The Order of Brigid's Cross - The Wild Hunt (Book 1): The Wild Hunt

by Terri Reid

  “And, sorry to disappoint, but I am merely a priest, not a monk,” the priest continued. “Although I’ve heard that I do bear a striking resemblance to Friar Tuck. Hello, Gillian, my dear, good to have you back.”

  “Hello, Father Jack,” she replied. “Here’s the company I phoned you about. This is my fiancé, Professor Ian MacDougal.” She turned to Ian and motioned with her head in the priest’s direction.

  “Oh, sorry, yes,” Ian muttered, coming forward with an extended hand. “I apologize. I must say I’m a bit overwhelmed by your facility.”

  Father Jack took his hand, shook it with a surprisingly strong grasp and chuckled. “Well, as we don’t generally have many visitors,” he said, “I can’t really say if that’s a normal reaction, but it is understandable.”

  He looked past Ian to Sean. “And who is this?”

  Sean stepped forward. “I’m Detective Sean O’Reilly of the Chicago Police Department,” he replied, not allowing himself to be charmed by the engaging priest.

  “Sean O’Reilly,” the priest mused for a moment, and then his smiled widened. “You wouldn’t perhaps be related to Timothy O’Reilly, would you?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s my father,” Sean said, looking slowly around the hall. “What is this, a mind-meld and you’re peeking into my thoughts?”

  The chuckle turned into an outright belly laugh, and wiping his eyes after a few moments, the priest leaned against the wall for support. “I’d say you are your father’s son,” he choked. “Timmy wanted solid proof, evidence, before he’d believe anything.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Sean replied.

  “Well, there’s that thing called faith,” Father Jack said. “And it can’t be seen or touched.”

  “And it can’t solve crimes either,” Sean said. “Or be used as evidence in a trial. The judges have a real hard time with police officers saying, ‘Trust me. I know he’s guilty.’”

  Acknowledging the accuracy of his statement, Father Jack nodded. “That’s very true,” he replied. “But you see, I’m not in the trial by jury business. I’m in the confession business.”

  “I’ve had more than a few men confess when they’re looking down the barrel of my gun, Father,” Sean replied. “And I’m not just interested in making a collar. I’m looking for truth.”

  The priest studied Sean for a moment and then nodded his head slowly. “Then you’re in the right place, Sean O’Reilly,” he said seriously. “And we have need of a man with your talents.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gillian, Sean and Ian followed Father Jack down the narrow hall to the other end of the church building. The hall seemed to be endless. Finally, Father Jack opened a large door. “Welcome to the chapel,” he said. “Although, it’s nothing like what it used to be.”

  The room was nearly vacant, the scars of past furnishings still present on the old, wooden floor. The air still held the scent of decades of burning candles and incense, and some of the walls in the small enclaves, where Sean imagined the candles used to be housed, were dark from the years of smoke. The tall, plastered walls that encompassed the room were dingy grey, but Sean could see lighter places where the edges of the pews had protected them from becoming discolored. It was an interesting sight, row after row of lighter, chair-like shapes facing the altar as if a ghostly congregation was waiting for a sermon. Down the middle of the room, the wood floor was shiny and unblemished, probably where the carpeted runner had lain Sean thought.

  Turning to the front of the chapel, Sean could see that it was also empty, and except for the raised dais at the front of the room, there was no evidence of it being a former altar.

  “What happened to all the stuff?” Sean asked.

  “They were sent to churches all over the world,” Father Jack said. “The pews went to a church in Lithuania. The statuary went to churches all over the country, except for those donated by prominent families; they were returned to them for their own use.”

  “So some local hotshot has a Virgin Mary standing in his foyer?” Sean asked.

  Biting back a smile, the priest nodded.

  “I don’t see any problem with that,” Ian commented, stepping up next to Sean. “I’ve got religious artifacts in my home.”

  “Ian, you live in a freaking castle,” Sean said. “You’re supposed to have that kind of stuff there, right next to the suits of armor. But it’s a little weird to have a saint looking over your shoulder while you’re sitting on someone’s plastic-covered sofa in the living room.”

  “I agree that is odd,” Ian replied.

  Sean nodded with satisfaction. Finally, someone was agreeing with him. “Yes, it is,” he said with a pleased nod.

  “People actually have sofas covered with plastic?” Ian asked incredulously. “What’s the use?”

  Sean groaned and Father Jack laughed.

  “Well, back to the reason I brought you here,” Gillian interrupted, rolling her eyes in frustration. “There are some things you need to see before we talk about the Elk King.”

  Immediately alert, Father Jack turned to Gillian. “The Elk King?” he asked softly. “Here…in Chicago?”

  “Aye, it looks like the Wild Hunt paid a visit to a local park and interrupted a gang fight,” she informed him.

  The priest closed his eyes and crossed himself, then looked up with sorrow on his face. “How many?”

  With a sad shake of her head, she replied. “At least a hundred. They haven’t given Sean the full body count yet.”

  Sean watched the interplay between the priest and the young woman. The grief on the old man’s face was too raw, too personal. There was more going on here than mere interest. He decided to push the envelope and see what kind of reaction he’d get.

  “They’re still piecing bodies together to determine the count,” Sean stated baldly, watching the priest’s face. “There are body parts scattered all over the park.”

  Father Jack’s face blanched and he swayed slightly. Gillian rushed to his side, sending Sean an angry look as she helped the priest to a chair. “You had no right—” she began.

  But Sean wasn’t ready to back away yet. “Did you know this could happen? Could you have done something to prevent it?” he demanded.

  With a shaky sigh, the priest slowly nodded his head. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I knew something like this could happen.”

  He knew? Sean felt the rage grow inside him. He knew this was going to happen, and he never called the police?

  Following him over to the chair, Sean was ready to berate him when Gillian stepped between them. “He knew…we both knew… there was always a possibility,” she said. “But we didn’t really believe this could happen. They had always observed the conditions of the contract.”

  “A contract?” Ian asked. “What contract would have stopped this kind of massacre?”

  Father Jack lifted his head and with a determined nod, met Gillian’s eyes. Sean could see the change in his demeanor. The casual, friendly man of the cloth was gone, leaving a more resolute man in his place. “If it’s already begun, we can’t waste a moment,” he said, shaking his head decisively. “You both deserve to hear the truth. Gillian, would you please remove the screens?”

  The men watched as Gillian walked to the wall near the entrance and opened yet another metal panel. She flipped a switch, and the soft rumble of mechanized equipment echoed throughout the large room. Around the two-story room, at eight-foot intervals, large, white, thirty-foot screens had been positioned over what Sean knew to be windows that used to house stained-glass. Slowly, the screens were rolling upwards, revealing the windows Sean recognized.

  “These are amazing,” he said, walking to the center of the room and looking up at the tall, majestic panes.

  He turned slowly. Each window was unique, although all had the influence of Celtic drawings he’d seen on his visits to Ireland. All kinds of creatures, from reptiles to mammals, were drawn into the complicated, intricate designs that glowed
with color, even without the benefit of sunlight. Snakes, drawn as Celtic knots, intertwined with other snakes within a golden border on one of the windows; in the center was the image of a saint holding a book in his hand. Around him were swirls and lines, all interconnecting and filling in the background.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them in any other church I’ve been to,” he added.

  Gillian walked back from the panel and joined Ian and Father Jack at the chair. “That’s because they are nothing like any other stained-glass windows,” Gillian said. “These are taken from the Book of Kells.”

  “The Book of Kells,” Ian repeated. “Weren’t you working on those at Trinity?”

  “I was. Yes,” Gillian replied. “The original book, or what we have of the original book, is housed there on display. I was doing some research on the origin of the book.”

  “Who brought them here?” Ian asked.

  “The answer to that question is a little complicated,” Father Jack replied. “And before I share it with you, I must have your solemn oath that you will not share this information with anyone else.”

  Sean turned his attention from the windows back to the priest. “You know I can’t make a promise like that if this has anything to do with an ongoing investigation,” he said.

  “This has nothing to do with your investigation,” the priest said. Then he paused and added, “And everything to do with your investigation.”

  “So, it’s a mystery,” Sean replied cynically. “Sorry, Father. That might have worked when I was in Catechism, but I need real answers now.”

  The priest met Sean’s eyes, studied them for a moment. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like a word alone with Gillian,” he said.

  Sean nodded. “Take your time.”

  He stood, less shaky now, and together with Gillian walked back to the door, both silent until they had firmly closed the door behind themselves.

  After Father Jack and Gillian left the room, Ian joined Sean in the middle of the room, studying the windows. “So, you’re the brains here,” Sean said softly, glancing over to the closed door. “What’s the Book of Kells?”

  “I’ve not done a lot of research into the book,” he said. “But I do know that no one knows where it was created, who created it, and why it was created such as it is.”

  “Well, you’ve been very helpful,” Sean mocked.

  Ian chuckled softly. “Aye, but I can tell you some of the figures in the drawings predate Christianity and are powerful, pagan symbols.”

  “Pagan symbols?” Sean asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “I don’t see any pentacles or ankhs.”

  Shaking his head, Ian softly groaned. “You are so American,” he replied. “I keep forgetting that. Actually, the snake is a pagan symbol. The legend of St. Patrick running the snakes from Ireland did not refer to reptiles; it referred to pagans being run out by Christianity.”

  Ian stepped closer to the windows. “This is a very odd combination,” he mused. “Very odd indeed. I’d like to see what Gillian found in her research.”

  “And so you shall,” Gillian said from the doorway.

  The men turned to see Gillian and Father Jack reentering the room. The priest came up to Sean and took a deep breath. “I’ve never done this before, but, knowing your father as I did, and knowing a little more about you, I’ve decided to risk sharing my information with you, without an oath.”

  “I appreciate that, Father,” Sean said. “I can promise that I will be as circumspect as I can with it.”

  The older man smiled. “Well, as you don’t yet know what you’re getting into,” he said, “don’t make any promises you might not be able to keep.”

  He turned to Ian. “And you, young man,” he said.

  “I have no problem promising your secrets will be safe with me,” Ian said, interrupting the priest. “I’ve secrets of my own and understand the importance of discretion.”

  Nodding, the priest smiled at the two men. “Then come with us,” he said, “to my living quarters. We’ll be more comfortable there as we discuss what we must.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Although the apartment located on the second floor of the church building was dated, it felt warm and welcoming. The walls had been painted the color of wheat just before the harvest. The area rugs were vintage Oriental with colors from nature, from a deep sunset rose to a vibrant forest green. The leather furniture was old and worn enough to resemble the texture and color of tree trunks, and the pictures on the wall were landscapes of nature like birch forests in the fall and a full moon rising over a primordial forest. Gazing around upon entering, Sean felt like he was stepping into a forest and not the typical residence of a man of the cloth.

  “I like your apartment,” Ian voiced Sean’s thoughts as he looked around the room.

  Father Jack smiled, but Sean felt there was a secret behind it. “Well, it’s comfortable,” the priest said. “And it makes many of my associates feel more relaxed.”

  “I can see why,” Ian said, sitting next to Gillian on a large, leather, love seat. “It’s reminds me of the forests back home. I can almost smell the scent of the trees.”

  Turning quickly at Ian’s words, Father Jack took a moment to study the young man before he spoke. “That’s an interesting observation,” he said slowly.

  Ian shrugged easily. “It was just a passing thought,” he said.

  Sean sat on a chair where he could watch the faces of all of the members of their small party. He knew there was an underlying secret shared between Gillian and Father Jack, and the priest’s reaction to Ian’s simple comment was another piece he needed to add to the puzzle.

  “Now that we are up here,” Sean said, “why don’t we get down to business? What is the information you have for us?”

  The priest leaned forward in his chair, placed his elbows on his legs and steepled his hands in front of his face. “First, I need to give you a little background,” he said. “How well do you know Irish history?”

  “Probably less than I know about American history,” Sean said, “which starts and ends with a high school American History course.”

  “I’ve studied it a little,” Ian said. “But it was not my major field. As I recall, Ireland has a long history of being conquered by many different groups, all wanting the island for themselves.”

  Nodding his head slowly, the priest gazed around the room, meeting the eyes of each of the members of their party before moving on to the next. “I’ve a story to tell,” he said. “And if you will humor an old man, I promise to answer your questions.”

  Then he began to speak and Sean soon found himself mesmerized by the words. “Ireland is an old place. Although the earth itself is the same age wherever we travel, there are still some places upon it that seem older than others. Sequoia National Forest, Easter Island, Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, and the Egyptian pyramids are just a few of those places scattered throughout the world. And sometimes, nestled within seemingly normal places, there are spots where the ancient world touches the modern one. There are no signs that point out these anomalies, no border crossings or geographical markers, but those who stay in tune with the earth know when they’ve found such a place. They can feel it in the subtle difference of the air against their skin, in the chills up their spine, and often the instinctive recognition of coming home to a place they’ve never been before.”

  Sean recalled the woods beyond his grandmother’s home in Ireland and shivered. Yes, he understood exactly what Father Jack was speaking of.

  “Perhaps because it is such a place the Tuatha da Danann decided to invade ancient Ireland and call it their new home. No one knows where they came from. The early texts of Ireland only speak of a people who arrived in flying ships,” the priest continued.

  “Flying ships?” Ian interrupted. “As in UFOs?”

  Standing, Father Jack walked over to a small bookcase and pulled out an ancient, leather-bound book. “This is the Lebor gabála Érenn o
r The Book of the Taking of Ireland,” he said, carefully turning to a page that had been saved with an old bookmark. “This is an accounting dated 1150 a.d. The people of Ireland remember their arrival this way, ‘In this wise they came, in dark clouds from northern islands of the world. They landed on the mountains of Conmaicne Rein in Connachta, and they brought a darkness over the sun for three days and three nights. Gods were their men of arts and non-gods their husbandmen.’"

  “So the early occupants of Ireland thought these guys were gods,” Sean said. “If you had any kind of advanced civilization, I don’t think it would be that hard to do that.”

  “Please, let me continue,” the priest requested, and at Sean’s nod, he went on. “These tall, red-haired and fair people were able to conquer the Fir Bolg, who many say are the ancestors of the leprechaun or were a race of goblins, and the Fomorians, another fearsome warrior tribe, and claim the land and the people as their own.”

  He stopped and studied both Ian and Sean. “Have you no comments about leprechauns?”

  Sean shrugged, “I’m trying to be open-minded here.”

  “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Ian responded.

  The priest smiled widely. “Ah, Shakespeare,” he said. “Very good. Very good indeed. So, I will continue.”

  “The Tuatha da Danann were different from the earlier conquerors of the island. They were a magical people who charmed the natives of the island and intermarried with them, sharing their red hair and blue eyes with generations of Irish. The royal class of the Danann were teachers of medicine, smithing, communication and druidry, and the lower class were farmers or shepherds,” he said. “So advanced were they in their science and medicine that the Lebor Gabala Erren tells of Nuadu Airgetlam, the king over the Tuatha da Danann, surviving the injury of having his arm hewn off during battle. This would have been a mortal wound for most people. But even more amazing, the ancient text goes on to state, “but a silver arm with activity in every finger and every joint was put upon him,” which replaced his original arm. At that point, he could rule again.”