There would be time to try to answer that question. For now, though, he needed to pack the rest of his things and make his way to the Vienna airport.
But the obligation to chasten and punish is imposed on you as well, holiest of Emperors, and, by the law of the highest God, you must in your austerity track down the crimes of idolatry in every form.
—Church Father Julius Firmicus Maternus
VATICAN CITY, ROME – MARCH 13, EVENING
Not far from the pope’s inner sanctum was the Vatican government building, the true center of power for the little country with exceptionally unusual status in the international community. The building itself was quite unspectacular, with its four floors and modest architecture. Only the oversized crest of the Vatican state made it clear that you weren’t in Rome anymore.
Thomas Lambert reached for the telephone, his long day at work wearing on him. As he did, he looked out his window into the courtyard. Even outside of the Vatican, Lambert always wore black as he dashed from one meeting to the next, running the international affairs of the Church. Almost six feet five, the Briton made quite an impression, especially in Italy. He inspired respect and fear in those around him with his square jaw, steel-blue eyes, and pale skin. There were few who exercised as much influence and control in the “country of God” as Lambert, but after sixteen straight hours, even this Christian giant of the Opus Dei was ready for some rest.
By the time he was working under Monsignor Giovanni Montini, who was later to become Pope Paul VI, Lambert had already risen unimpeded to become the most powerful man in the Vatican. Montini had had an interesting career path; he had worked for the American Secret Service and had also been a member of a Freemason lodge. He had been an easygoing superior who had made it possible for Lambert to bring the second Vatican council to an end, satisfying the modernists inside the Church and the public for quite some time.
In the meantime, Lambert continued his work in peace. He couldn’t burn the heretics at the stake anymore, but there were other ways to enforce the pure tenets of the Church. One established method was a network of agents and spies, built up over centuries, for sniffing out the modernists inside the Church and, at the very least, muzzling them. Lambert was so good at his job that not even the current pope—John Paul III—could contest his position.
“Lambert,” Thomas barked into the phone.
“This is Salvoni. We need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ve worked long enough today.”
“There are some things on God’s earth that can’t wait. We have some unsettling news from Dublin about a certain Ronald MacClary.”
Lambert groaned inwardly. “Please spare me the concerns of Padre Morati. I’ve already heard them directly from him. God knows we have bigger problems in Dublin than a crazy Irishman who wants to raise the profile of his lost culture at the expense of the Church. If he weren’t such a public figure, we would have turned him into a laughingstock a long time ago.”
“I’m not sure if Morati has told you everything this time.”
“Fine. Come up.”
Lambert fell back into his chair, exhausted. Within moments, the door to his office opened and a nervous figure entered the room.
“So, Padre Salvoni, what in God’s name can I do for you?”
For a good ten years as head of the oldest secret service in the world, Salvoni had been taking care of matters that should never reach the public ear. He was short, lanky, and athletic, and his small mustache, along with his skin, tanned and pockmarked from acne, gave him the aura of a snake. It was this aura that had ensured his positions over the past years, and even Lambert was never certain of his trustworthiness, as much as he valued his contributions.
“We have to go to Dublin immediately so that we can control the press reaction and the extent of this horrible thing,” Salvoni said calmly. “It wouldn’t hurt to observe the lecture at the very least.”
“What do you expect to gain from that?”
“Certainty. Just certainty.”
“You can’t go. I need you somewhere else. Send Caloni, but he should only watch MacClary and he should only concentrate on the lecture, nothing else. I don’t want an incident with a man who is one of the most important judges in America. To be honest, as much as I value your caution, I don’t share your concern here. Do we understand each other?”
With a cold smile, Victor Salvoni nodded and gave Lambert a bow.
“Brother Morati has been watching the MacClary family for a long time now,” Salvoni said when he again made eye contact with Lambert. “MacClary is putting the downfall of the pagans in a context that, paired with actual events, could be dangerous.”
Lambert’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to control his temper. “If you were to make a mistake, it could make the troubled atmosphere around the Church more dangerous than ever. Do you really believe it’s worth it?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
Lambert suddenly felt more tired. “Fine. I know the Lord has always protected your ambitions. Since I don’t think you’ll have to do anything about the MacClary situation that our press department can’t handle, I expect to have recommendations by Monday about how we can watch out for our lost brothers in Ireland.”
“As you wish,” Salvoni said before turning to leave.
DUBLIN – MARCH 13, EVENING
Shane was accustomed to the weather in Ireland, where there was seldom a cloudless sky or a summery day, but today in Dublin there was so much rain pouring down that this flight’s landing was going to stretch his nerves to the limit. He’d been a horrible flyer for more than twenty years, ever since surviving a near crash. Since then, he boarded every plane expecting the worst. As if to underscore this thought, the plane met the landing strip roughly, just barely coming to a stop before the end of the runway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience, and I hope that the slight turbulence did not cause you any undue discomfort,” spoke the copilot over the intercom.
With a pale face and wobbly legs, Shane stood up.
“Are you all right?”
Shane turned to meet the eyes of an old man who had to be over seventy but swung his carry-on over his shoulder like a kid. Shane had sat next to the man the entire flight, but he had been so preoccupied with his fears and thoughts about the conference of healers that he hadn’t engaged his seatmate for a moment.
“I’ll be better soon,” Shane said, trying to wipe the tension from his voice. “Thanks for asking. I just don’t like to fly very much.”
“Good man, if God wants you, he’ll come and get you, whether it’s with a plane crash or a banana peel. Why worry about it?”
“I don’t know if I want to leave my fate in the hands of God,” Shane responded promptly, his body relaxing, “even though you’re probably right. Of course, that leads to the question of which god you’re talking about. The old creator who looks benevolently down, guiding the fates of his sheep?”
With an amused smile, the spry man introduced himself. “Eric Fink. I write for the Standard in Vienna. It’s probably better if we don’t start a theological debate, unless it helps you calm down.”
Shane chuckled. “What brings you to Dublin?”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “I’m writing an article about the blessing that the Catholic diocese has brought to the children of Dublin. That should tell you what I think of your idea of God.”
Shane held up a hand in defense. “It’s not my idea.” He pulled out his conference invitation and pointed to the agenda item that had sent him here. “I’m here for this lecture, which should tell you everything you need to know.”
The reporter skeptically examined the invitation, then looked up brightly. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
It was time to disembark, and the two said good-bye quickly. The brief exchange with the old man had gotten Shane thinking. What did the Dublin child abuse scandals have to do with the question of God?
* *
*
DUBLIN’S INNER CITY
Thomas Ryan was sitting—or rather lying—with his arms spread out on a table in Porterhouse, one of the largest pubs in the heart of Dublin, right near Trinity College.
“Man alive, Thomas,” Deborah Walker said, clearly in much better shape, “you have your discussion with Ellison in two hours and you’re tight as the last Celt.”
Ryan burst out laughing, spraying a mouthful of Guinness a good two yards across the table. “Yep, exactly, as the last Celt. You’re completely right, my friend. I realize now what a fool’s fest this is every year, and I don’t give a shit if Ellison tries to mess around with me. If I’m there or alone, what’s the difference? Three hundred years ago, I would have just chopped the head off this wannabe Druid.”
He and Deborah made an odd pair. After living through some wild years struggling against the IRA, whom he deemed responsible for the death of his brother Matthew, Thomas had transformed himself from a farmer into an expert in the use of herbs, seeing patients in Dublin pub backrooms. Deborah, with her red curls and old-fashioned glasses that made her still look like a student, was struggling along in Dublin as a lecturer in Irish literature. She was a genius at interpreting old languages, though there was hardly any interest in Welsh or the other original Celtic dialects anymore.
Thomas dragged his heavy body up and pushed his blond hair back. “Wait here, I’m going to get some coffee.” He moved toward the bar, passing the entrance on the way. As he did, a young man nearly barreled into him as he made a swift entrance into the pub.
“Slow down, young man,” Ryan slurred to him. “Or do you want to buy the next round?” Then he paused and took a closer look at Shane. “Well, if it isn’t my curious friend from Austria. Fantastic! It looks like you took me up on my invitation.”
“Yes, I was excited to get it.”
With a loud laugh, Ryan pointed to one of the back tables. “Let’s sit down back there, next to the woman with the round spectacles and the earnest expression. That would be Deborah.”
“Tell me, am I wrong, or is there a meeting of Druids going on here?”
“Of course! And I’m Thomas Ryan, grandmaster of the last order of true Druids.”
Ryan had said this loudly enough that Deborah shook her head slowly and sank down into her sweater.
“Then you’re not too happy to be here?”
Ryan suddenly felt more sober and looked Shane in the eyes.
“No, and this is definitely the last time.”
With that, he pivoted toward the bar.
* * *
Shane stood there at a loss, noticing uneasily that some people were looking at him suspiciously after Ryan’s performance. Still, he grabbed his bag and went over to Deborah.
“I have to apologize for Thomas’s behavior,” Deborah said. “He’s not having a good day. Sit down. What would you like to drink?”
“A Guinness, of course.”
“Are you from Germany?”
“No, Austria. My father came from Dublin, though. He emigrated from Ireland to Austria after the war.”
“And what brings you here?”
“Let’s say, a strange dream and”—he reached into his pocket—“this invitation.”
“Well, you must not have looked at the invitation very carefully. Except for the lecture tomorrow, the conference is over. There’s only one discussion left...unless...”
“...unless I can sober up in the next two hours, says my nursemaid,” Ryan interjected, sitting down next to Shane with a coffee cup.
Shane looked at the invitation in frustration. It was true; his anxiety had tripped him up again and he had mixed up the dates. He groaned softly to himself.
“Don’t worry,” Ryan continued, “the most important part is still to come. Tomorrow is the lecture by Ronald MacClary.”
“That’s the only reason I’m here. I’ll gladly do without the pathetic attempts by neo-Celts, Celtic shamans, Wiccans, and other types romanticizing the Druids.”
This enraged Ryan. “I’d suggest you talk a little more quietly. There are some here who won’t take kindly to your words. And to be honest, I don’t either.”
Deborah glanced around her as though she were trying to gauge if Shane had already attracted any unwanted attention. “How about a refreshing walk through the damp alleys of our beautiful city?”
Shane took a deep breath to ease the tension that seemed to be shadowing him on this trip. “That sounds like a very good idea.”
Ryan stood up, paid for the round of drinks, and didn’t speak again until they’d left the pub. “Tell me, Shane, if you’re so skeptical about esotericism, what do you make of the fact that you stumbled over me in particular?”
The question surprised Shane. “Let’s call it an accident. But I’ll confide something to you. I had a dream a couple of days ago. A dream of such intensity, it was like a revelation to me. Then, the same morning, I happened to find this invitation. I’m here because the dream was reflected in the title of the invitation.”
“Must have been quite a dream.”
“Trust me, it was. That morning, I could smell the earth I had touched in the dream. The dirt under my fingernails could have been centuries old. Just after I woke up, I went blind and lost my balance, and I could only see apparitions of light. Then I saw a trip through history, amazingly fast, steeped in lies and destruction. The whole time I could see legions raging under the banner of Christendom.”
Why was he being so candid? What if he was confiding in the wrong people? After all, he was in Ireland.
Ryan stopped walking. “Adam, I don’t believe we met each other by accident. There’s probably a very simple explanation for what you experienced. You’re by no means the only one to have experienced something like this.” Ryan, who suddenly seemed much more sober, laid both hands on Shane’s shoulders. “You’re just remembering yourself,” he said, shifting suddenly into German.
“Remembering? How can I remember something without having taken part in it?”
“How do you know that you didn’t? Have you ever considered that consciousness could govern time and space? Adam, that was definitely more than a dream. It’s an indication that you have a gift that you can train. It’s happening to more and more people all over the world these days.”
The intensity in Ryan’s eyes was more than a little disturbing to Shane.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know, Thomas. Why do you despise these new Druids, and what was it about the old Druids of ancient times that was so special?”
“You get right to the point, don’t you, Adam? I don’t despise the neo-Druids. But a better question would be why the ancient Druids suddenly disappeared. I firmly believe that they had another concept of life for us. But let’s slow down a bit. How about this: get some rest and we’ll meet tomorrow in front of Trinity College at seven fifteen. Then I’ll introduce you to Ronald MacClary. He’ll be more than glad to answer any questions that are still bothering you. I think that’s enough for today. Patience, my friend.”
Shane stood there and looked at him completely confused. “But...”
“I’ll just add one more thing, Adam. When I walk through a forest, through a meadow blooming with wildflowers, when I listen to the buzzing of the bees or come upon a spot with mushrooms, shimmering white-gold in the shadows, or hear the call of spring from a chickadee, then I see the gods before me, not a forest to use and exploit. Nature is for me a divine experience. It is the place where I recognize the true mother, the true father. I have no god in heaven, only gods here on earth.”
Shane remembered what Ryan had told him in Vienna about his commune and how he had removed himself from modern life to the country to be surrounded by nature.
“Our erstwhile culture will not return if we, like so many here, play the Druid on the weekends, only to drive back to the office on Monday. Only by making decisive changes will we make any kind of difference. But if we are going to talk more about this, first y
ou have to learn more about the fall of the people who once ruled Europe. And there will be time enough for that tomorrow evening.”
Shane’s first impulse was to contradict him, to continue the conversation, but suddenly he realized that he didn’t even have a hotel room for the night. It was really about time for him to take a deep breath and find a place to stay.
“OK, it’s a plan.”
Ryan clapped Shane on the shoulder. “All right then. Good night, Adam Shane.”
* * *
RYAN’S COUNTRY HOUSE, CORK, IRELAND – JULY 18, 1978
It was already dark, and, at eight years old, he knew that he shouldn’t be leaving his room again. But he was too curious about who all these people were and what they were talking about. He had to carefully place every footstep so that the creaking of the old wooden floor wouldn’t give him away.
From upstairs he couldn’t see into the room where almost a dozen men and women were sitting around in heated debate.
“My God, Jane, do you still believe in this myth? I mean...”
“Ron, you have one of the family trees, like everyone else here, and they’re so similar to this MacClary’s parchment, and it comes from Austria...”
“Yes, and what about it? It doesn’t help us if he doesn’t have the coordinates.”
“Not yet, Ron, not yet, and it can’t be an accident that Connor got to know him. We should trust him. He’s no friend of Rome, he won’t give us away, and he takes us seriously.”
“Jane’s right. The day will soon come, the time that Dubdrean has given for the return.”
“And that leaves open the question of what or who should return. You know the religious aspect of this doesn’t interest me in the slightest,” Thomas’s father, Connor, continued. “But the possibility of giving back to the remaining Celts a portion of their stolen identity—that is too tempting not to follow him.”
The Celtic Conspiracy Page 3