by Des Sheridan
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch! Listen to you! It’s you who are crazy, not me! Think about the Triple Goddess. Can’t you see how big this could be? Why not pool resources? We could have our names immortalised in history. At least think about it.’
‘Very well, I will think about it but I don’t think I will change my mind.’
Freya was encouraged by the response. Underneath the Christian propaganda she sensed that Tara was starting to weigh up her options. That would give Freya the opportunity to reshape Tara’s thinking as it crumbled under the increasing stress. Her tone became less confrontational.
‘Thank you. That’s enough for now – let’s go. Get up!’
Tara spoke suddenly in a whisper, her hand touching Freya’s arm,
‘Shush, what is that noise?’
Freya jumped despite herself.
‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘Shut up and you will!’ hissed Tara.
Tara was right. There was a noise. A low indistinct moaning sound that rose and fell unpredictably, sometimes stopping then resuming. And scratching sounds too. It was impossible to locate the source of the sounds because of the way they reverberated in the chamber.
‘There must be someone here. It is a trick!’ Freya uttered anxiously.
‘How can there be? We would see them. The walls are solid. Don’t be ridiculous! I tell you this place is a House of the Dead. It’s the ghosts of the Old Ones. Your violence has desecrated their tomb, Freya. They are rising up!’
Freya didn’t know what to make of the situation. She suspected the younger woman of playing games, trying to confuse her mind. As an experienced medium Freya sensed nothing untoward in the cave. But the Irishwoman was a gifted Seer. What if Tara was tuning into something she was blind to? What if she was right? Angrily she smothered the thought at birth.
‘Don’t be fucking childish! The walls – check them! Bang them heavily with a shoe. Then step back if one sounds hollow. Go on or I really will kill you. I have had enough of this.’
Freya felt like her old aggressive self and noted with satisfaction that Tara didn’t argue. Obediently taking off a walking boot the Irishwoman banged on the upright stones. When the fourth stone rang hollow she sprang back and Freya advanced, took aim and fired. There was a flash and then the sound of a ricochet as the bullet bounced dangerously off the wall. At that moment the rock came hurtling into the chamber under huge force. Tara saw the faux rock hit Freya full on and the woman cried out in pain briefly. Later Kireg explained to Tara what a thick and dense material it was, made from laminated fibre. Then darkness engulfed everything and a sharp percussive cracking sound, accompanied by a short-lived emission of light, resounded.
In the darkness and confusion Tara heard several voices including Robert’s. Then a torch illuminated the scene and Robert, righting himself, immediately pulled back the faux stone and grabbed Freya’s hair. His left arm moved around the woman’s neck and his gun rested on her temple. Then he stopped abruptly, realising he was clutching a black-haired manikin - a lifeless rag doll.
‘Christ, her neck is broken,’ he observed quietly, gently lolling the head with one hand, ‘and the world is a better place for that. Paul, that flash. Was it you? Did you fire?’
Chapter 74
Larmor-Barden, France, 3 November 2014
Tara walked along the shoreline, mingling with the Sunday visitors to Larmor-Barden: the children playing with buckets by rock pools, the girls flirting with the young men, and an old gentleman in a straw hat and linen suit pushing his wife in a wheelchair. The chatter of French words coming and going was like birdsong – sweet on the ear but not comprehended. By agreement Nico was following a short distance behind, shadowing her. That was the condition that the others had imposed on her after their collective nervous breakdown when she announced she was going for a walk - alone. Poor Robert had put his hands in his hair. But she was adamant. They could stay and sort it all out with the police – she had had enough today and was going for a walk. Like normal people do. Not that she really objected to having Nico as her minder. He didn’t interfere, kept his distance and often, when she looked to check, she couldn’t even see him. But she knew he was close and that was reassuring.
Alone with her thoughts, she recognised something had changed for her. Her behaviour today, faced with a resurgence of the madness and evil that Pascal had conjured up like a whirlwind, had been different. She had stayed relatively calm. After La Roche it would take a lot to perturb her and although the situation today was deadly serious she had kept perspective. It hadn’t swept her up into its psychological maelstrom like many recent events. She had stood up to both Erik and Freya, playing them as much as they played her. She had surveyed them in the cold light of day. Freya – a mad old witch who really should have seen the writing on the wall – and Erik – a vicious thug who deserved the bullet he got in the head. They were nasty pieces of work but somehow she had comprehended their weaknesses, their compulsions and their frailty – above all, their absurdity. She realised that the welter of experiences she had gone through in recent months, and choices she had made, were remaking her as a stronger person then before.
The exchanges with Freya preoccupied Tara in particular. Freya had not denied the communality of their shared gift – the ability to be a Seer, a channel for other forces. And there had been a grudging acknowledgement alongside the wariness. Freya had known, Tara felt sure, that Tara could call up what she would call the Christ Presence and had avoided contact on that particular ground. Tara, for her part, had recognised a kindred spirit in Freya. They were sisters who shared an extraordinary gift for channelling spiritual energy. They had simply chosen different sides in a mortal and spiritual battle and were accordingly estranged. In a moment of moral and emotional confusion, Tara acknowledged a feeling that was hard to accept. Part of her mourned the loss of the strange woman and was full of pity for her.
Things were coming to a head in other ways too. The Triskell mystery was playing out fast, like a ribbon of film flying free at the end of an old cine reel. The opposition was decimated – Pascal, Kirsten, Freya - all history. Only Evrard, a figure she knew next to nothing about was left. He must be her goal. There had been losses on her side too – Shay, Andre and others – but she and Robert had persevered. Yet the key player who was best placed to make sense of it all had left the stage. She would talk to Robert about Malachy but in her heart she sensed he had departed – and gone by choice. The Moving Finger had moved on. She couldn’t fathom why he was leaving the field and yet she was close to being reconciled to it. As long as she could locate and save the Triskell, she would just have to accept his absence. He must know that she could do it alone. He had left the stage to her. That meant that soon he would get a message to her – pointing her where to go and how to solve the riddle. And on one level it would be a great relief to be free of his Taizé world of a cosmic battle between good and evil. She had realised today that she wanted to live a little now, be normal – eat, swim, laugh and love again.
That brought her thoughts around to Robert. Being with him, she decided, was like receiving a gift of a new musical instrument. She wanted to learn how to play him, to get him to sing loud and clear – to get them singing in unison and alone. And the signs were encouraging. The sex was good, better than with anyone else. With him there was a strong sense of exploring shared territory at their leisure, as though time didn’t matter, and she liked that. And thankfully he showed no sign of wanting to colonise her. He would argue his corner doggedly if an issue mattered to him and he also valued his – and by extension her – own space. She reckoned she could tame him to some extent but he would always have an independent streak. That seemed just dandy to her.
Next came the acknowledgement that a fundamental aspect of her life had changed. She embraced the fact that she had received another gift, an extraordinary and unusual ability to tune into signals and presences that others scarcely noticed although they were surrounded
by them. She had the gift of Seeing. It was scary certainly but it was also thrilling and transcendent. What she needed to do was harness this skill in some way, and be a translator for all the others who couldn’t hear the voices or read the signs. She sensed that she could apply her skills in almost any environment but having a vehicle would help and ARAD seemed to fit the bill. It was an organisation that engaged with people, delved in obscure places and stumbled upon lost treasures and insights. That would do just fine.
Chapter 75
Arz, France, 16 November 2014
Robert and Tara were guests of Alain’s and had been staying with him at the Château d’Arz, the last ten days. Tara initially had been reluctant to return to Arz but Alain had persuaded her otherwise.
‘Tara, we cannot let the memory of my father’s death put us off Arz,’ he had persuaded. ‘If we do, we let Pascal win from beyond the grave. Arz is not a place of evil. It is a beautiful and peaceful town. I have to claim it back – all of us who live here do - and I am asking you to help me.’
Tara reflected on how much Alain had changed in the few weeks they had known him. Gone was the angry, bewildered youth who wanted to avenge his father and in his place was a young man who was busy looking after his distraught family as well as providing leadership to his community. And yet he still found time for Robert and her. He was impressive and likeable young adult, Tara realised.
There was no arguing with Alain’s words, so they had become proper tourists. At first adrenalin kept them going, as often happens after a traumatic experience. Then, after a few days, the exhaustion caught up with them and brought them to a slow, grinding halt. But that was OK, Tara knew. They didn’t fight it, and played the part of visitors exploring the town and its environs, enjoying the experience. It also gave them time to pay attention to each other, as lovers do. Twice Tara had suggested they head for Brussels and resume the search for the Triskell, but Robert persuaded her that they needed time out first. So they compromised. They would go to Brussels after two weeks. And today was a milestone – a remembrance service for those lost in recent weeks. Then in two days they would travel to Brussels.
They were walking towards the church in Arz, when Robert’s smart-phone pinged. It was an e-mail from Paul Bonnet but there was no message, just a PDF attachment which Robert opened. It contained a press cutting and, in the irritating nature of these things, it was on its side so he couldn’t read it. It took him a moment to rotate it through ninety degrees. It was from The International Herald Tribune and recounted an unexplained explosion at an industrial site in a business park on the outskirts of Brussels. Robert read it out loud. The factory belonged to a subsidiary of the Waverloo industrial conglomerate. In the ensuing conflagration three scientists and six technicians were reported dead and a large white cloud, passing over neighbouring suburbs, had caused residents’ eyes to water. Police were quoted as saying that industrial espionage was suspected and that security cameras had captured intruders leaving the premises immediately after the first explosion. Robert passed Tara the phone.
‘Here, see for yourself’, he said.
She opened the pdf attachments. They were closed-circuit photographs of the thieves – blurred, shadowy figures in the dark. One of the photographs however was of good quality and Tara studied the image. The man was ferrying a large box, perhaps three foot square in size, on a trolley. But of even greater interest was his face.
‘Robert, look at this,’ Tara said, stopping in the street
Robert looked and gasped, recognising the face immediately. Although grainy and blurred, they could both see that it bore a striking resemblance to their missing friend.
‘This is crazy,’ said Tara, ‘Do you think it could be him? Could Malachy be some kind of industrial spy?’
A month back, Tara betted, Robert would have laughed at the thought. Today his face was thoughtful.
‘It could be just photographic coincidence, Tara, but can you buy that after all that has happened? Let’s face it, the man looks very much like Malachy, and, if it is him, then something akin to covert activity is going on. He does work for the Catholic Church so perhaps in some sense he is a special agent for it.’
Tara absorbed this assessment.
‘There is something else. I forgot to tell you,’ she said. ‘Do you recall that I brought from Ireland another of my grandfather’s final diaries? With all that was going on I didn’t think to read it until this week. The content is much the same as the others but there is a reference to walking the hills with “my young friend the deacon”. He must mean Malachy. I mean how many young deacons are there around these days? Now that means Malachy concealed the friendship from me. How could he after all that was going on? It was plain dishonesty!’
Robert looked surprised to hear this.
‘Are you sure? I thought you said Joe’s writing was often hard to decipher.’
‘In the writings of the final weeks, yes, it can be. But every time I look at this particular sentence that is the word I see. Plain as day. You can judge for yourself later back at the house.’
Robert looked at her pensively before responding.
‘Tara, some of what we are dealing with is a mystery because we have incomplete information. But other stuff – the dreams, your grandfather, Malachy – is in a different league. Very different. We have to accept that forces we cannot fathom are at work here. And without some pretty strange coincidences and events neither of us would be alive today. Nor would Aoife be by the way.’
He tapped the image on the phone screen. ‘No prizes for guessing what may be in the box either’.
They fell silent. Tara was struggling to come to terms with all this information. Then it hit her. Malachy hadn’t vacated the stage for her to solve the mystery. He was still centre stage and well ahead of her. He had marginalised her. He no longer needed her. Suddenly the Archbishop’s words on Gavrinis echoed around her head, their meaning clear for the first time. “Be assured, our gentle messenger, quis ut deus quis, will restore the Triskell to a secure place to await another time”. She had assumed she would be part of that process but now she realised that Cornelius’ words were words of thanks and valediction. “May the Lord’s grace bathe you.”
Mixed emotions bounced about her brain. At first anger dominated. Malachy was utterly two-faced and insincere. He had used her abominably and then dumped her without a word of thanks. Then a different interpretation dawned upon her. Malachy had readied her for what happened at La Roche aux Fées, been there for her at the critical moment and now was freeing her up to resume a normal life. He had liberated her from the Triskell burden which was ultimately must be his. She would be able to grasp the life she had imagined on the beach at Larmor-Barden - a life full of new possibilities. And in her heart she knew that if Malachy appeared at that moment she would be glad and would forgive him. And all the while she wondered afresh who he was – what exactly he was.
Her concentration was interrupted by a clamour about her. They were nearing the church of Notre Dame d’Arz, the entrance to which was crowded. It was good to see a basilica so full of people all chatting away. They brought the beautiful medieval building back to life, thought Robert. A Sunday Mass was being celebrated to pay tribute to the late Duc, his secretary, the chauffeur and Gerard - the young man who had died at La Roche aux Fées – and to offer thanks for those who had survived the recent tumultuous events.
After the service, as the crowd thinned out, Alain took them on a guided tour of the church. He pointed out the statue of Our Lady of the Thorns and explained the history of the devotion to the Virgin in the town.
‘You know, Tara, when we set out to rescue you at La Roche aux Fées the community kept a non-stop vigil by the relic, praying that you and Aoife would be spared.’ He pointed you to the Madonna, ‘So remember, it is her you have to thank!’
They continued their tour around the building until they reached a final stained glass window that stood to the left of the entr
ance door as they approached down the side aisle.
‘Ah! I nearly forgot, here we have Saint Michael. And look! We even have the place that first brought you to us!’
He pointed to the bottom left of the window, where a small inset panel displayed a brightly coloured image of Mont Saint-Michel. But Tara’s eyes were drawn elsewhere. She was looking at the great Archangel, here depicted as a triumphant warrior in a purple cloak, which billowed in the wind about him. The saint was poised to drive his spear through the fallen form of the devil that he straddles - a wild creature with brown hair and two black horns. A motto straddled the image.
‘The motto, quis ut deus quis, what does it mean? I have heard that phrase recently.’ Tara asked. She didn’t mention on whose tongue she had heard it – that of Cornelius.
‘Who is as God,’ the grammar school boy in Robert translated without hesitation.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Alain. ‘St Michael is sometimes referred to in that way since he is God’s principal angelic enforcer.’
At that moment the sun, which had been subjecting the church to a dynamic chiaroscuro of light and shade during the morning, broke through the stained glass window, enlivening the figure of the Archangel. Light, cascading through the small panels that composed the face, animated it and for a second the great eyes seemed to sweep the observers into the range of their blue-tinted gaze. A smile played upon the saint’s lips. Returning the Archangel’s stare, Tara instantly knew the face! But the resemblance was fleeting. A cloud extinguished the sun’s rays and next moment the Archangel’s face had returned to the bland, uncommunicative expression that the glazier who created it had fashioned.
‘Did you see that?’ Tara whispered to Robert.
Robert nodded and responded.
‘The trick of light? You saw that too? I thought I was imagining it. Our errant friend again as best I could see. It seems the Madonna had a helping hand in her work’.