in much of the music and dance that is promoted as Celtic these days. This was the real thing. Jennifer reached over and hugged me. “I’m having the best time,” she said. “Ever!” I hugged her back.
“There’ll be a music festival on here in two, three weeks,” Michael said. “There’ll be music and dancing everywhere in town. Too bad you won’t be here. Or maybe you will. Maybe you’ll be enchanted by the place—plenty are—and want to stay forever. It happens, you know.”
“Let’s stay!” Jennifer said. So much for the girl who hadn’t wanted to leave her friends in Toronto even for a week or two.
Malachy and Kevin were up at the bar, now, and Aidan was pouring them both a drink, and one for Denny if he’d promise a story. “All right then,” Aidan shouted over the din a few minutes. “If you’ll fortify yourselves with a little liquid libation, we’ll be hearing a tale from Denny.” There was a roar and some foot stomping approval.
“Tell about the time you heard the banshee, Denny,” a young woman at the back called out.
“Someone get Denny’s chair,” Aidan said, and a rocker was quickly pulled up in front of the fire.
“In honor of Breeta’s return to The Three Sisters, she can pick the story,” Denny said.
“Pick a good one, Breeta,” a man called out.
Breeta thought for a moment. “In honor of my Da,” she said at last, “I’d like one of the old ones, Denny. Tell us the story of how the Good People came to rule Ireland.”
“Good choice, Breeta,” Malachy said.
Denny rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment or two.
“The tale I’m telling you now happened a long, long time ago,” he began. “Before Amairgen and the Sons of Mil set foot on these shores. Not so far back as the plague that killed the sons and daughters of Partholan. Not so far back as that. But a long time ago, even so.
“In those days, there were giants roamed the earth, and creatures with one leg and one arm, like serpents came out of the sea. Back then, unsheathed weapons told tales, the sky could rain fire, and the shrieks of the Hag would be heard in the night.
“And it was then that the fiercest of battles, the struggle of light over darkness, were fought and won by the Tuatha dé Danaan.”
The bar was absolutely silent. Three small children, sons and daughter of the innkeepers, crept into the room and sat on the floor, transfixed. Driving rain splattered against the window, and the fire cracked and hissed.
“Now there’s many a story about how the dé Danaan came to be here in Ireland. Many a tale. Some say they came from Scythia, driven out by the Philistines; others say they came from northern realms, from four glorious cities where they learned magic and druidic skills.
“There’s more than one tale about how they arrived. Some say they arrived in a mist, others that they came in ships which they burned so they would not fall into Fomorian hands or so they themselves would not be able to flee.
“However they got here, when the smoke or mist cleared, the Fir Bolg, for it was them who lived in the western reaches of our island, found the Tuatha dé had already fortified their place.
“The two groups met. They inspected each other’s weapons, those of the Fir Bolg heavy and fierce-looking, the Tuatha dé’s light and agile. ‘We should divide up the island equally,’ the Tuatha dé told the Fir Bolg.
“But the Fir Bolg were not impressed by the weapons of these newcomers, and they decided not to accept the offer, but instead to fight. And thus it was that the first mighty Battle of Mag Tuired was fought on a plain near Cong. At the head of the Fir Bolg was Eochaid, son of Erc; leading the Tuatha dé was the prince Nuada.”
“Nuada Silver Hand,” one of the children called out.
“Nuada Argat-lam, Nuada Silver Arm,” Denny agreed. “But he wasn’t called that just yet, not till after the battle, and I’ll tell you why. The battle was fierce, and there were heavy losses on both sides. But the Tuatha dé won victory and pressed the Fir Bolg northward, where eleven hundred were slain, among them Eochaid, son of Erc.
“But there was a price to pay. In that wondrous battle, Nuada lost his hand. Diancecht the healer and Credne the brazier made for him a silver hand, which worked just like the one you have,” Denny said, grabbing one of the children’s arms. “For the Tuatha dé had the magic, didn’t they?
“But this was a great loss for the Tuatha dé, for Nuada could no longer be their king, Tuatha dé kings having to be perfect, and even though the silver hand worked so well, Nuada was no longer considered perfect. So the kingship fell to Bres, the beautiful, who was not only half Fomorian, but a very bad king. And the Fomorians exacted so much tribute from the Tuatha dé that they suffered greatly, even their gods, like the Dagda and the rest. Just when it seemed darkest, a new champion arose, the greatest of them all, Lugh Lamfada, Lugh of the Long Arm, and he, along with the other gods, and Nuada, with a real arm now, through magic made, fought the second great battle of Mag Tuired, more vicious than the first, the battle for supremacy over the dreaded Fomorians.”
What followed was a wonderful tale, of magic harps, swords and spears, of gods and goddesses, of prophecies and promises broken, of bravery and treachery, of fathers killed by sons, and sons by fathers, and in the end, the death of Nuada on the field of battle, and a prophecy, from t
he Morrigan, goddess of war, of the end of the world.
“And this is only one of the tales of the Tuatha dé,” Denny concluded. “There are many more, until, as you all know, they were defeated at last by the Sons of Mil and banished to the sidhe, the islands and the underworld, where they live to this day.” He paused for a moment. “And how about a little something to wet the whistle, barman?” he said.
The crowd applauded, then turned back to their friends and their drinks, and soon the room was a din of conviviality.
As the others chatted away, I couldn’t help my mind wandering a little, back to the unpleasant episodes with Conail earlier in the day. Extenuating circumstances, Garda Minogue had said, in explaining why they wouldn’t be laying charges against O‘Connor. If the recent ugly scene was anything to go by, those extenuating circumstances included a bad fight with his wife, one which could have signalled the end of the marriage, a fact that could have resulted in O’Connor’s reckless exit from Second Chance that afternoon as we were arriving, and his ill humor later on. Just as his wife inherited half of Byrne Enterprises, by all accounts a very successful business, and one he’d had a hand in running, or running down, to use Byrne’s own words, Fionuala turfed him out. No wonder his excessive fervor in searching out the clue: He’d want to beat that family to the treasure, whatever it was, even more than I did.
“Have you thought about what your father’s treasure might be, Bree?” Michael was asking as I returned to the present from my reverie.
“Of course I have,” she replied. “I’ve thought about it and him a lot.”
“So?”
“I think he was telling us that whatever it is is very, very old. He chose Amairgen’s chant after all. That makes it Celtic, that I’m sure of, or maybe something from the time of Amairgen.”
“So when exactly is that?” Jennifer asked.
“Any time after about 200 B.C.,” Breeta replied. “It could be as late as the twelfth or even the fifteenth century, when the ‘Song of Amairgen’ was written down.”
