by Ali McNamara
‘Hello!’ he calls, flinging open the door before I’ve had time to knock. ‘I saw you coming up the path.’
‘Good morning,’ I reply, stepping into his house. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘It is that; the sun is shining on our souls as well as our bodies today. Come through, won’t you?’ he says, leading me to the small sitting room I’d sat in only a few days ago with Finn. ‘Take a seat.’
I sit down on the small sofa while Father Duffy makes tea, then he brings through a tray of tea things and sits opposite me on a burgundy red velvet armchair that looks like it’s seen better days.
‘How are you today?’ he asks.
‘Good, thank you.’
‘You seem different.’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘Lighter.’
‘After the breakfasts we’ve been eating at The Stag over the last few days, I hardly think so. If anything, I’m a lot heavier!’
Father Duffy smiles. ‘No, I mean lighter internally, as if a burden has been lifted.’
‘Ah, I see. Yes, you’re right, it has. I’ve decided to stop searching for the owner of The Welcome House.’
Father Duffy looks surprised. ‘You have? And what made you come to this decision, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I listened to my heart,’ I tell him proudly.
‘Ah, you did . . . I’m pleased for you. And is that the only thing you’ve listened to your heart about since I saw you last?’
My cheeks redden. ‘There may have been something else . . . ’
Father Duffy smiles knowingly. ‘Well, I’m glad for you, in both respects. But that does put me in a slight quandary . . . ’
‘It does?’
‘You see, the reason I asked you here today was to show you these.’ He gestures to some worn, leather-bound books stacked in the middle of the small coffee table between us.
‘What are they?’
‘Journals mostly, about The Welcome House.’
I look at the books on the table. ‘What sort of journals?’
‘They tell tales of the house through the centuries. They tell how people have hidden in the house, died in the house, and travelled from far away in order to stay there.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen one like that – a visitors’ book in the hallway of the house.’
Father Duffy shakes his head. ‘No, these are not visitors’ books. These are journals. They tell the story of the house – and how it came to be.’
I look at the books on the table. ‘Really? That’s impressive. So, how did it come to be? Didn’t you say it was something to do with monks?’
‘Indeed I did. In the eighth century, monks were travelling the world preaching to those who wanted to learn the stories of the Gospels. But the Norsemen were a constant threat.’
‘The Vikings?’
Father Duffy nods. ‘So the monks of Tara, as the town was known then, built a hiding place where they and the travelling monks could escape to.’
‘The Welcome House?’
‘Yes. The house in its current form was built many, many centuries later, but it was built on the site of the monks’ original shelter. The place where the magic happened.’
‘What magic? Food appearing in cupboards and beds being made?’
Father Duffy shakes his head. ‘No, not that magic – the real magic, the stuff of legend.’
I look at him, my curiosity piqued. ‘And what is this legend?’
‘These books’ – he taps the cover of the journal on top of the pile – ‘tell how the monks would welcome extraordinary people into the house, and then how they would simply disappear.’
‘I thought it was people who tried to mess with the house’s legend that disappeared?’
Father Duffy waves his hand dismissively. ‘That’s a myth that has grown up over the years – nothing but tittle-tattle and hearsay. A way to keep outsiders from interfering.’ He gives me a knowing look. ‘That would be the tale Eddie recounted to you, I expect.’
‘So what’s the true story?’ I ask, ignoring the implication. I had nothing to feel guilty about any more; I was done with the house. My interest now didn’t extend beyond curiosity about the house’s history.
‘The true tale is that the monks would use the house to hide people – usually eminent monks who were recording the stories of the Gospels in picture form. They were concerned that if these monks were killed by the Norsemen, their tales of Christianity would die with them.’
‘Are you talking about illuminated manuscripts, Father?’ I ask, suddenly understanding. ‘Like the Book of Kells?’
‘I am indeed, child. Forgive me, I forget you have such a broad range of knowledge. Of course you would know of such a thing.’
‘Well, I know a little about it. The Book of Kells is in Trinity Library, Dublin – yes? It’s an illuminated account of the four Gospels.’
‘It is, absolutely spot on. That’s the most famous of the illuminated manuscripts, and the one most people know about. But there are others, some in your home county, I believe?’
‘Yes, I think there are. We do have quite a Celtic heritage.’
‘Holy Island in particular – that’s where some of the monks who hid in The Welcome House originated from.’
‘You really think monks came from the Holy Island of Lindisfarne to Ballykiltara?’
‘I know they did.’ Father Duffy taps the journals again. ‘It says so in here.’
I look at the pile of books and feel a strange pull towards them. Resisting it, I return my gaze to the priest sitting opposite me.
‘But as I said before, it wasn’t called Ballykiltara back then,’ Father Duffy explains. ‘It was just called Tara.’
‘Like the island?’
‘Yes. Or to give it its full name, Glentara.’
‘Oh, I did know that. Tara is like its nickname.’
‘Many of the places around here have Tara in their name – the ones associated with the magic.’
‘Do strange things happen on the island, too?’
Father Duffy nods. ‘The island has its own tales to tell. I should introduce you to Darcy, one of its owners. She can tell you all about the magic of Tara.’
‘I’ve met Dermot, her husband.’
‘Ah, yes, Dermot – a non-believer, if ever I met one. Yet he too has fallen under the Tara spell.’
I look sceptically at Father Duffy. What is he talking about – the ‘Tara spell’? ‘So why did the town of Tara become Ballykiltara?’ I ask, hoping to steer this conversation away from magical goings on and back to historical fact. ‘It’s something to do with your church, isn’t it?’
‘Possibly. It’s believed the name originally meant place of the elevated church, or place of the church on the hill.’
‘Yes, you told me that last time we met here.’
‘So I did – how well you remember, Ren. “Bally” means “place of” – it’s a common prefix for towns in Ireland. “Kil” means church, and the Gaelic word “Tara” or Teamhair has come to mean hill – after the hill in County Meath where the high kings of Ireland were crowned, allegedly. But,’ Father Duffy says, looking at the books, ‘that’s the modern explanation, the one that makes sense to folk. There may be another reason, though. According to entries in here’ – he lifts the top journal off the pile – ‘Tara became Ballykiltara because of The Welcome House.’
‘Go on.’
‘To begin with, the house was not recognised as being anything to do with the monks. They deliberately kept its existence quiet, in order to ensure its real purpose remained a closely guarded secret.’
‘Its real purpose being to hide people away?’
‘If the Norsemen realised what it was used for, the priests that were working so hard on the Tara Gospels might have had their work and their lives put in jeopardy. So it was vital that its purpose as a hiding place was kept secret. Hence it was assumed that the name Ballykiltara must be derived from the position of the church at that time, up here on the hill, whe
n in reality the holy place on the hill was the monks’ secret house, or what we know today as The Welcome House.’
‘That’s fascinating,’ I say, understanding now. ‘It’s wonderful to understand some of the history of the town, but I’m still not sure why you’re telling me all this?’
‘Ah, now comes the truly fascinating part. As a Northumbrian, you are no doubt aware that Holy Island and the Lindisfarne Gospels are almost as famous as the Book of Kells. But had you heard of the Tara Gospels, the ones that our monks were secretly working on for so many decades, before I mentioned them to you?’
I shake my head. ‘Donal said something about the Annals of Tara, but those were many centuries later than what you’re talking about, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, the Annals of Tara were written after the monks began using the abbey as a learning centre. The Tara Gospels were created much earlier, when the house was still a secret. The only record of them, as far as I’m aware, is here in these books. In fact . . . ’ He picks up a book that sits slightly away from the others. It looks different from the rest; it’s thinner and less worn. Father Duffy places it on his lap, then he pulls some cotton gloves from the side of his chair and puts them on. With great care he opens the cover, turns some of the pages, then holds the book out so I can see. ‘Here, take a look for yourself.’
I lean in for a better view and I’m stunned by what I see. In front of me is a page of intricate script, some of it so small I can barely read it. This on its own would be amazing enough, but surrounding the words are the most beautiful hand-painted Celtic decorations and colourful pictures, some of them inlaid with what appears to be gold leaf.
I have a strong urge to run my fingers over them, to feel if they are real, but I stop myself from doing so. I glance up at Father Duffy for explanation, but he simply turns the page to reveal another beautifully decorated page, and then again to reveal another, and then another.
‘There’s at least fifty pages like this,’ he says, carefully closing the book. ‘In this, and other folders like it.’
‘But that’s amazing! Why don’t you do something with them, maybe have them on display? I’m sure people would like to see them.’
‘Have you any idea of the value of these pages?’ he says, removing his gloves. ‘That would require a tremendous amount of security. The church doesn’t have that sort of money. Not that they’d be willing to give to me, at any rate.’
‘So why show them to me?’
‘Because I think there might be more pages like this. The journals suggest that there are.’
‘Where?’
‘These journals have been kept a closely guarded secret for centuries, passed down from one priest to the next. All I know is what I’ve been told by my predecessor, and what I can decipher from the pages.’
‘It’s something to do with the house, isn’t it?’
‘We know the monks were hidden there while they worked on the pages – that would explain the tales of the monks’ disappearance. But as to how they were concealed, your guess is as good as mine. I’ve tried investigating it myself over the years, but to no avail. As you know all too well, Ren, that house knows how to keep its secrets from the world.’
‘I certainly do, Father.’ I look up at him. ‘But again I have to ask: why are you telling me this?’
‘Now we come to the really interesting part. One of the pages I was able to decipher foretells that one day a visitor will come to Tara from overseas – from Holy Island, to be precise. That visitor will bring turmoil to begin with, but eventually they will bring peace and harmony to the house, and to Tara.’
‘And . . . ?’ I prompt.
‘The journals rarely mention women. In those days, women were not considered important enough to be recorded in important documents. So to see one drawn, and drawn so beautifully, is extremely rare.’
‘What does this woman look like?’ I ask, still wondering where Father Duffy is going with this story.
Father Duffy smiles. ‘She is described as being very beautiful but very fiery. It says she will come from afar, but will be of Celtic origin. And . . . ’ he pauses for effect. ‘She will have a mane of bright red hair.’
Thirty
‘You’re having me on!’ I reply lightly. ‘That’s not in those books, is it? You’re making it up.’
‘Oh it is,’ Father Duffy replies, his face serious. ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘Let me see,’ I demand. I peer at the books on the table. ‘Which one is it in?’
‘It’s not in one of these,’ Father Duffy says, straightening the pile. ‘It’s in one of the ones that are kept in the church.’
‘Of course it is . . . ’ I raise my eyebrows at him.
‘I’m telling you the truth, Ren. I believe you are the woman they talk about on that page.’
I decide to humour him. ‘Let’s say for one moment that I am this woman. What is it exactly you’re expecting me to do?’
‘Find the pages, Ren. You’ve already created the turmoil they spoke about, now it’s time for you to create the peace and harmony the house and Ballykiltara deserve.’
‘How am I supposed to do that, if no one has been able to find them before?’
‘The house will help you, I know it will.’
I close my eyes for a moment, and then I sigh.
‘The legend of the house isn’t real, Father. You do know that, don’t you? The Welcome House is nothing but bricks and mortar.’
‘Tell me what you felt the first time you stepped inside it?’
‘It’s just a house.’
‘Ren,’ Father Duffy says sternly. ‘Tell me – use your heart not your head to describe it.’
‘OK, OK.’ I close my eyes. ‘The house felt . . . ’ I cast myself back to when Kiki and I had entered the house for the first time. ‘Lost,’ I say the first word that springs into my mind.
‘And . . . ?’ Father Duffy prompts.
‘Cold.’
‘And?’
‘Lonely,’ I say, surprising myself. The house had felt like this, it had been weird at the time, but now I think about it, this was exactly how it had felt.
‘And how did you feel, Ren?’ he asks. ‘How did you feel in the house?’
‘Sad, and frustrated, and . . . ’ I struggle for the last word. ‘Unfulfilled?’
Father Duffy nods. ‘Now, how did it feel the next time you visited?’
I shrug.
‘Ren, please try. Remember, I want to help you.’
‘OK . . . Better.’
‘Better?’
‘The house didn’t feel as sad.’
‘And you?’
‘I guess I felt better too – but there could be many reasons for that.’
‘You know why, of course,’ Father Duffy says, ignoring my last comment as I knew he would.
‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘You had taken the first steps on the path to recovery – yours and the house’s.’
‘Uh-huh . . . ’ I nod humouring him.
‘What you choose to believe is up to you, Ren, of course. But you’ve come to Ballykiltara for a reason, and the sooner you accept that, the easier your transition will be.’
I hear the church clock strike the hour again, but this time the bell chimes twelve times.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go, Father,’ I say, standing up. ‘This has all been very . . . enlightening.’
‘You’re meeting someone,’ he states, rather than asks. ‘Another, equally important, reason for you being here.’
‘Yes, and possibly,’ I reply as neutrally as I can. I’m beginning to tire of all this mumbo jumbo, even though I know he means well. ‘But I do have to go.’
‘Think about what I’ve said, Ren,’ Father Duffy says, getting to his feet. ‘Always remember, sometimes bad things have to happen before good things can – the turmoil before the peace, as those pages predict. Everything will make sense soon, I promise.’
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘I never do, Ren. I never do.’
*
I hurry down the hill towards the hotel. My visit with Father Duffy has taken longer than expected, so I’m going to have to rush if I want to get freshened up before I see Finn.
I try not to think too much about what Father Duffy has told me as I race towards the hotel. It all sounded a bit weird, and now that I’ve decided not to continue my search for the owner of The Welcome House, I’m not sure I want to get involved in hunting for some old manuscripts that may or may not even exist. I’d prefer to spend what little time I have left here in Ballykiltara with Finn, like Kiki is doing with Eddie.
I reach the hotel and dash through reception to take the lift to my room, where I splash some water on my face, squirt deodorant under my arms and perfume on my neck. Then I touch up what little make-up I’m wearing, finishing off with a smear of gloss over my lips.
‘Let’s hope that gets worn off before lunch!’ I smile at myself in the mirror. ‘It’s been a while since you could say that, Serendipity Parker.’ It’s the truth; it has been a very long time since I’ve allowed myself to feel about any man the way I now realise I feel about Finn. I’d made a deliberate decision to avoid becoming involved with men since . . . I swallow, and realise the reflection looking back at me in the mirror has been transformed from one of anticipation and delight to one of sadness and regret. I shake my head. ‘No more, do you hear?’ I tell myself. ‘No more. Finn is different, things are different now.’ I nod confidently at my reflection, and without allowing myself to engage in further negative thoughts, I head out of the room, through the hotel and out of the back door to follow the path towards Finn’s cottage.
I’m not sure why, but I feel nervous as I knock on his door. No, not nervous, I tell the strange feeling in my tummy, I’m a bit apprehensive, that’s all.
On the other side of the door, I hear Fergus barking, then Finn’s footsteps walking down the hall. He turns the key on the other side, and the door swings open.
‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly shy. Goodness, I haven’t felt like this for such a long time. It’s as if I’m a teenager again, calling on a boy I like.