by Lyn Hamilton
“So, this means that when we get this far, there are no more clues,” Jennifer said. “Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“I guess so. We’re still missing some lines before this. We would have to try and find them, to see if there are any ogham clues that go with them, and maybe one or two lines after this one to see if they are blank too. Then we’d know.”
“The lines from this one, the one about the mountain paths,” Malachy said, looking at the copy of the poem Jennifer had brought with her, “are slightly different in structure. Instead of I am something or other, they start with he who: he who clears the mountain paths, he who describes the passage of the moon and so on. So maybe we have come to the end of the clues. Maybe we need to find the missing ones before that. We’re missing the one about the stag of seven battles and the ray of the sun, aren’t we?”
“Not anymore,” I said. “We now have ray of the sun, which is,” I paused to hold up my notes.
“Grianan Ailech to Granard down the line to the Celtic Sea,” Jennifer read aloud. “Where did you find this one?”
“The garda station,” I replied. “It’s a long story.” I felt vaguely guilty about handing over the clue I got from Rob. But I’d given him all the ones we had so far, hadn’t I?
“Did you get a chance to talk to Dad?” Jennifer asked. She looked a little lonely in a way, I thought, and missing him. She was wondering whether I’d told him about her and Paddy.
“Only briefly,” I said. “There were a lot of people around.” She looked relieved. “Don’t tell him I told you about Conail’s clue,” I added.
“Maybe we could do a deal here,” she said, a mischievous smile slowly appearing on her face.
“And maybe we couldn’t,” I said, although I found myself beginning to smile too. “Just don’t tell him.”
“What did she say?” Kevin asked.
“She said don’t tell Rob she told us the clue,” Malachy said directly into Kevin’s ear.
“Not that, the clue,” Kevin shouted. “What was the clue?”
“Grianan Ailech to Granard down the line to the Celtic Sea,” Malachy shouted back. A couple of other diners looked our way.
“I know Granard,” Kevin said. “It’s a town, County Longford, I believe. I don’t know about this ring of fire thing, but Granard’s a real place.”
“This is the first real place name we’ve had,” Paddy said. “Maybe it’s hidden in Granard. Maybe we should go there. I’ll see if I can keep the van for another day or two. We could leave tonight.”
Jennifer doing an overnighter with this guy? I didn’t think so.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “There are a lot of other clues we still haven’t found. Why don’t we just concentrate on finding them all, and then see what we’ve got.”
Jennifer looked disappointed. “I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “But I just want to get going and find this thing, whatever it is.”
“That’s a good point,” I said. “Eamon Byrne said the clues were about what it was, as well as where it was. Maybe the Granard clue is a what, not a where. Without the what, even if we knew where, we wouldn’t know what to look for. I mean is it bigger than a bread-box? Animal, vegetable, mineral?”
“I think it’s gold,” Malachy said. “The bogs. Eamon Byrne was in the turf business, peat. They’ve found all sorts of treasures hidden in the bogs, stashes of gold and everything. The Celts apparently hid stuff in the bogs, or maybe they threw it in as an offering or something. Roman coins, Viking treasures, gold torcs. Those are the metal collars the Celts wore around their necks,” he said to Jennifer. “In battle that was all they wore, that and their swords and shields. Starkers, they were, when they were fighting. Must have been something to see.” He roared with laughter and slapped his knee. “Denny has some good stories about those battles,” he said. “We’ll get him to tell them soon. That’s if you’re up to helping him to a whiskey or three, Lara,” he added.
“I am,” I replied. I had to laugh too. I loved these three old guys.
“So what’s left in the way of lines of the poem?” Paddy asked. “The stag of seven slaughters, I know, but what else?”
“Let’s see,” I said, looking at my notes. “Lake in a plain, a piercing spear waging war, and a god that fashions heroes for a lord, whatever that is.”
“Kevin has an idea for one of those,” Jennifer said. “We were going there after lunch. Some observatory, or something.”
“Oratory,” Malachy corrected her. “The Gallarus Oratory. Kevin thinks that would be the place for lake in a plain. Religious place, very ancient. Yer man Eamon Byrne’s kind of place. ‘Tis a bit obscure to be sure. The clues we’ve left are getting harder. But Kev sees it this way. There are no lakes in plains around here. They’re all in the mountain valleys. So he tinks ’tis the Gallarus Oratory, on account of it’s in the shape of an overturned boat, and it’s resting on one of the few flat areas there are. So if we’re done here, let’s get going.”
The Gallarus Oratory was an extraordinary structure, very old, and set in a windswept plain with a view over to the water far away and three hills that looked like curling waves whose motion had been caught and frozen in some cataclysmic event in earth’s early history. “The three sisters,” Malachy said, following my glance. “That’s what they’re called. Now come look at the oratory.”
It was made without mortar, just thousands and thousands of stones carefully placed to create a tiny early Christian church, maybe twenty feet by sixteen, its sides tapering up to form a corbelled arch roof and ceiling. It did indeed look a little like an upturned boat, its keel in the air. There was only one small window and one low door facing each other at either end.
I touched the walls inside. “A beauty, isn’t it?” Malachy said. “No mortar, but it’s still watertight, after a thousand years! More. It is supposed to date to the eighth century. It’s the same construction as those clocháns we saw on the slope of Mount Eagle, except they were round, and this is a rectangle. A beauty,” he repeated.
We heard a shout outside and hurried to find Jennifer and Paddy waving a piece of paper that had been folded and wedged until it was about an inch square.
“Found it around the back, between the stones,” Paddy said.
“Hurry up, open it!” Jennifer exclaimed. “I’ve got the alphabet.”
The two of them unfolded the paper as quickly as they could, but not fast enough for the others who crowded around.
“Is there anything on it?” Kevin asked, trying to peer over Paddy’s shoulder.
“There is!” Jennifer crowed. “But it’s too windy here. We’ll have to translate it later. What about the hero one, what could that be.”
“Now let’s think about that,” Malachy said, as we headed back to the van. “What do you say to the god that fashions heroes for a lord, Kev? Any of your brilliant ideas on this one?”
“Did you say hero?” Kev yelled.
“I did,” Malachy said.
“Well, who’s the greatest hero of the west of Ireland?” he said.
“Grand idea, Kev!” Malachy said.
“Okay,” I said. “I give up. Who is the greatest hero of the west of Ireland?”
Kevin and Malachy looked horrified at my ignorance. Paddy merely smiled and opened up the van.
“Why Fionn MacCumhail!” Malachy said, saying something that sounded like Finn McCool. “Head of the Fianna, wasn’t he? The greatest warriors ever. And, as it turns out, Fionn fought one of his greatest battles right here in Dingle. Can you get this thing moving any faster this time, now Paddy? And do you tink it’s up to the climb?” he said, giving a tire a little kick.
“We’ll go as fast as it will take us, Malachy,” Paddy said. “Fast as it will go. Now hop in. Will you be following behind, Ms. McClintoch?”
“Where are we going?”
“Two possibles. Fionn MacCumhail’s table, which is a dolmen in the Slieve Mish Mountains, or some sites around Ventry, where an
epic battle was fought by MacCumhail. The dolmen will be a bit of a climb, and I may have to be the one to do it. If that’s the case, I won’t be doing it today,” he said, squinting into the sun, now low.
“Then let’s pause here for a moment,” I said. “What about the other one, the one about the piercing spear waging war?”
Kevin scratched his head. “This one’s got me puzzled,” he said. “But I’ll keep thinking.”
“I’d think the piercing spear might very well be in Eamon’s own study,” I said. “It was filled with swords and spears and stuff. It could be Margaret’s clue—she claims she destroyed hers without looking at it—and if so, Eamon might have wanted to make it easy for her to find. The first one was right on the property, at least down in the little cove. Maybe this one is there, too. If it is, she’s probably found it already, unless she really meant it about not looking for any of them.”
“How would we get that one?” Jennifer asked. “We’d have to get into the house to do it.”
“Tere’s no way I’m going into that fecking place,” Paddy said.
“Me neither,” Malachy said.
“Nor I,” Kevin agreed.
“I was just passing by on my way to Rose Cottage,” I said, handing Margaret Byrne my card at the door of Second Chance. For a moment, she stared at it. “This is my assistant, Jennifer, by the way. Jennifer, this is Mrs. Byrne. I’m sorry to trouble you, and I’m not sure whether you were aware or not, but as you can see, I am the co-proprietor of an antiques and design shop in Toronto called Greenhalgh & McClintoch. I have noticed that your home is up for sale, and it occurred to me that you might be thinking of selling some of the contents. I’m particularly interested in some of your husband’s maps, which I saw the other day, if there are any that are not being given to Trinity College. I have a client who is a map collector and several of them are quite good. If those are not available,” I went on, “I’d be most grateful if you could show us anything that you’re thinking of selling.”
“We have not yet decided what we will be selling,” Margaret said reluctantly. “We will, of course, be getting rid of some things. We are thinking of moving to cozier quarters,” she said, “and won’t have the space, you understand.”
“Of course,” I agreed. Perhaps, I thought, the family really was as broke as everyone in town was saying. “I do hope you will decide before I leave for Canada, which I think will be very soon. By the way,” I said, taking an envelope from my bag and handing it to her. “A letter of reference from my bank.”
Margaret looked at it for a moment. “Come in,” she said at last.
“Will you be looking for another place around here?” I asked, brightly attempting to make conversation.
“I doubt it,” Margaret said. “I think I’d like to go back where I was born. It’s in Connemara. Do you know it?”
“I don’t,” I replied, “although I’ve heard Connemara’s spectacular. That’s close to Galway, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she replied. “Absolutely beautiful. I think I might like to go back.”
“Is that where you met your husband?” I asked. She nodded.
“Did you meet him after he’d been to sea, after he knew Alex?”
“Before that,” she said. “We were engaged, but he went off to sea. I became engaged to another man, but then Eamon returned, and I was swept off my feet again.” For a moment, she sounded sad, almost wistful, and I began to feel horribly guilty. This treasure hunt occasionally felt a little like a parlor game, and it was easy to forget that these were real people, with real feelings. It was only by concentrating on the task at hand and reminding myself that finding the treasure might be the key not only to Alex’s future, but also an end to the violence, that I was able to carry on. Then she turned abruptly. “Here,” she said. “My husband’s study.
“The people from Trinity College have been here as you can see,” she said, pointing to glass cabinets stripped bare, darker red marks showing where the weapons had rested against the velvet. “They have not left much. Are you interested in oils? These were my father’s. Quite good, I believe.” Not too sentimental, that woman, but perhaps she was just being pragmatic.
“Lovely, aren’t they, Jennifer?” I said. Jennifer nodded vigorously. In truth, there was only one oil there that had any value beyond the sentimental, in my opinion, so I made a note of that one. While Margaret stood watching us, we carefully looked everything over, lifting objects from time to time, moving others slightly to look under them. At last I found what I wanted; at least I was reasonably sure I had. I went to the glass doors and looked outside. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” I said before turning away. I was rather overusing lovely, it occurred to me, but perhaps it was because I was nervous.
My presence in the window was the signal for Alex, now hidden behind the potting shed, and who if found could claim to be crossing the property to get to Rose Cottage, to use my cell phone to call the house. The telephone rang three times. There was one in the room, but Margaret ignored it. A few moments later, Deirdre hove into view. Once again, she seemed surprised to see me. “It’s for you, Madam,” she said, ignoring me.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Margaret said. I was elated. I was banking on the fact that Margaret would not take a call in my presence. The trouble was, Deirdre stayed put.
Jennifer walked up to her. “Sorry, but would it be all right if I used the bathroom?” she asked. Deirdre looked startled and hesitated for a moment, and I thought all was lost.
“Oh, you mean the toilet,” she said finally. “Yes, please follow me.” Quickly I lifted the glass case, now empty, where once Byrne’s favorite spearhead, the one he attributed to Lugh Lamfada, had rested. I pulled the piece of paper out quickly, and by the time Margaret returned, I was standing looking out over the grounds once again.
“They hung up,” Margaret said.
“How annoying,” I said. “Ah, here’s Jennifer.” I looked around a little more, extracted a promise that she’d call me if she decided to sell the old Oriental carpets in the room, then offered more than it was worth for the painting, paid cash, and told her I’d send someone around to pick it up later, if that was satisfactory. Apparently it was.
A few minutes later, Jennifer and I were sitting in Rose Cottage with the others, clue in one hand, ogham alphabet in the other, Jennifer regaling them with the story of our adventure. By the time she was through with her tale, Margaret Byrne was only microseconds away from discovering what we were after, and Deirdre about to call the police.
The story was better, or more edifying at least, than the clue: “Umbilicus Hiberniae, the sacred center” it said. Not very helpful, but there was one more clue to go, if my theory was correct. Then we’d see what there was to see.
Alex had gone down to the pier and brought back some wonderful fish, determined to prepare a meal for us all, his first dinner party, he said, in his new home. It was somewhat daunting with no electricity, but Paddy got the fire roaring, Jennifer and I lit candles and set the table, and we had a rather jolly time of it in his cozy little cottage. There was the fish, cooked in a pan over the fire, potatoes hot from the coals and slathered in Irish butter, and lots of fresh vegetables followed by strawberries in thick Irish cream. It was a bit strained at first, between Paddy and me, although I could find nothing to fault in his manner that night, no matter how I tried. He was solicitous to Jennifer, kind to Malachy and Kevin, helpful to Alex, and generally stayed out of my way, calling me Ms. McClintoch when called upon to address me. He had the casual charm of the Irish that was quite disarming, when the conversation and the companionship drew him out of his normal reticence, and finally I decided a truce was in order. “We didn’t get off to a very good start the other day,” I said to him as we were setting out the food on the table.
“We didn’t,” he agreed.
“I thought you’d run us down in the water. It was your boat, I think,” I added carefully.
“Could have been,” he said.
“Do you still think I was at the helm?”
“No,” I replied. “Malachy and Kevin said you wouldn’t do such a thing, and that’s good enough for me.”
He smiled. “They’re grand old boys, aren’t they? And no, it wasn’t me, although I regret to say it may have been my boat. There were a few extra knots showing on her than there should have been for its just being in the boatworks. The boys at the works took her out to see she was going all right, after they’d worked on her, but not as far as all that.”
“Who do you think might have taken it?”
“Conail,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Kind of hotheaded thing he might do. Get us both at one time, if you see what I mean: scares you off the hunt and gets me in trouble at the same time. They’re a bad bunch up there at Second Chance,” he added. “Treated me rough, they did. Tink they’re better than everybody else, but they’re not. Except Eamon. He was a fine one. Took me in, made me feel like one of the family. Treated all of us right—Michael and John and me. Not her, though. Margaret. A bad piece of work, she is. Treated me like dirt. Conail too, and Sean. The two sisters, they went along with it.”
“Only two of them?”
“Not Breeta,” he said softly. “Not her. She’s a fine one, like her Da.”
“You should call me Lara,” I said.
“Should that be Aunt Lara?” he smiled.
“No, it shouldn’t,” I replied. Don’t push your luck, I thought.
Late in the evening, well fed and warmed by the conviviality, we left Alex ensconced in his cottage and picked our way carefully overland to the main road, not wishing to run into Sean McHugh and his rifle at night, and thence back to town. I dropped Malachy and Kevin off before going on to the friend of Paddy’s from whom he’d borrowed the van. He took off from there on his motorbike, and I took Jennifer back to the Inn.
