by Des Sheridan
‘OK, Robert, I’m in. I will help. What can I do?’
‘Get over here. Co-ordinate the shadowy forces that must be sniffing about by now, like MI6.’
‘As I said we are in touch. Now that you mention it, I feel the need for some Special Leave coming on. My granny is getting more ill by the minute.’
‘You granny must be a hundred.’
‘There are days, Robert, when I feel a hundred. But we soldier on.’
‘My heart bleeds. And you and your MI6 friends will need to be ready to move – fast.’
‘How fast?’
‘I don’t know but put arrangements in place immediately. Their leader isn’t the hesitant type. Could be just days. There are leads I am following. I will be in touch. I will call as soon as I have information.’
He wasn’t going to get off that lightly.
‘Hold your horses! You must have some information already after this time. Give me a name. This can’t all be one way traffic, Robert.’
Robert hesitated. She knew what he would be thinking. Once out of the bag. Then he responded.
‘OK. Pascal de Waverin-Looz.’
‘Rings a distant bell I think. Could you say that more slowly...?’
Chapter 41
Paimpont Forest, France, 28 October 2014
Tara parked the car at the chosen spot in the Paimpont Forest. It was easy enough to identify, a roughly circular open expanse in woodland, perhaps a quarter of a mile across. In other circumstances it would have been a lovely spot to linger, the tussocky grasses of the heath giving way to a mix of scattered oak, beech and ash interspersed with large stands of tall, spindly silver birch. The woodland was wild and overgrown, with dead trees left where they had fallen. If her father were here, she mused irrelevantly, he would witter on about people not knowing how to look after their woods and dismiss talk of the fallen trees being good places for invertebrates to live as tosh. The thought of Brian and more innocent times cut through her like a knife. If only.
Stop being self-indulgent, she told herself. What is simply is – you can’t change it, deal with it. She had made her choice, now she had to get on with it. A short burst of birdsong somewhere high above seemed to tell Tara not to worry. Let’s hope my feathered friend is right she thought optimistically. Her eye fell on a large black Range Rover parked at the far side of the clearing. Even at this distance she recognised, with a shudder, the figure of Pascal in his long dark coat, standing beside it. Seeing her, he started walking purposefully, with large strides, towards her. Tara felt her whole body start to shake. He was accompanied by a woman with a child. Tara unloaded the two outsize department store bags from the rear seat of the car and began to walk towards him. Mastering her fear, she too adopted a self-assured, steady stride. He stopped in the middle of the clearing, as though this were a medieval parley, and waited for her. The closer she got the clearer the child’s features became. It was Aoife! And she looked unharmed! Tara’s heart leapt. Relief filled Aoife’s face as she recognised her aunt but Tara noticed that she didn’t say anything or try to break away from the woman who held her.
‘Ms Ruane, at last we meet again. How nice to see you. I hope you have my two Triskell pieces?’
Tara nodded and said nothing. She was afraid her voice would crack with fear.
‘Excellent! Do you like the chosen location? We are close to the heart of Brocéliande, of Arthurian fame. Many of the great legends took place here. I can even show you the tree where local lore says that Viviane imprisoned Merlin. Perhaps I should do the same with you? But not today I think. We have business to do and I have another appointment. So let’s not waste time!’
Pascal beamed at her amiably, his expensive great coat flowing off his shoulders like a cloak, his long hair, with its blond streaks, swept back over his tall forehead. As she had recollected from their first encounter, he was a handsome man with an emphatic physical presence. She realised, to her horror, that a part of her found him sexually attractive.
Tara nodded, ‘Yes, let her go and you can have the artefacts.’
‘Fine by me, that’s why we are here. I am an honourable man,’ he gave her a small mock bow.
‘Let the child go,’ he barked at the attractive woman standing beside him. The woman released her gip on Aoife who darted the few steps to Tara’s side. Tara extended her arm, handing over the packages to the woman, whose hand was already outstretched, awaiting them.
The exchange was as quick as that. Pascal gave a curt nod towards Tara and turned away, so Tara did the same. She and her niece started the walk back towards the car, which seemed to take infinity. They were completely silent, Aoife clinging to Tara for dear life. With her free hand Tara located and clutched the gun concealed in her pocket, her finger on the trigger. She had released the safety catch before arriving at the site. Casting a backwards glance she saw Pascal’s figure diminishing into the distance. She had never dared think that he would honour the deal, but with each crunch of the leaf litter under her feet, each step that brought the reassuring details of Nico’s car into sharper focus, hope rose higher in her breast.
Chapter 42
Arz, France, 29 October 2014
The man had an affable manner and near perfect English. His name was Kireg and he was of stocky build, in his forties. A mass of curly fair hair topped his head and he wore a knitted jumper woven from coarse threads of russet, brown and blue. In another setting he could have passed without hesitation as a fisherman.
In fact, as Alain, the late Duc’s son, explained, their visitor was the leading Breton expert on matters Celtic. Largely self-taught, Kireg had won respect in France and internationally for his researches over many years. A further claim to fame was his renown as a player of the veuze, the oldest known type of Breton bagpipe. His fluency in English reflected many visits to the Celtic nations of Britain over the years. Alain had brought Kireg to Arz, where Nico and Robert were now billeted in the converted stables of the chateau, making use of the privacy of the large complex of buildings and the omerta-like discretion of Alain’s family and servants.
Kireg listened carefully as Robert recounted the dream and, as he finished his tale, the Breton typed something into a tablet on his knee.
‘Come around, have a look,’ Kireg invited Robert with a swivelling movement of his arm.
On the screen, courtesy of Google Images, was a series of pictures of wavy crosses, several of which were very similar to those in Robert’s dream.
‘Blimey, that was quick!’ Robert said, impressed. He pointed to one image in particular and Kireg clicked on it, causing it to fill the screen.
‘That’s definitely it! What is it exactly? Is it Celtic?’ Robert asked.
‘No, it has nothing to do with the Celts. It’s the logo of Taizé - an ecumenical religious movement involving monks from several Christian denominations. Their headquarters is in Burgundy, five - maybe six – hours’ drive from here. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘No, but it was associated with images of Tara and Malachy, an Irish friend of ours.’
‘OK, let’s follow through with the dream. You felt as though you were being sucked into a spiral? Well, there are spirals all over Brittany. Have a look at these.’
He clicked Google again and a new set of images sprang up. Taken in an underground chamber, spirals and zigzags abounded. Robert was taken aback.
‘It’s uncanny, so like the images at Rosnaree.’
‘It is a place called Gavrinis, on an island in Southern Brittany. It’s the finest of the Breton tombs. You should go there – c’est incroyable. Now, talking of passage tombs, let us try and find your one. They are not as common in Brittany as other structures, such as menhirs and avenues of standing stones. But we still have a fair number, so let’s see: Kercado, Mane Lud, Barnenez...’
Slowly and methodically Kireg took Robert through images of the various passage tombs. By the ninth instance Robert was starting to give up hope when another i
mage appeared suddenly on screen. There it was – there was no mistaking it! Even in photos taken in broad daylight Robert could sense the menace of the place, the great hulking boulders and the enormous cap stones. He touched Kireg on the arm and nodded.
‘That is the place, no doubt at all.’
‘Well, well, bon, La Roche aux Fées – the Fairies’ Stone. It is a very large burial structure, maybe 20 metres long and five metres wide. Made of great, brown basalt boulders. They say that cracks in the capstone have been shown to have traces of blood in them – from sacrifices, but I don’t know if that has been proved.’
Seeing the look on his listeners’ faces, Kireg shrugged his shoulders.
‘These stories circulate and get credence. Who knows? The entrance is interesting though. I have checked it out personally. It definitely is aligned, pointing towards sunrise in the winter solstice. Of course, you need to allow for the fact that the passage would originally have been buried in a great mound of soil, like Gavrinis. Of all the passage tombs they say La Roche has the most ambiance, and I think they are right. It should look and feel odd – exposed like a skeleton without its flesh. But it doesn’t. It has an air of self-satisfied completeness about it. A stealthiness almost.’
‘Yes, well said! That is exactly what I sensed, as though it was lurking, waiting for something. How far is it from here?’
‘Not that far, probably one and a half hours by car. Maybe two hours. It lies to the south-east of Rennes.’
The mood in the room lifted, success in their search for clues doing wonders for morale of all present.
‘And the phrase? Pergay in Feeday? Is that Breton?’
‘No, that doesn’t mean anything that I can think of,’ replied Kireg.
‘I can help there. It’s Latin. Perge in fide. It means go forward in faith,’ Alain chipped in, patting Kireg warmly on the shoulder and congratulating the Breton.
‘Bravo Kireg! I knew you would be able help us.’
Chapter 43
Paimpont Forest, France, 28 October 2014
Rising from the long grass near the edge of the woodland, two small brown birds rose up vertically in flight, their head crests splayed in alarm, a blur of tail white chasing fluttering wings. The skylark call was changed now to trills of alarm. Even as Tara, a moment later, saw dark forms emerge from the shadow of the trees, she blinked, willing them to be a mirage. When someone assailed her from behind, his hand slipping into her pocket, she knew all was over.
‘Let go of the gun,’ a voice commanded harshly.
Behind her she heard a peal of laughter. Turning her head she saw that Pascal had about-faced and was striding across the intervening ground. Aoife issued a groan and Tara whispered desperately.
‘Run, Aoife! Now! Just run for it! Run then hide!’
The child shot off towards the trees and the man holding Tara, pulled her around and slapped her viciously twice across the face.
‘Well struck Erik,’ Pascal’s voice boomed close by, ‘Ms Ruane needs to learn to behave.’
They all watched and waited until two other goons caught up with Aoife and dragged her back.
‘That was fun, wasn’t it, Tara?’ Pascal sneered. He looked at her as he might a thoroughbred mare, flicking her short fringe back off her forehead. ‘I preferred your hair long but never mind. You have such lovely skin. It will be a shame to blemish it but...’
He arched his eyebrows as though the matter was out of his hands. The woman spoke up.
‘Let me smack the bitch again.’ Pascal’s female companion, her face angry, took a step towards Tara, but Pascal stopped her with his arm.
‘Not now, Kirsten, all in good time.’
Tara couldn’t comprehend the hatred in the woman’s eyes, but she was becoming increasingly scared. These people radiated hostility on a level of barely repressed violence as though it was normal. Pascal resumed speaking,
‘I hope you enjoyed my little ruse, Tara. Thought I should give you a final moment of hope! I did the same with Shay – several times. I so relished the look of disappointment on his face as he faced another terrible moment of truth! It turns me on, you see, nothing is quite so exquisite. Look on the false hope as an act of charity – however temporary - from me to you. Your fate is decided and inevitable from now on. You must learn to do exactly what I say!’
His voice hardened, the ironic tone melting away. He grabbed her hair at the back and, pulling it hard, frog-marched her towards his Range Rover which was just pulling up alongside them. Pain cut through her as she screamed and stumbled alongside him, trying with varying results to stay on her feet. He whispered into her ear, his voice lowered so they weren’t overheard.
‘You have caused me a lot of trouble, you Irish bitch, and I am going to make you suffer for it. And you know what? I would love to play about with the child as well, but I can’t. Shall I tell you why? Because I need her intacto - an unharmed virgin to sacrifice. As for us, we will become man and wife before the gods, and before my people. Think of the bliss – in three days’ time we are going to fuck each other all night long as newlyweds! I am so good at fucking, especially the sort that hurts!’
His venom vented, he shoved Tara roughly into the back of the Range Rover, where she fell hard against the floor. She was physically shaken, but what really unnerved her was the level of verbal and physical violence. She had never encountered such unprovoked malice and, recalling the appalling violence unleashed on Shay, she knew he meant every word of it. She tried to sit up but found she was shaking violently.
Aoife was thrown in beside her a minute later, tears streaming down her face and desperation in her eyes.
‘I tried Tara, I ran as fast as I could. I’m sorry,’ she cried falling into Tara’s arms. Two of Pascal’s men jumped in the back of the vehicle and, sitting opposite them, watched the two captives with utter lack of interest. The Range Rover pulled away suddenly, almost throwing the captives back to the floor as it shot off down the woodland track. Clinging to a side bar, Tara held the child with her free arm. Her focus now was to look after Aoife. At least she could do that. Everything else was bleak, utterly bleak.
Chapter 44
Arz, France, 29 October 2014
Buoyed up by Kireg’s success in decoding his dream so far, Robert broached the aspect that he found the most disturbing.
‘What about the bearded individual? Does that ring any bells for you?’
Kireg gave him a curious look.
‘Now that figure is very interesting indeed. May I ask if you have been reading recently about Celtic customs in Roman Gaul?’
‘Well no, not as such, I have been a bit busy the last few weeks. The late Duc briefly mentioned Vercingetorix, but only in passing.’
Kireg shook his head, dismissing that notion.
‘I only ask because the description you gave is very specific indeed. I know exactly who this personage is. In fact it could only be one person, or rather one God, based on what you have described. Our knowledge of him dates from Romano-Celtic times but the myth originates much earlier. You have given a textbook description of the stag-horned Celtic God, Cernunnos. What you glimpsed moving behind his head were, I believe, his horns or more correctly his antlers. They are theriocephalic, that is to say they are growing from the skull. They are not ornaments worn by a man. Often the antlers carry gold torcs and he wears a third torc around his neck. Cerunnos is depicted as a hairy, bearded wild man – he personifies the spirit that animates nature, animal life and the wilderness. He embodies the atavistic principle – a throwback to earlier life forms. If you like a sort of cross species, half human, half animal. The Lord of the Hunt.’
‘And does he play any particular role in Celtic lore?’
Another shrug of the shoulders.
‘We don’t know that much about him actually if I am honest. He is named only once, on a fragment of a pillar found in a temple in Paris dating from the first century, but his image crops up very widely, for i
nstance as far afield as Luxembourg and Denmark. As to his function, legend has it that he carries the souls of the dead to the otherworld. And of course when the Christians got around to suppressing the old religion he became demonised as the Devil.’
Robert felt a chill go up his spine. None of this was exactly comforting.
‘So does he wander the world looking for dead souls?’
‘We don’t know. We do know that – like the Nature he personifies – he goes through an annual cycle of birth and death. He is born at yuletide, impregnates the female goddess in summer then dies at the turn of the year, moving into the Otherworld.’
‘So Cernunnos dies as Christ is born? At Christmas?’ Alain inquired.
‘No, no, he dies at Samhain. That was the end of the year for the Celts.’
‘Samhain? What is that?’ Robert inquired.
‘It is the great three-day festival of the Celts, marking the end of the old year. The Christians took it over as All Hallows Eve, All Souls and All Saints. At that time of year the Celts believed the barriers between this world and the otherworld thinned and ghosts could visit us - a time for divination. It’s what the modern world calls Halloween.’
At this twist in the tale a silence descended on the room, as the implications sank in.
‘But that is at the end of this month, isn’t it?’ Nico asked eventually.
‘It is, yes.’ Kireg’s earnest face looked around at them. ‘I see you are forgetting your dates. It is in fact three days away.’