by S. Robertson
The four travelers departed Dublin about eight in the morning for an expected four hour drive to Galway Bay. So far, everything was going according to plan. Upon arrival in Dublin, Angi and Vette went to the Bawly Hotel, a short distance from the airport, to await the arrival of the others. In time, Wolfram appeared from Amsterdam and Dr. Andrew Sinclair from Edinburgh with two companions; Dana Norcross, a female associate from his history department at Edinburgh University who was a Celtic history expert and Dylan Gabriel, who he had hired as a driver. Few details were provided on these two companions. The meeting was brief. Andrew, because of prior commitments, had to return to Edinburgh. He would join them later. As expected, Vette had to bid her good-byes in Dublin to return to Canada, but vowed she’d return.
Angi and Dana sat in the back seat of the blue Peugeot SUV while Wolfram did map duty in the front with Dylan. Dylan’s skill at exiting Dublin during the morning rush-hour spoke volumes. Their journey on the M6 motorway would take them westward to the outskirts of Galway. It was a clear day, the sun dancing across the green fields.
Still jet-lagged, Angi relaxed, trying to conserve her energies and ease the nausea which kept reoccurring. This being her first, and possibly last, trip to Ireland, she wanted to soak in every scene. She wasn’t in the mood for much chit chat. The medallion had now become part of her. There were no untoward comments as she slipped through airport security systems. With some free time, she began to assess her new travel companions.
Dana was a slight woman, with dark brown hair, piercing eyes and a somewhat fragile personality. In her late forties, she was an associate professor at Edinburgh University. Symptoms of her recent divorce erupted in her occasional sarcastic comment about men. “The fact that her former husband was an American doesn’t endear her to Wolfram and me,” thought Angi. “Her anti-American jabs, cloaked in humor, are not appreciated. Let’s hope she gets past this.” Dana’s English public school accent portrayed her posh school upbringing, a fact she imprinted on Angi in their initial conversation. From the little Angi could gather, Dana had been in Scotland for about ten years, having gone there from London with her American husband when he got a well-paying job with a technology company. With both jobs, even with the economic downturn, they lived well. Two surprises were that this was Dana’s first trip to Ireland and she portrayed scant interest in the medallion. Angi got the impression that Andrew had not divulged much, so she followed suit.
Dylan, she knew, was more than a hired chauffeur. His silence and rapid action portrayed recent frontline experience, possibly military. A stocky individual, his hardened athletic physique, and alert mannerisms, to both traffic and his surroundings, conveyed a message of someone under strict orders. Conversation was terse and there was little humor in his frozen expression. Angi thought to herself, “I’ll let Wolfram get a bead on Dylan. I’m sure he’s been hand-picked by Andrew.” Then she smiled, “Perhaps it’s because of his surname. We could use an angel or two.”
On the outskirts of Galway they stopped for directions to Brigit’s house which, they were told, was about twenty kilometers west of the city centre in Inverin, a peaceful Gaeltacht village, where the main language was Irish. They had no trouble finding the stately white house with its large bay windows perched on a raised outcrop of land overlooking the bay. The wide driveway had gardens, trees and bushes on the right, raised flower beds in the front garden, and, to the left, a winding path which seemed to lead down to a secluded beach. The house, once exclusive, was losing its uniqueness as new housing developments encroached on the property. Sea gulls trumpeted their arrival.
Within seconds, Brigit, a stocky woman, with graying red hair dressed in casual slacks and a loose top, exited the front door to greet them. From Nellie’s letters, Brigit immediately identified Angi who was the first to alight from the van. “Well, well, well, what a delight to welcome Nellie’s granddaughter. Angi, my dear, I feel as if I’ve known you all your life. Nellie’s letters were filled with your accomplishments. She loved you dearly. Welcome……a thousand welcomes to my home and this Sacred Isle,” and she stepped forward and hugged Angi.
Angi was touched by Brigit’s warmth, it was like coming home to a cherished aunt. Pulling herself away from the embrace, she turned to introduce her companions. “Brigit, this is Dana Norcross from Edinburgh University, Dylan Gabriel from Scotland, and Wolfram Stark from the United States,” further details were either unknown or unnecessary as she had recently chatted with Brigit on the telephone in making the arrangements. With formalities over, they grabbed their bags and walked behind Brigit towards the house.
At the entrance, a slim, red-haired girl, about twelve, stepped out of the kitchen. “This is my granddaughter, Caitlin Hegarty, who is staying with me while her parents, both doctors, are in Dublin,” said Brigit proudly.
The house was deceiving. From the outside it looked like an ordinary bungalow, but its back split design expanded its overall floor plan. The large double windows gave the interior a bright cottage appearance, the mixed furniture décor creating a relaxed atmosphere. Brigit provided a few comments on their new setting. “The house is over sixty years old. There are two bedrooms in the lower level for the men, and three on this level.” Smiling, she continued, “Gentlemen, this is not a segregation of the sexes, just the type of accommodations.”
Caitlin escorted Angi and Dana to their similar- sized modest bedrooms with en suite bathrooms and windows overlooking the bay, the billowing curtains disturbed by a warm sea breeze coming in from the Atlantic. Brigit went with Wolfram and Dylan to their rooms, which also had a bay view but were smaller with a shared bathroom. Once settled, Brigit invited her guests for refreshments on the sundeck. As they sat around a deck table enjoying a welcomed break, they got acquainted.
Angi watched Caitlin as she replenished the trays. Fascinated with her short copper-red hair, she remembered reading that red hair, a genetic mutation, existed in less than 4% of the world’s population, the highest percentage found in Scotland and Ireland. Looking into Caitlin’s hazel eyes, Angi contemplated, “Caitlin’s a perfect candidate for the medallion. She’s looks the part, was born in Ireland and likely speaks Gaelic. I’ll tuck that away for later.”
“This is a magnificent view,” said Wolfram, looking out over the bay and the Aran Islands, “have you lived here long?”
“My husband and I renovated an existing house in the sixties, and chose the site for its view,” replied Brigit.
“How has Galway faired in the recent economic downturn?” asked Wolfram with concern, having read about the Irish economy in a Dublin newspaper.
“They keep telling us that Galway is doing better than most. We’re supposed to be the fastest growing city in Europe, and it’s the third largest city in the Republic. I’m sure you encountered our summer traffic jam on your way in. There are still plenty of festivals and racing events during the summer which attract thousands. Obviously, someone has money but others are struggling. Galway keeps returning to its pre-occupation days of trade, commerce and making money, which should help us in these economic uncertainties.”
Deciding to enter the conversation, Dana barged in on another tack, “Now that ‘The Troubles’ have passed life must be easier for everyone in Ireland.”
Angi spotted Caitlin’s worried look waiting for her grandmother’s reply.
Brigit chose her words carefully. “Well, unfortunately, ‘The Troubles’ continue to haunt us, striking a major blow to our family in the nineties.” Struggling to continue, she went on, “In 1993, my son of thirty-two, went to Northern Ireland to visit some old university friends. Unfortunately, they chose the wrong day to go to the Rising Sun Bar for drinks. That was the time of the Greysteel massacre. Eight civilians and others were shot, my son, badly wounded, died weeks later. The shooting was carried out by a small group calling themselves the Ulster Freedom Fighters, a loyalist paramilitary group of the IRA. My husband never got over the loss of his son and died of cancer over a decade
later.”
Dana blurted out, “Well, at least it wasn’t the British who killed him.”
Everyone froze.
Brigit response was crisp, “The IRA wouldn’t have existed if it hadn’t been for the British. As far as I’m concerned the occupation of Ireland was worse than the Black Plague. But let’s speak no more of this,” a command to change the topic.
Dana realized her blunder and shut down.
Angi held her fire. “How rude ….……she’s obviously brittle from her divorce but she doesn’t need to take it out on everyone. Brigit handled it nobly, likely years of trying to be civil in dealing with such stupid comments. What’s that old phrase ‘It’s the conquerors who write the history books’? Such personal tragedies in our Western societies have been well sanitized in our history books. Imagine the hell my ancestors must have faced in the 1600s, caught up in insurmountable political and religious fanaticism which would take centuries to play out, the wounds still palpable in the 21st century. I have much to learn.”
Desperate to shift direction yet wanting to say something about Ireland, Brigit pressed on, “For centuries, the Irish have endured much; a foreign occupation, a ponderous religion, famines, economic ups-and-downs, our citizens forced to flee to other countries and always this mystical climate of mist and drizzle and through it all, we have stubbornly survived. The Irish seem to have an inverse relationship with life; the worse fate throws at them the more we ratchet up our wit, words and song. We’ve watched the coming and going of a number of cultures and empires. It’s no wonder so many are turning to our ancient, powerful and pagan past. Perhaps in completing some cosmic cycle, we’ll rediscover our souls with our dignity intact.” Glancing at her watch she announced, “Oh dear, look at the time. I need some private time with Angi. Can I leave you three in Caitlin’s capable hands?”
Wolfram reacted. “I wonder Brigit, if I may accompany you both? I’ll be glad to remain at a distance if you want to talk privately. Is that OK?”
Before Brigit could reply, Angi intervened. “Much water has poured under the bridge since my grandmother’s death, Brigit. I would appreciate Wolfram’s presence.”
Brigit realized Nellie’s death was likely not singular. Anyway, she thought, he’s practically a Guardian, so responded, “No problem, Wolfram, come along.” The three departed as Dana moved onto a lounge chair and Dylan continued his lunchtime repast.
Dana felt out of place. “If I had known we were heading to Dr. Brigit O’Keefe’s home I would have excused myself. She’s got more credentials in Celtic culture than I have. She’s known as an expert in the field, has written numerous books, and speaks Gaelic. After ten years I’m being surpassed in my own field by native Irish and Scots, many who speak Gaelic. I chose this academic specialty because I wanted to prove King Arthur was English, and enjoyed the limelight while it lasted. I was assured a senior university post until Andrew Sinclair appeared with his Scottish pedigree, international experience, academic credentials and he speaks several languages, including Gaelic. It’s time to move on….but where; maybe London……or perhaps to something else? I wonder what skullduggery those three are up to, hell, who cares. Today, I’ll soak up the sunshine and enjoy the sea breeze.”
Brigit led the silent party along a well-worn, earthen path beside the house. They walked through flowering bushes to a shadowy enclosure with a circular well of large gray stones. Trickling water could be heard. The heavy treed canopy blocked out light and sound. One large tree, a hawthorn, commanded the site. Sunlight flickered through the leaves. Overhead the tree branches were decorated with rags, neckties, dolls and pictures. The air was cool, almost clammy. Angi’s immediate reaction was, “How strange, it has an aura of timelessness. Maybe it’s one of Ireland’s sacred wells.” Before she had time to ask, Brigit broke the silence.
“This was the second reason for buying this property. My grandmother and mother brought me here as a child. With all the upheavals my family felt this was the safest place to hide our gemstone, as rarely did the insurgents attack the sacred wells. Even the Catholic Church could not extinguish them so renamed them after female saints in recognition of the feminine principle.”
“Brigit, what makes this place so special?” asked Angi.
“For generations we Irish identified certain places like this as ‘thin places’ where, we believe, the veil separating the physical world from the otherworld weakens. Thin places may be sacred wells, stone circles, old monasteries, places of natural beauty and, of course, the Hill of Tara. This concept goes back to the time of the Druids.”
“What are the cloths for?” asked Angi, intrigued as she watched them flutter in the breeze.
“These are offerings, the cloths are called clouties by the Irish or clooties by the Scots, a slang word for rag which likely comes from the Gaeilge word cluidin meaning ‘small covering’. My neighbors and others have free access to the well. The offerings are from many people over time.”
Wolfram, taking the opportunity, shifted the discussion. “I saw your academic credentials on the study wall, Brigit; you have a PhD in Celtic Studies. Does your daughter share your passion?”
“My daughter, a scientist, disowned her Celtic heritage years ago. She equates it in the same league as spirituality. For this reason, I was training Caitlin to succeed me as the next Guardian.”
As she answered their questions, Brigit circled the well three times clockwise. Stopping, she made an about face towards a stone wall hidden in the enclosure gloom. Above her head, she began to dislodge an inconspicuous black stone. Placing the stone on a small ledge, she reached into the opening and pulled out an oilskin bag. Undoing the tie, she retrieved a purple velvet bag, out of which she pulled a familiar gold and silver engraved box. From within the box she released a gemstone, identical in shape to the others, and held it up to catch the sunlight.
“Being Irish I would have preferred an emerald,” said Brigit with a smile, “but this Golden Topaz was a perfect choice for our family. In my reading I learned that this gemstone attracts wealth, well-being and love, and is supposed to replace negativity with love and joyfulness, a quality I needed over the years. It’s also known as the stone of true love and success. Now, Angi, is it possible for me to witness how the Serpent’s Medallion receives my family gemstone as, I assume, it’s unique?”
“Yes”, replied Angi, receiving the Golden Topaz from Brigit and, taking a small plastic gem holder provided by Nat, she positioned the gemstone by one of its marquee tips and moved it close to the medallion. “I’m not sure what will happen as I’ve never personally held a gemstone like this for transfer but, I’ll trust it’ll do me no harm.”
Within seconds, the center stone started vibrating, then the dancing sparks culminated in a single arc of light which lifted the exposed gemstone into the air towards the medallion, inserting it firmly into its rightful socket, and locking it in place.
Wolfram watched, “Just like a robotic-computer device, it recognizes each authentic gemstone and knows precisely its position in the medallion. It’s likely set to reject substitutes. But when and by whom was this program designed? If the medallion is hundreds or even thousands of years old, it defies our current knowledge leaving us with overwhelming questions. I prefer predictability. This makes me uncomfortable. But I must press on with this quest if I ever hope to return to my life in Boston.”
Speechless, Brigit whispered her first words, “Glory be to God…….. How fantastic……..what is it........the rumors understated its power…….and it still awaits other gems. I can hardly believe what I’ve just witnessed. Thank you for allowing these tired old eyes this demonstration. The sacrifice was indeed warranted.” Then, looking at the gemstone container she asked, “I suppose you want this wee box?”
“Yes,” replied Angi, “for now we are collecting them in case they might be needed down the road.”
Brigit returned the gold and silver box to its purple bag and handed it to Angi. She tucked the oilskin bag
back into the stone safe, and placed the black stone firmly in place, tapping it and saying “Thank you for your protection.” Turning, she explained, “We always give thanks for nature’s blessings. Now, while there’s time, let me try and answer your questions, for I’m sure you have many.”
Wolfram responded, “Brigit, why did you call this the Serpent’s Medallion?”
“It is called the Serpent’s Medallion because it comes from the Dragon Lords of Anu, the Ring Lords, known to the Irish as the Tuantha De Danann.”
Surprised, Angi asked, “Brigit, surely you’re not referring to the Lord of the Rings saga? I thought that was fiction.”
“Actually Angi, like so many books of fiction, there are often real facts hidden between the lines. The Ring Lords did exist, and it is this medallion which links these ancient people to the 21st Century. As a child I was told the medallion was left in this dimension, to herald ‘the coming times’. The Tuantha De Danann were known by many names; the Lords of Anu, the Black Sea Princes of Scythia, the Royal Scyths, the Good People, the Gentry, the Sidhe or the Tylwth Teg. Some say they were the neutral angels who were cast out of heaven after God banished Lucifer and the rebel angels to hell. Today, we dishonor their memory by referring to them as diminutive elves or fairies.”
“Wow”, thought Angi, “Mr Aucoin’s, ‘Lords of Anu’ have finally surfaced.” Overwhelmed, she responded to the possibility of Brigit’s apparent comfort in revelations about Ireland’s past, “Go on, Brigit, you’re the first Guardian that seems to have any depth of knowledge about the medallion.”
“To begin,” asked Wolfram, “I’m assuming the Tuantha De Danann were not originally from Ireland, if so, where did they come from? When did they get here? And do they still exist?”
