Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  Arcanum

  An Irish Mystery

  Ann Mann

  Copyright © 2016 Ann Mann

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Lyrics – “Thinking out Loud” (Ed Sheeran/Amy Wadge/Asylum/Atlantic)

  Front cover design – “The Wanderer” from The Wild Wood Tarot by William Worthington

  Additional cover design Jennifer Parker

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 9781785897108

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Acknowledgements:

  John Gale, Yvonne Antrobus, Kate Greer, Paschal Walsh, Christy Evans, Robin McCaw, Niall Buggy, Declan Kiberd.

  *

  …The measure of her flying feet

  Made Ireland’s heart begin to beat;

  And Time bade all his candles flare

  To light a measure here and there;

  And may the thoughts of Ireland brood

  Upon a measured quietude.

  “To Ireland in the Coming Times”

  W. B. Yeats.

  Ann Mann has enjoyed an eclectic career in show business and the media. As a singer, she made numerous broadcasts on television and radio in the sixties and performed in some of the top cabaret spots in the West End of London. She has produced and presented over a 1,000 programmes for TV and radio, worked for Walt Disney and Hammer Films, and lectured on musical theatre and Irish Literature. Her last novel The Impersonator received five stars on Amazon and excellent reviews. It is currently being considered for a feature film.

  County Clare.

  Eire. 1735.

  Inside the bed, the old man’s hair spread out on to the grey pillow. A silver aureole, framing the dull, grey pallor of a dying face. Eyes, rheumy yet still seeing, would not move from their focus.

  The candle wisped a grey coil towards the grey ceiling and was instantly rekindled.

  A purple, velvet coat braided with silk ribbons of anything but grey hung on the door. Hues of cerise and acquamarine, sherbert and emerald belched almost obscene and forbidden colour into the dismal surroundings. A scarlet, plumed hat with a purple feather hung over the coat, caricaturing a thin, bent figure frozen in time.

  The woman holding the candle peered closer at the old man searching for signs of life. She looked older than her fifty years, her hair flat and lank fringing a sallow face that housed two large moles on either side of her chin from which grey hair sprouted eagerly.

  She stepped on to something that snapped and lowered the candle towards the dusty floor. A flash of brass buckle on fuschia ignited her wrath and she swore as she kicked it into its companion under the bed, the toes of the battered shoes curling upwards as if pleading for mercy or at least to be worn and danced in again.

  “Ifreann na Fola!”

  As she cursed, the sound of the door opening spun her round and she released a tremor of relief on seeing a shadow stretching in front of a glimmer of moonshine.

  “Tar isteach.” (“Come inside”)

  The figure moved into the candle’s light as the woman greeted him, her hand coyly half-covering her mouth to hide the absence of teeth.

  The boy was tall, in his late teens, with a mass of red-gold curls which resembled a halo against the gloom. His face was angular, his eyes the palest of blue with lips a little too prominent to create a truly handsome countenance. He was wearing a rough grey shirt and baggy brown trousers. A scarf which had once been red was knotted around his throat.

  He stared at the old man who stirred slightly but who kept his gaze on the clothes behind the door. The boy followed his gaze then took down the coat and hat and slowly put them on.

  The woman beckoned him towards the shoes which were just visible beneath the bed and the boy stooped to retrieve them. When the outfit was complete, a transformation occurred within the room. The clothes he was wearing seemed to vibrate with an energy all of their own, illuminated by a harvest moon now curious and beaming through the gauzy window pane.

  The old man shifted into an almost upright position and focused on the boy who began to twirl and dance around the bed in an orgy of colour and rhythm.

  A bony hand extended to draw him closer to the bed and as the boy obeyed the command he bent his head to listen to what the old man had to say.

  The words were pithy and urgent and he wasn’t quite sure in which language he was hearing them. They took on a resonance seemingly impossible from such a frail body and in an unfamiliar dialect that appeared to pervade the whole room with its message.

  “This is all I have to bequeath so use the gift wisely.

  Continue my work with diligence or the darkest of evils will descend upon you

  leaving those who are deprived of the gift, sorrowful and joyless for all eternity.”

  The old man then called on all of his remaining strength to reach for something beside the bed. His breath rasping in his throat and with spittle foaming on his lips and chin, he found the item and thrust it towards the boy.

  Catching the silver-topped cane with a look of pure delight the boy held it high above his head for a few seconds then brought it down on the wooden floor with a thud, then again harder and louder, finally conjuring up a beat to which he danced. And danced.

  Now he was ready.

  *

  The Olympia Theatre

  Dublin. 2015.

  Silas Murphy had learned to ignore the trickles of sweat that fermented in his hairline before snaking their journey down towards his throat and high starched collar. He had also learned to keep the smiling mask in place as he gazed out at the crowd whose standing ovation was now lasting almost as long as the closing routine. The ten positions of the Celtic cross as conceived in the Gaelic version of the Tarot cards. A choreographic tour de force that had almost cost him his sanity when putting it together, but which had received rave reviews and heralded sell out performances for the rest of the tour. It had also cemented the name for his new troupe for which he had been searching for a year. Arcanum.

  Now the encore was turning into a ball-breaker after two hours of high-stepping slip jigs, tap, soft shoe and even a traditional hornpipe. Catching Clodagh’s eye Silas noted that the bright smile she had been wearing had vapourised, its radiance replaced by a wincing grimace which signalled a warning to his brain that she had almost certainly sustained an injury.

  He couldn’t afford that. None of them could afford that. Not now.

  Clodagh was irreplaceable and the bus waiting to take them on to Ennis that night to begin performances in the town the following day was already parked outside the theatre. The billboards screamed with the critics’ praise.
“Brilliantly innovative”, “Takes the Irish dance to new heights”, “Possibly the most mysterious and poetically Celtic of all Irish dance routines.”

  More bookings, more money and more recognition. Maybe next year they would be filling the 02. That was what he had been striving for since arriving in this city from Boston in 2011, slavishly devoting every minute of his time and scant finances to perfecting the dream. And now that it was within his grasp he couldn’t afford to lose it. Whatever the cost.

  Pushing himself on towards a second encore, for the audience wanted not just their pound of flesh but the blood, sweat and tears that accompanied it, Silas saw his partner and leading lady wave to the crowd and limp off into the wings. He wondered how serious it was and whether they might have to postpone tomorrow’s opening until she had recovered. He could put Sinead on for her, but it would certainly disappoint the punters, for Clodagh was their new Jean Butler. The tall, red-haired beauty with the fiery feet they had all paid for and expected to see.

  He stared defiantly into the snow-blinding glare of the arc lamp and flung out his arms, continuing his lap of honour between the erect lines of his twenty-four dancers, his ears buzzing from the frenzy of cheers and applause, his feet lightly skimming the surface of the stage, heels and toes clicking and landing with the precision in which he had been schooled and had re-defined for himself.

  When the curtain fell and they were finally allowed to leave the stage, he manoeuvred his way through the excitable cast towards Clodagh’s dressing room. The door was open and she was sitting with her eyes closed, her hair still braided in the style of the High Priestess, her blue silk skirt lifted while Justin, their regular physio held her leg in one hand and pressed her swollen calf with the fingers of his other.

  For an unexpected microsecond Silas experienced a burning thrust of jealousy then stifled it immediately. No time for complications like that. He may examine those feelings in another place at another time but now there were more urgent matters than affairs of the heart to attend to.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, closing the door behind him and silencing the other voices. “You’ve pulled a muscle.”

  Justin took a roll of bandage from his bag and began to apply it deftly to the swollen leg. “Sorry Silas. I think it’s a tear. At least that what it feels like to me. She’ll have to go for an MRI in the morning just to make sure.”

  “I’ll be alright.” His wonderful girl told him, reaching for a bottle of water and taking a deep glug. “I’m sure I’ll be able to work tomorrow.”

  Silas loosened his collar and unbuttoned his dark waistcoat realising he must stink worse than a rotting trout in Molly Malone’s basket.

  “When did you do it?”

  The bandage applied, Clodagh turned to unbraid her hair which glinted like polished copper as it loosened onto her shoulders and she addressed him through the mirror on her dressing table. “That front click just after the double spin.”

  “In the Pentacles section when the tempo changed.” Silas nodded. “I thought that’s when I saw you go”. He moved towards her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You have to get it checked. I’ll come with you.”

  She screwed up her fine features in concern. “Not possible. You’ve got to take the bus.”

  “It’s alright.” He told her. “I’ll see them off and ask Terry to take the rehearsal and Michael to deputise for me until we arrive later. I can hire a car and we’ll drive down after we’ve been to the hospital.”

  Terry the touring stage manager and Michael the head boy dancer were more than capable of checking the dancers into their accommodation and starting the afternoon rehearsal without either of them being there.

  “I can take her.” Justin volunteered. “If you want to go with the company?”

  “No, that’s fine.” Silas heard himself snap. “If you could make the appointment I’d be grateful. You can come down with us in the car or catch a train if you’d prefer.”

  Justin closed his bag and made for the door. “I’ll accept the lift, thanks. And I’ll text you with a time for the appointment. Good night Clodagh. And keep that leg up won’t you?”

  “Thank you so much, Justin,” Clodagh smiled winningly. “See you tomorrow.”

  When he had gone, Silas flopped into the chair he had vacated and rubbed his thick dark hair, which, with its combination of sweat and gell, resembled that of a demented porcupine.

  “I’m sorry.” She said softly, starting to remove her make-up with a large wad of cotton wool. “It’s the last thing I wanted to happen.”

  He stretched out his legs and grunted. “I know. But it’s not your fault, just one of those occupational hazards. Can I borrow your cell?”

  “Sure.” She nodded towards an enormous patchwork bag that lay on the floor. “You’ll have to switch it on.”

  “I’d better text the boys and Sinead to warn them. Then I’ll clean up and go down to the bus.”

  He punched out a generic text then slid the phone back on to the dressing-table. “And I’ll get a cab to take you home.”

  A soft drizzle touched the night air as the dancers piled into the tour bus, dragging their wheelie cases and balancing boxes of pizzas and soft drinks with the dexterity of circus performers.

  Silas allowed himself a metaphorical pat on the back for locating this forty-five seater for it was the Rolls Royce of the coach world. Executive premier with leather upholstery, a WC and enough room for carrying their luggage as well as the numerous costumes. He had been so used to this size of transportation back home and still found it surprising that the coaches all seemed so small in Ireland, many of them still without air conditioning. But after a long search online and through a mate who was a fan of the show and worked for the local Mayor’s office, he had found the ideal firm who provided this sleek black beauty he was now admiring and he reassured himself it was worth every euro in the budget.

  “So you won’t be coming with us then?” A gravelly voice enquired, interrupting his musings.

  The coach driver was probably in his fifties. What hair he had left was a suspect tangerine and a faint purple mottle was creeping into his cheeks. He was smoking a cigarette which had sprinkled ash on to the lapel of his black uniformed jacket.

  “No.” Silas replied. “An emergency I have to attend to.”

  The driver nodded towards the coach which was now filled with hungry young people already digging into their greasy dinners. “I thought someone would be in charge.”

  “In charge?”

  “They’re a lively bunch. I hope they’ll settle down soon and don’t make too much mess with that food.”

  Silas wanted to say ‘Wait a second, they’ve just called on every ounce of their human resources for a relentless two and half hours. They need to come down from all that adrenalin.” But knowing that the man wouldn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about, he decided on “Don’t worry. They’ll probably fall asleep by the time you get on the M.18.”

  The driver maintained his dour expression and appeared unconvinced. “And I’ll be looked after when we get there?”

  Silas’s felt his mouth harden. He had just given Terry the twenty-five euros as a tip for the service he had already paid a great deal of money for.

  “You’ll have your tip. Just get them there safe and sound.”

  The man grudgingly decided to accept his assurance and clambered up into his seat, turning to give his boisterous charges a less than pleasant glare before revving up the engine.

  The rain was falling more intensely now, creating puddles which reflected the massive dual LED headlamps as they beamed their way out of the theatre car-park.

  Silas waved at the figures inside which became mere silhouettes the further they glided from his gaze.

  “See you tomorrow.” He called, but his words were drowned by a s
udden roll of thunder and a streak of lightning that crackled across a blue-black sky.

  *

  Clodagh had a disturbing dream that night. Maybe it had been the painkillers, but when dawn broke and gleamed a golden filter through the linen blind, her heart was pounding so loudly she thought at first it was a workman hammering outside her bedroom window.

  She had been climbing a steep hill that was arduous and seemingly never-ending. At the top of the hill was something resembling a temple bathed in the silver light of the full moon. She was wearing the ivory silk nightgown she had gone to bed in that night with the small gold cross on its fine chain still around her neck and which she tried never to remove, for her faith was an important component of her daily life.

  The temple appeared semi-translucent as if made of crystal and as Clodagh moved closer towards the arched entrance, it struck her as hauntingly familiar. Then she realised why. It was a replica of the set used in the Tarot opening and closing of the show. One black and one white pillar framed a tapestry covered with fruit and sheaths of corn. She had been told that the initials on the pillars, B on the black and J on the white were of the names of spiritual guides who guarded the Temple of Solomon. She had forgotten those names now because they seemed to hold no relevance to her understanding of the character and the dance.

  As she absorbed these thoughts, the figure of a woman began to slowly materialise. Seated with closed eyes and in flowing blue robes, her form took on an almost three- dimensional air as she drifted towards the dreaming girl.

  Clodagh gasped in alarm and found herself making the sign of the cross.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

  But the woman wasn’t the blessed Virgin. Despite her fear, Clodagh was bound to take a step closer only to realise that the face she was looking at was her own. It was herself wearing a longer version of the costume she wore in the show depicting the figure in the Major Arcana of the Tarot. The High Priestess.