Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  He would have a problem raising that kind of money in his current position. Maybe he would write that book after all.

  That was when Silas reached out for the cane and felt her touch on it immediately. The poignant sensation was as sweet as warm maple syrup drizzled over ice cream and he could not help but utter a long sigh which turned into her name.

  “Clodagh…”

  Nature could erase traces of the past but this inanimate object had proved that it could carry the past with it in a way that was both mystical and material. He was sure that this cane bore a history that whispered of many joys and sorrows long before Clodagh had held it in her hands.

  This then was what he had been longing for. Something that told him she was okay and had maybe thought enough of him to find a way to send a message down through the decades to comfort him in his grief and solitude. Being in love with a ghost would have haunted him forever and perhaps now he could move forward with his life and a future that promised the hope and fulfilment that he had always known.

  Co. Clare.

  1735

  The beginning of her journey of discovery far exceeded anything she had imagined, for as the silvery fog drew her in, it became impossible to see beyond its density. It was as if she was levitating on a tread-mill of air pulled by an invisible magnet and yet not seeming to cover any distance.

  A slight ringing in her ears caused her to shake her head, but the sensation was not unpleasant. She dug deep into her imagination and visualised tinkling silver bells until a swift whooshing sound suddenly took their place and caused her heart to accelerate. A salmon leaping from a stream perhaps? Or the rushing whistle of birds’ wings?

  How long the osmosis had taken was impossible to guess. When every sound had faded, borne away on the mist, she knew instinctively that she was in the same place she had left, but in another time.

  After travelling through so much light, darkness struck like an inky canopy and as her feet found solid ground, she gasped in anticipation and awe. She had prepared herself for her exile and now the moment had arrived with all its mystery and uncertainty.

  At first her brain struggled to digest the shapes she thought she recognised. The familiar curve of the mountains stamped against a sky filled with the most magnificent stars. The same moon, full and golden. Forests of trees far denser than those left behind, and…was that large, dark object that loomed silently to her left…could that really be the coach?

  And then the unfamiliar. A flash from a lantern and a hand touching her arm causing her to almost faint from shock.

  Turning, Clodagh came face to face with the old woman and knew immediately that she was the one who had been communicating with them through the Tarot.

  “Hello.” Clodagh greeted her quietly, thinking that perhaps there would be uncertainty on both sides.

  The old woman nodded but didn’t speak. She smiled widely and Clodagh was saddened to see what few teeth she had remaining were black and rotting. She was dressed in what appeared to be several layers of full skirts and a grey woollen shawl was draped around her shoulders.

  But there was something she was carrying in a sack that seemed to excite her and she placed the lantern on a low stone wall, untying the string that held the sack together and digging her hand down into its rough depths with a chortle that reminded Clodagh of such solitary crones she had only read about in fairy tales.

  Barely visible in the low light, Clodagh gazed with wonder on what the woman had produced from the sack and was now pushing towards her, insisting with grunts and gestures that she should accept and wear the garment.

  It was a beautiful coat. Purple and gold, braided with ribbons of the most dazzling, colours Clodagh had ever seen embroidered into one costume. If this had belonged to an old Dance Master, then how could it be that it was still so bright? She slipped her arms into it and immediately became aware of her seven centres of energy awakening to embrace the colours and resonating with their vibrancies against her body. Cerise and acquamarine, sherbert and emerald shimmered in the lantern’s glow.

  For Clodagh, this presented the alchemy of transformation into the person she was now to become. The coat was her own personal armour against whatever perils lay ahead, and together with the Priestess costume and her gold cross it was all the protection she needed.

  A scarlet hat with a purple feather was then proffered and Clodagh accepted it gracefully, fixing it over her long hair and completing the outfit to the satisfaction of the old woman who cackled with delight before looking down at her shoes with a gasp.

  Clodagh was wearing her soft dance pumps with the long white laces that criss-crossed over the top of her feet and tied around her ankles and it was clear that no foot-wear as delicately fashioned existed at this time, particularly in such rural surroundings.

  “Ahhh…” was all the woman managed to emit and nodded vigorously once again as they suddenly became aware of the sound of men’s voices, the whinnying of a horse and a blaze of light panning across the fields in the distance.

  A vision was advancing towards them and she could only liken it to an historical ceremonial procession. Lighted torches were held by what appeared to be at least forty men of various ages, half of whom walked either side of a cart pulled by a large, grey horse. If this was her welcoming committee then it was certainly both impressive and dramatic.

  The torches burned and flared, sending smoke and sparks billowing into the night air as their carriers approached and Clodagh could just make out the figure of a tall man who was driving the cart. She stood nervously fidgeting with the ribbons on her coat as they drew closer and when he pulled up next to them, watched with fascination as the man sprang out, clearly expecting a visitor, but not her.

  The group shuffled forward then froze, the older ones’ leathery faces lined with the maps of their lives, their eyes piercing and expectant. They bore the weary signs of those who had been waiting for a miracle and Clodagh bit her lip, the acrid taste of smoke on her tongue, wondering if she was meant to be that miracle and praying that she could live up to it’s expectations if that was so.

  The driver of the cart who had kind brown eyes but was not smiling, addressed his opening words to the old woman.

  “Cad é seo?” (“What’s this?”)

  The old woman frowned, then gestured towards Clodagh, her hand sweeping down the front of the coat as if to demonstrate the treasure she had uncovered, but the man and his companions remained agitated.

  “Bean, nach bhfuil?” (“A woman?”)

  Clodagh swallowed her fear and decided to speak up, hoping that the man would understand English.

  “Hello, my name is Clodagh. I’m your new Dance Master.”

  “Ye can’t be a Dance Master. You’re a woman!” He spat in a thick brogue and the others surrounding him nodded in agreement, muttering to one another and gazing at Clodagh with a mixture of disappointment and frustration at discovering her gender, while the torches they each were holding seemed to flicker with a less celebratory flame.

  She stood her ground, knowing that this delicate negotiation had to be approached with caution and determination. If Blossom was correct and this community really did believe they were under the influence of some curse, then she had to be the one to convince them that she could lift it.

  “I’ve come a long way, sir, in order to help your people learn and enjoy the dance and I’m not giving up just because you want a man instead of a woman. May I ask what happened to your last Dance Master?”

  The owner of the cart suddenly appeared uneasy and gave her a long stare. His eyes then scanned the group and he spoke to them in Irish, before turning back to Clodagh.

  “Aye, then. Jump up.”

  As he held out his hand to assist her climb into the rough, wooden vehicle, she breathed a relieved sigh knowing that a small battle won did not mean a victorious
war, for her work had not yet begun. The old woman clambered in beside her, rearranging her long skirts as the horse was instructed to trot towards some unknown destination.

  The lullaby of night caressed them as the rhythm of the hooves and the moving lights led the way along a well-travelled path and one which Clodagh was sure her friends must have taken. She wondered how they were and if they’d returned safely but these were all questions that would have to wait. The torch bearers were scrutinising her so intently that it seemed they were branding her a traitor. And yet somehow she didn’t feel threatened. Just chastised and scorned. She could handle that until she proved them wrong. She fingered the small golden cross only to be forced out of a prayer by the clamour of voices, the cries of infants and a fiddler striking up a jig.

  Rising from the discomfort of the rickety seat and trying to maintain her balance, her eyes were momentarily blinded by a large square of brightness which at first glance resembled a giant movie screen. As the cart slowed down, she realised that she was gazing into an open barn where iron lanterns hung from the rafters and scattered in dark corners spinning a mirage of light towards them. She peered closer and saw that the straw had been swept away from the stone ground and where the surface had obviously become uneven, two large wooden doors had been removed from their hinges and laid down to cover and flatten the area.

  Clodagh knew at once that this was the place which had been prepared for dancing and where she was destined to begin her long awaited task. As the grey horse brought them to a jerky halt, stamping and shaking its mane, she took the hand of the driver and alighted to even more scrutiny. This time from her own sisterhood.

  The assorted group of women stared and shook their heads and while some were fascinated, others were plainly unhappy to learn that their new tutor was a woman. Some were so full of curiosity that they came close enough to touch her and then, as if not sure that she was human, sprang back warily, scattering like nervous hens sensing the presence of a fox in their midst.

  Clodagh understood. Even through the shared identity of their species, she would seem so very different to them. It wasn’t just her scent, but the texture of her hair and skin, the whiteness of her teeth and her manner of movement.

  It would be hard to guess their ages, but even at such a late hour some were carrying babies or toddlers and she would have put them all above twenty years. Despite their obvious slender means it was clear they had made a real effort for many were wearing similar black skirts embroidered with green and white Celtic designs of animals and flowers and she noticed that while their faces were free of make-up, they kept pinching their cheeks and lips in order to give themselves colour.

  She looked around for the young people. The teenagers. Although that word had yet to be invented. No-one present seemed to be between the ages of twelve and twenty and she was puzzled, believing that they would have been the age group that were the most keen to learn how to express themselves through the dance.

  As the men-folk continued further up the hill to toss the now smouldering torches on to a crackling bonfire, she realised that the tall man who had been driving the cart must be the farmer who lived here as he appeared to be taking charge and trying to coax the women and children inside the barn.

  “What is your name?” She asked him, venturing to touch his arm.

  “Mick,” he told her. “Mick Gilligan and ye’ve got your work cut out.”

  “I know that, Mick. I will do my best.” Before letting him go, she had to ask. “Did you see my friends?”

  He knew at once what she meant and his answer lifted her spirits more than she could have believed possible.

  “Aye. Thee’ve gone.”

  Choked with relief, she felt a sudden tug on her coat and looking down saw a little girl with rosy cheeks and hair the colour of mustard seed. In her hand she was clutching a bunch of deep pink heather which she thrust towards Clodagh, prompted by her pretty mother who smiled shyly while hovering nearby.

  “How lovely. Thank you so much.” Clodagh told the child, and then glanced towards the mother, unsure as to whether she understood but hoping she would realise how appreciated the gesture was.

  With a growing sense of dismay she watched as Mick Gilligan struggled to persuade the reluctant men and women into his barn, for she knew that the Penal laws were still in force and that he would be anxious to close his doors so as not to be heard by those who might see fit to condemn and punish this innocent tradition.

  It became obvious that soon she would have to exercise some control as any male in her place would, and as she searched her mind for the way to begin, the old woman appeared at her side folding a slim cane with a curved silver handle into her hands with a sense of urgency. Unsure what to do with this latest offering, Clodagh then remembered she had read that the Dance Masters often used staffs to assist in their teaching, although this was no ordinary wooden staff but a handsome, highly polished prop that might well serve in her introduction to the lesson. At the very least it could be used to attract their attention.

  Gathering her courage, she tried to ignore those still lingering and whispering by the entrance and with a sudden swift movement brought the cane down hard on one of the wooden doors that had been laid for dancing.

  The voices tapered off and something close to a silence dropped onto a space where it now felt as though the life of the world had been suspended.

  With more force than she realised she was capable of and praying that the cane wouldn’t snap, Clodagh once again beat it hard against the wood under her feet. Now a few of the group moved closer, eyes wide, curiosity ignited as they formed a horseshoe arc and Mick Gilligan pulled the heavy barn doors shut after the last trickle of men slipped inside.

  She had no idea how to cue the music as the poor fiddler was blind and was also sleeping, so in the firmest voice she could manage called out loudly for a jig. In an instant he shot up like a jack-in-the-box toy cranked from his slumber and Clodagh forced herself to recall a military style routine she had performed at the World Championship in Philadelphia in 2009. This cane was longer than a baton, but she was sure she could manage to twirl it if the sleeves of her coat allowed her movement.

  As the traditional lilt cut through an atmosphere of ardent expectation, she moved spontaneously into a single jig, a dance that she had performed numerous versions of over the years and one which she was sure they would find engaging if accompanied by arm movements. Gripping the cane firmly with both hands for the first eight bars of the music, Clodagh then began to swing it deftly between her right and left shoulders, bringing it forward and back then swinging it again, while keeping in time with her intricate footwork.

  It was a dizzying routine based on balance and she lost herself in the moment as the speed rose and fell for it was the prologue to the lesson she was sure would follow.

  As she slowed to a halt and caught the cane with one hand in a dramatic flourish, she could not fail to be aware of the number of eyes boring into her, the souls who were judging her, open-mouthed and most disconcertingly of all – quiet.

  And so she waited. Waited for the nourishment that every artiste craves but that can be served either hot or cold. But this was so very different. This time she needed more than ever to be appreciated and accepted and this was no competition or first night. Their approval would ratify her very existence in a place that would turn her from a stranger into someone they could learn to love and respect and more importantly who would try to provide that welcome light they had been waiting for.

  The atmosphere of numbed hypnosis was finally broken by the beautiful child who had given her the heather and who squealed and clapped her tiny hands, but no-one else joined in and Clodagh tried to think beyond the flood of anxiety that was threatening to drown her.

  What would Silas do now? Auntie Peggy? She was pretty sure they would have said ‘first steps first’. Had she gon
e in too strong when the most basic of routines would have been where to start? She had tried to entertain them with something skilful but instead of capturing their interest she had merely overwhelmed them. Now, she had to pull the proverbial rabbit out of her plumed hat.

  Glancing down at their feet she noticed that all the men were wearing their hard reel shoes and the women who weren’t barefoot were wearing their black lace up ghillies. The shoes looked clumsy and were obviously nailed roughly in the toes and the heels but this was what they had all come to dance in. Stepping off the wooden door Clodagh ran to her wheelie case and zipped it open, stemming curiosity once more as she pulled out her hard shoes and changed quickly.

  Back on the wooden surface she cued the fiddler for another tune. This time she kept her arms stiffly at her sides and began to click and tap with the fibreglass heels and toes, working up a strong percussive rhythm as she performed a hard treble jig, but at a slower pace than before thereby fitting more steps into its 6/8 tempo.

  “Treble down,” she heard herself saying loudly, invoking the spirit of auntie Peggy’s teaching voice echoing through many a classroom. “Let’s go!”

  With each beat and click from the old style step-dancing she was now performing, she saw the assembled crowd begin to instinctively feel the music. Even the older ones, tentative at first, still slow to trust, moved their toes and heels separately into the melody then gradually followed the speed she was setting before working up to a faster pace.

  “Come,” she said, releasing her arms from their rigidity to motion them closer. “Come, please?”

  The younger men were the first to cast off their inhibitions and prejudices and to Clodagh’s immense relief and delight she then heard the sound of their feet begin to pound upon the hard surface of the barn floor.

  Some of them now had joined her on the two wooden doors and were dancing alongside her. They kept their bodies straight but their ankles were supple and their footwork surprisingly precise. As the fiddler increased the tempo they each performed their own version of the jig and when the women joined in, their long hair flying, skirts spinning, Clodagh whispered a silent prayer of gratitude, half Christian, half Pagan, to God and the High Priestess.