Archeological Mystery: Celtic Riddle Part 6

"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 s.h.i.+ne?'"

"I hope they s.h.i.+ne for us," Michael said fervently.

One thing was certain, the stars were not s.h.i.+ning 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, gobs.h.i.+te," he said, grabbing the man next to Fionuala, one who'd been the object of her charms since Rob had left, "keep yer f.e.c.king 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 gla.s.ses cras.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s 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 halfheartedly 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 sh.o.r.es. 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 de 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 de 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 de 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 de's light and agile. 'We should divide up the island equally,' the Tuatha de 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 Ere; leading the Tuatha de was the prince Nu-ada."

"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 de won victory and pressed the Fir Bolg northward, where eleven hundred were slain, among them Eochaid, son of Ere.

"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 de had the magic, didn't they?

"But this was a great loss for the Tuatha de, for Nuada could no longer be their king, Tuatha de kings having to be perfect, and even though the silver hand worked so well, Nuada was no longer considered perfect. So the kings.h.i.+p 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 de that they suffered greatly, even their G.o.ds, like the Dagda and the rest. Just when it seemed darkest, a new champion arose, the greatest of them all, Lugh Lam-fada, Lugh of the Long Arm, and he, along with the other G.o.ds, 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 G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, 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 the Morrigan, G.o.ddess of war, of the end of the world.

"And this is only one of the tales of the Tuatha de," 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 20B.C.," Breeta replied. "It could be as late as the twelfth or even the fifteenth century, when the 'Song of Amairgen' was written down."

Jennifer's eyes widened. "But that could be almost anything. Illuminated ma.n.u.scripts, gold, iron, bronze, anything."

"It could," Breeta replied.

"Surely you could narrow it down for us a little more than that," Michael sighed. "What about all those old maps and weapons of your Da's? I know he said he was giving them to Trinity College, but could it be another of those, an especially old or important one? Are those things worth anything?"

"Oh yes," I said, "they are."

"It could be," Breeta said. "But my father liked lots of things. He wasn't an educated man, you know. He said that all the education in the world wouldn't have made him a success, just hard work. He left school early to work with his father in the family business, before he ran away to sea. Despite what he said, though, I think he felt the lack of education keenly. That's why he wanted you to go back to school, Michael." Michael nodded.

"Da was exceptionally well read, though, self-taught. He'd been brought up on all the old stories, like the one Denny just told us, and he taught them to us, my sisters and me. In some ways, he believed the old stories. Oh, I don't mean he believed in magic or the Little People or anything, at least no more so than most Irishmen, but unlike some, he believed the ancient stories were, in fact, real stories about real events and real people, and when he wasn't at work, he was out trying to prove it. He found and read old ma.n.u.scripts, studied old maps, located all the sites of the great epic battles. You can find them, too, if you look."

"I gather this isn't a point of view shared by everyone," Alex said.

"You're quite right about that," she laughed. "I remember studying the Leabhar Gabala, the Book of Invasions, at school. Amairgen's poem comes from that, incidentally, and the story Denny just told us. It's the story of the arrival of various people on Ireland's sh.o.r.es, starting with someone called Cessair. There were Partholanians, Nemedians, then the Tuatha de, and eventually the so-called Sons of Mil, the Celts. I'd learned it at my father's knee, as they say." Her voice caught a little as she spoke.

"Anyway, the school had got in a professor of archaeology to talk to us about it. He said that the Mythological Cycle, the part of the Leabhar Gabala containing these very old stories, was just a collection of old fables, stories that were supposed to tell us something about the human condition, but not in any way true, and that they had been written down by monks in the twelfth century, not by poets like Amair-gen at all. He even said there was no real archaeological evidence for all the invasions that the book tells us about. I was terribly disappointed, and I raced home to talk to Da about it. I can't have been more than ten years old at the time, and I still believed all the stories he'd told me to be absolutely true, like children believing in Santa Claus, I suppose.

"Da was absolutely furious. He said that for all his schooling, the professor was nothing but a b.l.o.o.d.y ijit. He said it was true that the stories had been written down by monks all right, but that these monks had worked hard to preserve the old stories and that the stories themselves were much, much older than that. He said maybe the old stories had been exaggerated a little over time, and given a lot of magic, but that once you stripped away these elements in the stories, you would have a record of real history remembered and pa.s.sed down through the centuries as myths."

"Your father was what is sometimes called an annalist, I believe," Alex said. "Quite an honorable tradition in the study of ancient times, trying to prove an historical basis for the old myths."

"Yes, but my Da became obsessed with the idea of proving that professor wrong, partly I think, because of his lack of schooling-he was a little sensitive on that score-but also because he really did think the man was an ijit. My father believed there were successive invasions of various peoples, many of them probably different groups of Celts. And he set out to prove it, to track the evidence down."

"So how was he planning to do this?" I asked.

"Well for starters, he set out to find and identify the four great gifts of the G.o.ds," she said.

Michael just looked at her. "He was daft," he said.

"Maybe," she said. "But what about Lia Fail? It exists, doesn't it?"

"You are going to have to enlighten us a little," Alex said. "Who or what is Lia Fail? And what are the four great gifts of the G.o.ds?"

"The stories of the Tuatha de Danaan tell of four fabulous objects that were supposed to have been brought from the four cities from which the Tuatha de came," she replied. "From Falias, one of those cities, is supposed to have come the Stone of Fal. The Stone of Fal was at Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland. If someone was to be that High King, he had to touch the stone. If it roared, then he was the rightful king. There really is a stone called Lia Fail at Tara to this day-I mean you can go there and see it. But most people feel that it is not the original. The real one was sent over to Scotland for use in a kings.h.i.+p ceremony there, and was eventually taken to Scone.

"The Stone of Scone!" Alex exclaimed. "That's the so-called Coronation Stone, isn't it, the one just recently returned from Westminster to Scotland? The one that was in the base of the British throne?"

"Exactly," she replied. "It was said that whoever had the Stone would rule Scotland, or Scotic, actually, to use an earlier term, by which we mean the Scots/Irish Milesians. That's why it's so important that it be returned to Scotland. The Scots never did take too well to the idea that the King or Queen of England was sitting on it.

"Now there are a lot of tales about that stone. Some say that the Stone in Westminster is not the real Stone of Scone, or Lia Fail, if we go back to its origins, just a plain old stone, and that the real one is hidden somewhere in Scotland. Some say it never left Ireland. What Da would say is that there was a real stone that played an important part in the choice of the High King of Ireland. He wouldn't go so far as to say it roared when touched by the chariot wheel of the true king, but he did believe there was an important stone.

"And he'd say the same thing about the other gifts, one of which was a magic cauldron belonging to the Dagda, the father G.o.d, that came from the magic city of Murias. The Dagda's cauldron was supposedly never empty, no matter how many people came to eat. Now there is no question that there were Celtic cauldrons with ritual importance. There is one called the Gun-destrup Cauldron, for example, a silver and gilt cauldron from Gundestrup in Denmark, which is thought to date to the first or second centuries B.C. It shows a horned or antlered deity of some kind, possibly Cer-nunnos. So Da would say that there really was a cult or ritual cauldron to be found in Ireland that could have been believed in those days to be the Dagda's cauldron, without its magical properties, of course."

"That's why he collected those iron cauldrons!" I said. "And the other two magical objects?"

"The Spear of Lugh, who was the Tuatha de G.o.d referred to often as Lugh the s.h.i.+ning, or Lugh of the Long Arm. His spear was supposed to guarantee victory. Then there was the Sword of Nuada Argat-lam, Nuada Silver Hand in Denny's story, from which no one ever escaped."

"Ah," I said. "Your father's sword and spear collection!"

"Yes," she said. "He was looking for the cult or ritual spear and sword."

"Did he think he had found them?" Alex asked.

"No, he didn't. But he kept looking. It was his pa.s.sion. There was one sword, the one on the desk, that he thought might be the one, the metal equivalent of the Stone of Scone. It dates to Iron Age Ireland, so who's to say?"

"So are you saying that the treasure might be one of these things? The cauldron or another sword or spear?"

"Maybe," she replied. "Or something else, of course. He studied the myths for clues all the time, read all the ancient doc.u.ments he could lay his hands on. He was a little obsessed about it, there's no question, and sometimes as his daughter, I felt as if he was more interested in his search than in me. I found it intensely irritating after a while, to be called Banba, instead of Breeta."

"Who or what is Banba?" Jennifer asked.

"One-third of the triple G.o.ddess of the Tuatha de Danaan: Banba, Fotla, and Eriu. All three were names of Ireland at some point in time, but Eriu, through an agreement with Amairgen, actually, won out in the end. Erin is a form of Eriu."

"So you and your sisters were named-nicknames, of sorts-after three G.o.ddesses."

She nodded. "It was nice at first, to be named for a G.o.ddess, but after a while, I thought it was merely a mark of my father's obsession with these mythological creatures. And who wants to be named after a G.o.ddess a.s.sociated with the pig, which Banba was, particularly when you're the size I am? Anyway," she said, looking at her watch. "That's enough ancient Irish history for one night. I have to catch the bus back into Killarney."

"Why don't you stay at Second Chance?" Michael said.

"No thanks," she replied. "I'm not comfortable there anymore."

Michael had a "my place?" look in his eyes, which Breeta was ignoring.

"Speaking of Second Chance," I said, "if I were you, I'd get the tortoise, Vigs, out of there."

Breeta looked alarmed.

"I don't think your mother likes him," I said. Now that was an understatement. I hoped we weren't already too late, and the family wasn't slurping turtle soup even as we spoke. "Michael!" she exclaimed. "Will you get Vigs out of there for me?"