Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)

by Stephen Penner

  With that NicRath let out a grunt and galloped back onto the playing field.

  Warwick matched the grunt and stomped back toward the car. Chisholm knew enough to follow close behind.

  19. Testing Results

  Taggert lifted his eye from the microscope and noted his final observation on the grid. Twenty for twenty. Uncanny.

  Seven donors at each allele, each time.

  Beyond uncanny.

  Now he just had to figure out what it meant.

  20. Baile nan Cuimri

  Ballincoomer Abbey was monstrous. Not that it wasn’t beautiful—quite to the contrary. All arches and spires and flying buttresses, stretching hopefully toward the heavens, its stones shimmering gray-green in the filtered late morning sun. Still, it sat perched ominously on the hill overlooking the small village of Ballincoomer, like a silent dragon glowering down on its next meal.

  Although, Maggie supposed with a shrug, the locals probably didn’t see it that way.

  The hill itself appeared to have originally been man-made, the rest of the surrounding terrain being relatively flat, and the slow rising grade up to the abbey being typical of the mounds built under the earliest forts and keeps to dot the Irish landscape. This suggested to Maggie that the abbey had likely been built upon the ruins of some ancient fortress which had once towered similarly over the beginnings of the town below. This deduction was bolstered by the maze-like collection of stone ruins leading off from the rear of the cathedral, skeletal remains of half or mostly demolished walls, some still clinging to remnants of long shattered windows, and all crisscrossing and intersecting across the top of the ancient mound like the bony back of a sea serpent just breaking the water. The dragon had a tail.

  Maggie hiked up the lazy road which wound its way up from the small downtown below to the large abbey above. Her full backpack made the going slow and the hill pulled at the muscles on the back of her legs, but it felt good to stretch her limbs after a long morning of traveling. She had caught the first train from Dublin to Galway, and had made good time, arriving in the western seaport in just under three hours. Ireland, she had noted, is not a large country. But from Galway she’d had to take a bus—a ‘motor coach’ as they called it, perhaps in an effort to increase its appeal. In the event, the ‘coach’ had proved to be very nice, with large comfortable seats and sides made almost entirely of windows through which to view the ride still further west.

  Her only concern had been the alarming fact that the winding, twisting, undulating road appeared to be approximately the same width as the average driveway—and only slightly narrower than the coach. Eventually, though, she was able to release her terrified certainty that the coach would, at any moment, plunge off the road and down some cliff, and she relaxed as the bus traveled deep into the heart of Connemara, the western most part of County Galway, and of the Emerald Isle.

  Once safely to her destination, Maggie was sure not to call on Kitty McCusker. For one thing, Kitty had said she wasn’t coming home until the weekend, and it was only Friday morning. For another, something about Kitty gave Maggie an ill-defined, but undeniably uneasy feeling. She didn’t like how Kitty had used her name so comfortably; she didn’t know why, but that had sent off alarm bells.

  So instead Maggie had quickly found a room at one of Ballincoomer’s three bed & breakfasts. Her room had been decorated primarily in Connemara’s best known export: its unique and beautiful marble, highly prized in all corners of the world. And while the top quality marble would be far too expensive to use to build an abbey, still Maggie could see, as she approached the massive wooden front doors of Ballincoomer Abbey, that the green-gray bricks from which the cathedral had been constructed were of an unusual quality and sheen, lower grade near-marble, she supposed, each stone catching and reflecting the sun in a shiny, slippery pattern. The dragon even had scales.

  Inside, however, the dragon gave way to the sumptuous splendor of a richly decorated Catholic church. The cathedral was enormous, stretching back at least two hundred feet. Stained glass filled the uppermost walls, while dark wooden pews lined the floor. In between, statues and paintings filled alcoves and pedestals from the entryway to the altar, resplendent in carved wood, purple silk, and golden artifacts.

  Maggie glanced around for some indication of where the famous ‘Spellbook of Ballincoomer’ might be kept. The smothering Christianity of the main chapel made her suspect the Spellbook might be housed in some side chamber, or perhaps even downstairs—if there was a downstairs. Maggie began a slow circuit of the outer perimeter, a mall walker in slow motion, in search of a plaque or sign. There were exactly three other people in the abbey, a young couple and an older man with thick gray hair; they were all up near the altar and all appeared to be tourists, judging by both their awestruck appraisals of the abbey and the cameras slung about their necks.

  Twelve minutes into her search, and two-fifths the way around the church, Maggie met with success—of a sort. She’d found a sign. A small metal sign, white with a thin black border and carefully painted letters, announced: ‘The Spellbook of Ballincoomer - An Leabhar Druidh a’ Bhaile Nan Cuimri’.

  Beneath these bilingual letters was a rather fancy and very well drawn arrow pointing left toward the arched entryway to a small alcove. Unfortunately, it also pointed to the iron gate which securely blocked entry to the darkened side chamber. Squinting between the bars into the dim room, Maggie could see a large, apparently informative display, in front of which stood a large, glass-topped pedestal. But she couldn’t read the display, and the pedestal was empty.

  “Damn,” she whispered in the church, then was embarrassed she had.

  Plan B, she thought to herself. I wonder what Plan B is.

  She made a quick path back toward the main entrance. She thought she’d noticed an office or store room or some such in the foyer of the cathedral, off to one side near a rack of paper brochures. When she arrived there she noted that the door to the side room was ajar, the light inside was on, and the handwritten sign on the door read simply, ‘Please Keep Door Closed During Mass,’ again followed by a translation into Irish Gaelic. She pushed the door open and peered inside.

  It was a gift shop. Small and tasteful, it might have also doubled as an information desk, but its main function was clear. Of the four small walls in the cramped room, three held displays of books and postcards while the fourth housed the counter and cash register. The woman behind the counter looked up from her paperback novel and greeted her visitor.

  “Good Morning,” she boomed in the otherwise silent building. She was probably around forty, well-fed but not really fat, with thick, frizzy black hair cut mid-length and hanging simply from her face, brushing the intricately flowered blouse which extended down below the countertop at which she sat. The woman’s next words startled Maggie, despite her being in the far west of Ireland and despite the signs she’d encountered so far. “Dia dhuit.”

  Maggie blinked at the unexpected phrase, her mind searching frantically for meaning in the syllables. ‘Jee-uh dwitt,’ her language recognition center muttered to itself as it thumbed through the available papers and files until finally, after several seconds—in which Maggie was sure she looked a complete idiot—the proper reference was found. ‘Jee-uh dwitt.’ ‘Dia dhuit.’ Irish Gaelic for ‘God be with you.’ The standard greeting in Ireland’s Gaelic-speaking areas and a turn of phrase sufficiently uncommon in Scottish Gaelic as to initially evade Maggie’s comprehension.

  “Er, Dia dhuit,” Maggie repeated back tentatively. Her specialty was Scottish Gaelic, not Irish Gaelic. Still, the tongues were very similar. Gaelic had been brought to Scotland in the Eighth Century by Irish missionaries and it wasn’t until the Eighteenth Century that the Scottish and Irish versions of Gaelic had diverged enough to be classified as separate languages. As a graduate student in Celtic, Maggie had been expected to gain at least some knowledge of Celtic languages other than her concentration. There were six Celtic languages, grouped into two la
rge families: North and South. The Northern family—also known as the ‘Gadelic’ family—consisted of Scottish Gaelic, Irish Gaelic and the recently extinct Manx; while the Southern family—‘Brittonic’—consisted of Welsh, Breton and the long dead Cornish. Maggie had taken a course on Welsh, and had aced several Irish Gaelic courses—mainly because, already fluent in Scottish Gaelic, all she really had to do was remember the differences between Ireland’s Gaeilge and Scotland’s Gàidhlig. But she’d never had the opportunity to speak Irish outside the classroom—so she decided to seize this one. She thought for a moment, then tried, “Conas atá tú?” Irish, she hoped, for ‘How are you?’

  The woman’s mouth curled into a cautious smile and she narrowed her eyes a bit to scrutinize her guest. “Tá mé go maith,” she replied. “Agus tú féin?”

  Maggie concentrated on the woman’s lips so she could see the sounds she was hearing. After a moment, the meaning revealed itself: ‘Fine thanks. And you?’

  “Tá mé go maith,” Maggie parroted back the phrase for ‘I’m fine.’ She wasn’t sure what to say next—let alone how.

  “An feidir liom cabhru leat?” the woman asked.

  Or at least Maggie assumed it was a question. She hadn’t understood a thing.

  Don’t panic, Devereaux, she told herself. Just ask her to repeat the question. “”

  The woman’s appraising gaze narrowed still further, but her grin broadened. “An feidir liom cabhru leat?” she repeated.

  This time Maggie thought she heard the word for ‘help.’ Then she figured out the question: ‘May I help you?’ Oh, okay. Right. Er…

  “Tha. Tha mi a’ rannsachadh an Leabhar Druidh na Ballincoomer.”

  Oops, Maggie immediately thought. That wasn’t Irish. The sentence had rolled a bit too easily off her tongue; she’d dropped into Scottish Gaelic. The shop woman was thoroughly puzzled.

  “Er, uh… ,” Maggie tried again, translating the Scottish into Irish. “
  The woman didn’t reply right away. She had set her book down on the counter and was rubbing her chin contemplatively. Finally she lowered her hand and asked a one word question which Maggie immediately understood—and was humiliated by.

  “Beurla?” she asked. The Gaelic word—both Irish and Scottish—for ‘English.’

  Damn, Maggie thought, thoroughly disappointed in herself. “Er, yes. I— I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, that is—”

  “Oh!” the shop woman interrupted Maggie’s sputtering. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Are you Canadian, then?”

  The accent again. “Uh, no,” Maggie smiled and ran an awkward hand through her hair. “American.”

  “Right.” The woman nodded quickly. “I thought so. I am sorry, love. Your Irish had a strange ring to it, so I couldn’t quite understand you. Especially that last bit.”

  Maggie grimaced. “That’s because it was Scottish Gaelic,” she explained, slightly red-faced. “I accidentally slipped into it. Actually,” she felt the need to say, “I’m fluent in Scottish Gaelic, more or less. But I’m afraid my Irish needs some work.”

  The woman’s head began nodding again. “All right then. That explains it. I thought perhaps you were from the southern Gaeltacht. Their Irish down there can be quite different sometimes.”

  “Well, thanks, I guess,” Maggie replied, then asked, “Are they really that different?” She was genuinely curious. She’d learned that the differences in Irish dialects were exacerbated by the that the Irish Gaeltacht—the areas where Irish Gaelic was the predominant language—consisted of actually three separate and distinct areas: north, west and south. Small isolated islands of Irish separated by swift channels of English.

  “Well, they can be,” the shop woman started, “although I was surprised we were having so much difficulty communicating. But an American speaking Scottish Gaelic—well, that explains it. So,” she slapped the counter gently, “what can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping to look at the Spellbook,” Maggie explained. No point in beating around the bush. She pointed vaguely toward the door and the chapel beyond. “But it doesn’t seem to be on display just now.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s not here at all right now,” the woman explained to Maggie’s surprise and dismay. “It’s away at an exhibition.” She laughed lightly, transforming her eyes into arching slits. “It seems always to be away at an exhibition.”

  Maggie’s dismay lessened slightly. “Well, actually, I think the exhibition just finished. Dublin, right? Trinity College? I saw it there, but then the exhibition ended and they said they sent the Spellbook back here.”

  “Dublin, you say?” The shop woman looked up at the ceiling. “Now, see, Dr. McCusker said as it was Kilkenny…”

  “Doctor,” Maggie interrupted, “McCusker?”

  “Yes. He’s the Deacon here. In charge of historical artifacts and such. Like the Spellbook.”

  Maggie cocked her head slightly. “Deacon?” She’d heard the term of course, but wasn’t sure of its exact meaning in its present Irish Catholic context.

  “It’s like a priest,” the woman explained, “only they can get married. And have children.”

  “Children,” Maggie echoed back, not exactly a question.

  “Yes. In fact, now that you mention it, Dr. McCusker’s daughter, Kathleen, is a student at Trinity.”

  “Kathleen McCusker,” Maggie tried the name. Then, at exactly the same time, they both said, “Kitty.”

  “Why, yes,” the woman burst out. “She does go by ‘Kitty.’ Rather a common nickname for Kathleen. ‘Kathy’ is more the norm in the States, isn’t it?”

  “Er, yes,” Maggie managed to reply, even as her brain replayed what she could recall of her two brief conversations with Kitty McCusker. She was fairly certain Kitty hadn’t mentioned being the daughter of the man who kept the Spellbook. “So anyway,” she decided to find out more, “you say the Spellbook is in Kilkenny?”

  “Yes. It was in Dublin, as you said, and was due back yesterday afternoon. But then Dr. McCusker diverted it to Kilkenny. Or was it Killarney? Kildare? No, it wasn’t Kildare. Hmm…”

  Great, Maggie thought dimly.

  “Well, anyway,” the woman continued, “Dr. McCusker said there was another exhibition the Spellbook needed to go to. I’ve no idea which. Usually I know these sorts of things—I’m the church secretary, you see, but I’d never heard of any exhibition in Kilkenny. Or Killarney. Whichever. Usually Dr. McCusker goes on and on about any loan of any artifact—very proud of the Abbey’s collections, he is—but he was very short about this, now that I think about it. He just came in this morning, poked his head in the door, and said as the Spellbook had been sent to Kilkenny, should anyone ask.”

  Maggie frowned at this news. “Did he say how long it would be gone?” She supposed she could stay a few days in the little town, if need be. She didn’t really want to, but she could.

  “You know, he did say something about how long it would be gone. I remember because it seemed quite strange. He said, ‘If anyone asks after the Spellbook, just tell them it’s been sent to Kilkenny—indefinitely.’ He said it just like that. ‘Tell them it’s been sent to Kilkenny,’” she paused dramatically, “‘Indefinitely.’”

  Maggie crossed her arms and tapped a finger lightly against her lips. “Is Dr. McCusker around today?” She was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “No,” the woman replied as expected. “He’s gone to Kilkenny as well, I’m afraid. To meet the Spellbook. That’s how I know, you see. Not that he wouldn’t have told me, but he made sure to let me know where he was going and such.” She sighed and glanced affectionately at her surroundings. “Dr. McCusker does love this old Abbey. It’s been his passion ever since he first arrived here, his and his wife’s, God rest her soul.”

  “She died?” Maggie asked without thinking.

  “Yes. A few years ago now. Car accident. Absolute tragedy. One of those fo
ol tour busses came speeding around a curve and crossed the center line. Doctors said she died instantly. Poor Dr. McCusker. And poor Kitty. But I dare say she’d doing all right now. She loves this old Abbey too. And ever since her mother passed away, she’s been hell bent on taking on her mother’s role here.”

  Maggie just nodded, unsure how to reply. She felt bad for Kitty. Still, the whole thing was a bit strange.

  “So anyway, you say the Spellbook won’t be back for, well, for a few days anyway?”

  “That seems safe to day,” the shop woman agreed.

  Maggie looked around the shop. Plan C. “You seem to have a lot of books for sale here. Are any of them about the Spellbook?”

  “Well, yes, of course.” The woman slid off her stool and stepped around the counter. “We’ve several books about the Spellbook. Picture books with photos of the pages, historical works, even a coloring book.”

  Maggie had to roll her eyes at that last one.

  “So just what— Er. That is…” The woman stopped her walk along the shelves, leaving one outstretched hand resting on an empty space on the shelf. Her eyes scanned the remainder of the shelves beneath knitted brows. “Hmph,” she said finally. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, they’re gone, aren’t they?” The woman was dumbfounded. “Every last book we have about our Spellbook. We must have sold out.”

  Maggie doubted it.

  The woman offered to check the back room, and Maggie accepted, although she was certain of the result.

  “No, I’m sorry, miss,” the shop woman apologized as she reemerged through a door behind the counter. “We’ve none in the back either. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Maggie managed to say. She’d had time to steel herself for the disappointment. “So there’s no other information about the Spellbook? It is why I came to Ballincoomer after all.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” The woman began wringing her hands. “Of course it is. But I’m afraid there’s nothing available just now.”