by Des Sheridan
Chapter 32
Maynooth, Ireland, 4 October 2014
Tara looked at the priest. Andre’s face was enraptured as he held the ancient document up to the light, turning it over in his white-gloved hands and scrutinising it with great precision. Then he sniffed it briefly before nodding his head.
“It’s odd,’ he commented. ‘You would think that papers belonging to a seventeenth century bishop would turn up only very rarely, but not so. I get at least one or two a year. Mostly they are very mundane, a receipt or a piece of correspondence that mentions him, but this one is very special.’
As if talking to himself, he carried on sotto voce.
‘Cornelius was quite a character, you see. He was a wily survivor and a significant player in the religious politics of his time. It’s so hard for us to understand it, in this secular age, but back then religious beliefs were the very fuel that animated and propelled the politics. Cornelius was not a conventional theologian, as I expect you have realised. He was certainly a heretic by modern Catholic standards but, more importantly, he was one by the standards of his own time as well! He was the last of a rare breed of independent thinking, deeply spiritual Irish clerics. And to hold this document! It is like touching’ - he rubbed the paper gently between his white-gloved fingers as if evoking Cornelius back to life - ‘the mind of the man himself.’
He fell silent, reading and re-reading the poem, then spoke.
‘I congratulate you, Tara. I think your reading of the poem is spot-on in idiomatic terms. I can’t fault it. But I can also understand Robert’s reservations. It is all a bit circumstantial. Now let’s see if I can find you something more to flesh it out.’
Getting up he went to a large, old, wooden double-door cupboard and opened it to reveal rows of closely packed shelves, lined with bankers boxes, box files and ring binders. Rummaging, he pulled out a selection of items, taking them over to his large desk and laying them in in a row.
‘So, let’s see, according to Tara’s dream, we are talking about the Bishop meeting a group of friends at Ormond Castle in the summertime?’
Tara nodded.
‘Well, given the war, which swept in waves first this way then that across the land, the good Bishop was obliged to move around a lot. Now, let’s see when he was there.’
He picked up a ring binder and flicked through the pages.
‘Here it is. He was resident at Ormond from November 1648 until his death. So we are talking about the summer of 1649 and you said that the lavender was not yet in bloom, so...’
He went over to a bookcase and pulled down a gardening reference book.
‘Lavender blooms July through September, so let’s say our sunny day was therefore in June 1649. Now let’s see what the good bishop was up to then, if we can. Look, this could take a while, Tara in there, do you mind?’ He pointed towards an adjacent room. ‘Would you brew some fresh coffee?’
Biting her tongue, Tara meekly accepted the womanly duty. Having at last got a foot in the door they couldn’t risk upsetting the man. When she returned with a coffee pot and cups on a tray some time later, Andre was still deep in his reading, annotating various volumes and ring binders with yellow post-it notes. She poured the coffee and the three visitors sat and waited, observing the researcher in action, wondering if he would find something of use. Tara knew that if he didn’t their search could grind to a halt. Finally, Andre pushed his glasses up onto his head and looked at his visitors.
‘This is curious. There is definitely something afoot in June 1649. The Archbishop entertained a small group of visitors, spending much time with them. Now, of course, as a public man and a clergyman he had a constant string of visitors but this seems different. For instance, one record mentions that the Bishop intensified the security arrangements, retiring behind guarded doors to confer with guests. Moreover the episcopal circular lists four week-days later in the month as being free of appointments. That is unusual, almost as though he was somewhere else. And that set me thinking. Apart from a person’s own records it is always useful to trawl local sources for corroboration. So I checked the records of Clogheen Priory. He liked to withdraw there on retreat and was on amicable terms with the Prioress, who provided him with spiritual guidance. And listen to what the record says.’
He declaimed in fluent Gaelic as follows, the sonorous cadences washing over the ears of his listeners.
“Tháinig sé an tArdeaspag gan choinne ar oíche an chéad fiche de Mheitheamh le páirtí de cheithre compánach, duine acu a bhí ár Aine deirfiúr bhfad mór le rá. Aifreann an tArdeaspag a rinneadh ag an uair séú i láthair an Triskell naofa. Fhág siad i bhfianaise na luath, i bháisteach brónach do Leabacallee, a achtú a fheiscint.”
It was Robert’s first exposure to the tongue and Tara wondered what he made of it. People often said that to begin with it sounded utterly harsh and alien, but then as the ear started to attune itself to the windy, echoing vowels and the ‘ch’ sounds, and they would catch an inkling of the beauty of the language. Robert made no such observation.
‘What does that mean?’ was all he asked politely.
Andre smiled.
‘It relates how the Archbishop arrived unexpectedly on the evening of the twenty-first of June with a party of four companions, one of whom is referred to as “our much beloved sister Áine”. It seems the Archbishop celebrated Mass at dawn the next morning in the presence of “the hallowed Triskell”. It then says that the visitors left, in dismal rain for Labbacallee, to enact a Seeing.’
There was a stunned silence around the room. All sat up from their relaxed poses as the significance of Andre’s words dawned upon them.
‘They left for Labbacallee. Does anyone know where that is? I’m afraid I don’t,’ Andre asked, but all looked blank.
‘Let’s Google it’, said Tara, pulling her new iPad out of her shoulder bag. Within a minute or so she was reading from the entries she had found.
‘Labbacallee is a wedge tomb, the largest of all the Irish wedge tombs. Known as the Hag’s Bed, the tomb is associated with the Celtic Hag, the Goddess ‘Caillech Bhearra.’ It is located 5 miles north-west of Fermoy, in County Cork...blah, blah...it is similar in size and design to the great wedge tombs of Brittany. Look, there are pictures!’
The others crowded around her for a view.
‘It certainly seems atmospheric,’ commented Robert. ‘But what is a Seeing?’
Malachy replied without hesitation.
‘Celtic lore, both in Ireland and Europe, credits the Celts with the gift of Seeing. It is an ability to enter a trance-like state and see the future. It sounds as though the Triskell was a device linked to that ritual. I suspect that the object we found at Rosnaree is the base of it and the rest of the poem gives clues to the whereabouts of the dispersed parts, namely Mont Saint-Michel, Santiago de Compostella and somewhere in England.’
Again silence reigned, broken eventually by Andre.
‘I concur with that reading.’ His voice momentarily had slipped back into a supercilious tone, as though seconding a motion at committee.
Robert was pacing the floor, his face set. He looked disconcerted and out of his depth, Tara thought.
‘OK, OK, I find this a bit ... well...incredible. And it still sounds like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ Robert exclaimed. ‘We can’t even be sure that the parts ever got there or who took them or anything. It’s still all pretty thin!’
‘That is not quite the case,’ Father Andre interjected in a matter of fact tone. ‘I think we can guess pretty well who was charged with the mission. I forgot to say earlier but the Episcopal record does identify who the Bishop’s guests were that June.’
He reached for the ring binder again and opened a page with a yellow sticker.
‘Yes, here it is. They were Guion Bihan, Donovan Lally, William Howard and Áine Lacey. We can check the derivation of the names properly, but Guion I know is a Breton name, Lally is a Black Irish surname often linked with Spain and How
ard is clearly English. You see? They match the geographical clues in the poem.’
Malachy chimed in.
‘One more thing. Notice the date, the twenty first of June, the day before the Summer Solstice. Whatever happened at Labbacallee, they chose an auspicious day for it.’
Chapter 33
St Moritz, Switzerland, 8 October 2014
Evrard de Waverin-Looz was strolling alone on the terrace of the Badrutt’s Palace Hotel. The dramatic location of the hotel, poised high on the lake shore at St Moritz provided spectacular views of the Alps and had served their purpose well. The five-star luxury suites served to remind his colleagues of the luxury that their wealth could presently buy, but he and Pascal wanted them to realise that they needed to purchase the future as well. That thought reminded him of how the idea of a climate change conference had come about. Following their meeting of minds on the issue, he and Pascal had scoped out the business impact assessment that they would need to undertake before they could initiate change in the Waverloo companies. But it soon became clear that the price tag was too large, so Evrard hit on the idea on extending the stakeholders to include the Circle groups of companies as that would generate substantial economies of scale. It turned out that the Circle was willing to explore the notion and, one thing leading to another, the proposal for a conference was born.
The Circle members were being kept busy. Each day started with a morning session, where they were briefed on an aspect of climate change by international experts, followed by an afternoon session which explored the business opportunities the particular issue might afford the cartel. Evrard was well pleased with the progress they were making. The exercise gave them first hand exposure to the experts so they could put them through their paces.
It became apparent that climate change research had turned into a self-perpetuating industry which made establishing the facts a complicated matter. Increasingly academics were sticking to officially-sanctioned positions so as not to imperil their research funding. The Circle, in bottoming out uncertainties about the science, needed to cut through the official rhetoric and get to the nub of the matter.
The short-term presented no problem. There was plenty of money to be made from carbon trading in the European Union. It was the longer term that provided the real challenge. The basics were clear. The world would endure a two- to five-degree rise in temperature before 2100, and some areas would be winners and others losers. The Mediterranean would become significantly warmer and drier, but Northern Europe would continue to enjoy an equable climate. However, if the change really hit five degrees all bets were off.
Cross-examination of the experts revealed that no one could predict what the pace of the change would be and which scenarios – sea-level rise, aridity, or turbulent weather – would come into play first. The scientists took the businessmen through all the models. Evrard now knew more than he ever wanted to about circulation models, equilibrium runs, coupled models, simulation ensembles and the like. The bottom line was that feedback loops were very difficult to predict or model. In short, no one knew for sure what would happen. But Pascal had been proved right on one thing. Significant climate change could be expected to happen rapidly in places. And spotting the trends early would be key to achieving market advantage. Evrard reflected on how he had under estimated his son, and was pleased to be wrong.
Chapter 34
Maynooth, Ireland, 6 October 2014
Gathered around a table, in a rented house near Maynooth, the three companions sat down to a homemade dinner of gammon ham, boiled cabbage with bacon and new potatoes. It was tasty Irish fare and a bottle of Fleurie set the scene for a convivial atmosphere, yet the mood was subdued. Tara reckoned that Robert still seemed stunned by the visit the previous day to Andre and what they had found out. When they had finished eating, Tara knew that they needed to discuss what would come next but she was hesitant to broach the subject, unsure how much more support she could expect of her companions. So she passed the buck.
‘So what’s next then?’ she asked Robert who must have realised from her stilted tone of voice that she wasn’t talking about dessert.
‘That depends on you to a large extent, Tara. You are the dreamer, so only you will know when it is finished. The easy bit would be to continue online research on the three pilgrims but, to be honest, I don’t think we have the time. We could do that on the move with Andre helping us. As we sit here, safe as houses, it is tempting to forget a basic fact. Whoever killed Shay is actively pursuing the Triskell and, I am sorry to say it but I think it is true, that means pursuing us. They will find us sooner or later and then.... well.’
He paused, leaving the rest unspoken. Tara noticed that Malachy looked unruffled by the prospect but inwardly her heart sank and she felt desolate. When no one said anything Robert continued.
‘I have to be honest with you, Tara, the session with Andre seemed surreal to me. The way he found all this corroborating evidence. It seemed, well, just extremely odd. I am a down-to-earth person but what choice have I got? The facts are stacking up in favour of this crazy story about the Triskell. I just need to adjust my thinking a bit because certain parameters of normality are clearly changed, whether I like it or not.’
He paused a minute then continued.
‘So my advice is that we go for this full pelt, keep ahead of the game and find the missing parts of the Triskell. Or rather try to, because I think it highly unlikely we will find them all, given the passage of time. Fate will have spoiled the trail down the centuries. At least it will keep us busy and ahead of the thugs who killed Shay.’
She was watching him as he spoke and now his eyes rose to meet hers.
‘It is your call, Tara, but if I were you I would keep going.’
The relief she felt was enormous, triggered by his use of the first person plural. For the second time in days she saw him with different eyes. Before her was a man of integrity and generosity. A generosity she didn’t deserve. He was clearly unsettled by the irrational implications of events but his proposed response was grounded and practical. She still wasn’t sure how much she could expect of him but he was offering her some support, and that was more than enough for now. For a moment she wondered if Robert had an ulterior motive. Perhaps he wanted the Triskell for himself. But somehow the situation didn’t feel like that at all. She needed someone to help her and Robert was saying, in his customary understated manner, that he was there for her.
Malachy’s voice suddenly demanded her attention. He was sitting in a large old armchair and seemed somehow diminished, half-swallowed up in it.
‘Tara, I will help you when I can but I have deaconate exams in ten days and I need to work on them if I am to make it through.’
As a capsule of information it was perfectly packaged. Nothing unessential in it. Just what she needed to know. No coating of emotion, an almost childlike response in its simplicity. A flash of irritation cut through her, as she took offence at the mundaneness of his reasoning. How could he worry about exams when someone was trying to kill her, for God’s sake? Unlike him, she couldn’t just withdraw into the closed cloister of the seminary. And the auditor in her recognised a pattern to his response. It was a style he would sometimes adopt, invariably as a prelude to not giving her something she wanted. As though saying that he would go some of the way down the road with her but would then leave her. It was part of his otherness as a priest-to-be and in that second she intuited how awfully lonely his life choice was in terms of human companionship.
She crossed over to the chair and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Malachy, don’t worry, that’s fine. I know you will help in whatever way you can.’
His face beamed back at her, as though he could read her mind and was following her mental acrobatics.
Tara was surprised at how generous her response to Malachy was, then realised why. It was simply that she knew that Robert would be there for her. She could afford to be generous. But there was a corollary to that:
it meant she was dependent on Robert. She computed the alternative. She would, and could, go on alone if she had to, but she was no fool. It would be dangerous and lonely and the very thought of it sent her anxiety levels through the roof. She decided to park the alternative, in long stay.
The issue aired, all fell silent thinking about the implications of what had been said. Eventually she realised she had something else that needed saying.
‘It’s an odd situation, for me too, Robert. In America I spent years obsessed with being in control of all aspects of my life. I never let myself be dependent on anyone. Now the tables are turned and I seem to be a pawn on someone else’s chessboard. I hate that because I always want to call the shots. But this is something else altogether. The Archbishop needs me to follow this narrative to a conclusion and so I will follow his lead.’
It was the first time that she had acknowledged so overtly to them that she saw Cornelius as a real, living presence. She knew that in a sense she was revealing to them the possibility that she was mad. They needed to know that.
‘Strange as it all is, I think you are right, Tara. You have hit the nail on the head.’
Listening to Robert’s words and seeing Malachy nod his head in assent, Tara again felt relieved. They hadn’t cut and run. They believed her, or at least accepted the way she saw things as having validity. Robert filled the ensuing silence with a question that moved them on.
‘So, how do we go about our travels? Either we work our way outwards through England and France to Spain, or go to the furthest reach and work our way back. What do you think?’
Tara didn’t hesitate.