“Oh yuck, what a dreadful visualization,” she shuddered.
“I mean it, Megan. We’re going to stick together.”
“Might I remind you that he doesn’t kill women? And he doesn’t kill the Irish, either.” Megan threw her hands up in agitation, warming up to her tirade. “How did we go from point A to point Z without stopping somewhere along the rest of the alphabet? You see a man you think is the serial killer, kilometers off the beaten track, kilometers away from Dublin or the last place where a victim was killed, and you think it’s got to be him. Ah Jaysus, Jim. Are you thinking that this serial killer has followed us to Fore Abbey? We’ve both gone off it, I say. The two of us have gone round the bend. So he’s looking for you. Maybe he’s looking for another American, and have you thought of that? St. Joseph, how can you possibly think that the killer from Sligo and from Dublin could be following us?”
“Because I told you, I saw that guy at the bar in the hotel. I know it was Richard. I’ve been up close and personal with our man Richard, remember? And the barkeep said he had a big coat and hat on in the pub, so perhaps it was his way of a disguise, so no one could say what he actually looked like. So you don’t believe me? Fine. Whoever it is, is asking questions, and asking questions like they know I’m on to them. Maybe I want to find him so I can ask a few questions myself,” said Jim as he moved to her side of the car, opened the door and grabbed her hand. He helped her out, pulled her to his side, and held on even though she shrugged back a bit. “I realize I’m going off as though I hadn’t put all the facts together in a chronological and logical order, but I am telling you, these ideas had to come from somewhere. Maybe Seamus is helping after all. Maybe?” Jim shrugged and pulled Megan around and gave her a quick, hard kiss.
“But if it’s Richard, he will be after you, because you’re the Irish woman, get it?”
“No, I don’t. But I’ll play along since I’ve nothing better to do at the moment.” Megan raised the back of her hand to her forehead in mock “saint pose” and grinned at Jim.
“Good, St. Megan. Now that we have that settled.”
They turned to the twin-towered church and trudged over the gravel pathway and in through the semi-ruined stone walls. The church and outbuildings were laid out in perfect right angles. It should be quite a sight from the air, but up close it was a jumble of stones of many sizes. Jim thought the monks who constructed the place with fieldstone must have been unbelievably strong if they lugged two hundred fifty pound stones on a daily basis and fit them together.
For a ruin, it was totally original looking. Jim scanned the outside area. There were only a few people in a small parking lot, braving the cold and blustery day. The barkeep was right; the icy January wind did not lend itself to outdoor sight-seeing.
By the time they walked to the doorway of the roofless narthex, they were alone with the howling icy wind.
The church was well known for having two towers, one at each end; very unusual for a medieval church. The church itself was built on a terrace placed above a powerful well that had a current so strong that it gave the illusion of actually flowing upstream. Above the door’s lintel, decorations had been etched deeply into the stone; symbols and pictures that must have taken years of painstaking labor and were now so worn away that it was hard to decide what they’d been, except for the shadowed image of a Greek cross.
“The lintel weighs between 54 and 72 stone, or that’s 750 and 1,000 pounds to you, Yank.” Seamus crossed his arms over his chest, tilted his head back, his eyes closed in superiority. “There is a myth that St. Feichin actually prayed the lintel into place. Can ya imagine it? Ah, so grand.” The angel was so overcome with the excitement of the moment that Seamus swept his arms out in a grand gesture matching his words, lost his balance, although he was standing in mid-air, and fell backward.
Jim held in a chuckle and then shook his head, hoping to give Seamus the hint. “The walls are so thick.” Jim brushed his fingertips over the roughened stone. There were marks from numerous fires over the centuries.
“Ah, yes. The Abbey was burned twelve times between 771 and 1169. But did the Benedictines give up? I should say not!” Seamus’s voice floated on the wind, but Jim caught every word.
Jim tried not to roll his eyes as they walked down a stone pathway.
“That’s the well,” said Megan. Her voice struggled to be heard above the wind. She gestured with her hand as they passed a stone structure, an enclosure near the ruined church’s location.
“You see, the water flows uphill. It’s what they call one of the Seven Wonders of Fore. Actually, it is an optical illusion, but I think it is grand if one can believe in things without seeing them. Kind of like faith, you know?”
Jim stood at the wall, gazing at the gurgling water that looked for all the world like it was a movie playing backward. The wind blasted him from behind, and despite his size he felt as though he might be pushed over. The wind’s icy fingers sent chills up his backside. He raised his brow. “You mean like believing in Seamus?” He grinned at her befuddled look. “Got ya!” He laughed aloud, watching the expression on Megan’s face go from surprised to miffed. “Let’s duck in through the doorway. It’s getting a little blustery out here.”
Megan nodded, her cheeks numb from the cold—and embarrassment. Jim put his arm around her and led her into the nave. The chancel was slightly bigger but also roofless. They left the chancel and took the walk to the opposite towers. They were quite alone. It seemed everyone else had the good sense to stay in with a cup of tea.
“If someone is here, they’ll be lurking around those two ruined towers,” Jim said, pressing his mouth to Megan’s ear so she’d hear him above the wind.
“Right, but if we go to the left, maybe he’ll be to the right and then if we go to the right, then he’ll be to the left. Do you catch my meaning?” Megan was intent on splitting up. She’d have to convince Jim that it was safe enough for them to do so. She didn’t for a moment believe that the serial killer, the one who’d killed five people now and in all the major cities in Ireland, would be on this deserted field in this ruin of a church in the middle of January.
“Right. But safety in numbers.” Jim thought a moment. “I’ll tell you what, as long as I can see that red hair, then we’ll split up.”
“Done.”
They both walked carefully around the crumbled bricks, trying to make as little noise as possible, but that was a fool’s errand that they soon gave up. The wind whipped between the archways and cracks in the stonework, and the wind blew away the sound of their footsteps. They toured the right tower, and then walked together toward the left.
“There’s a chapel in the hillside where the last Irish hermit stayed.” Megan pulled on Jim’s arm and raised her voice, and then gestured toward the small hillock in the back after they’d searched the open area thoroughly.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They trudged up the hill, bending their heads against the cold. Megan wished she were back in the little car sharing Jim’s body heat. She’d come to the Abbey last July. But the cold in January made it nearly impossible for her to put cognizant thoughts together.
They reached the door of a formidable stone structure. The walls must have been three feet thick and the door looked like one solid slab of wood with wooden and leather hinges. It must have taken a very strong man to even budge the door open a crack. And the interior would have been freezing cold and dark, even on the sunniest and hottest day of the year. Jim stooped to open it. He struggled for a moment and then looked up at Megan. She was practically on top of him, trying to stay out of the cold.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Blast. I forgot. We need to get the key from the keep at the Fore Pub.”
“We won’t worry about it then. If we have to get a key, then so will the killer, or whoever it is that’s looking for me.”
“Come on. We’ll go to the Abbey. It’s not far across this field. The priests will give us a hot drink, and you can meet
Father Timothy. He’s the one I wrote the article about. He may even have something stronger for us than a hot tea.” Megan wiggled what she was sure were frozen eyebrows at Jim.
They trudged down the path, their shoes crunching on the gravel and intermittent frozen vegetation. The breeze continued to gust, sometimes so strongly that it seemed to push them back down the path, and effectively slowed their progress to the abbey. Megan wished she had the fuzzy woolen hat she usually wore in the cold months. It was probably in the same place as her fuzzy woolen gloves. She shivered, crammed her hands deeper in her pockets, and pulled her head down into her coat as far as she could.
They moved down the path past a tree, stark against the winter landscape. The tree had only three branches.
“It’s the Holy Tree,” Megan said above the wind.
“What?”
“See, three branches.” Megan held out her fingers in illustration before she crammed her hand hurriedly back inside her pocket. “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” she said and then crossed herself absently.
“Right.” Jim crossed himself as he eyed the tree. They continued to walk, shoulders hunched against the gale and doing their utmost to keep it from blowing them backward. Within minutes, very cold minutes, they arrived at the abbey. Most of the building, or rather the collection of small buildings, obviously built over a period of hundreds of years, were in ruins. Near the center of the area was a small, round two-storied structure surrounded by a curtain wall. Megan found the long string that hung on the outside of the door. She pulled it down with a hard yank. From inside, they could barely hear the faint tinkling of the bell. They waited, huddled in the space between the door jamb and the outside, sheltering a little from the wind.
Megan pulled the bell cord again, and again they waited.
The wind blew colder and a dense gray cloud moved over the tepid sun. Shivers raced down Megan’s spine as she eyed the fickle sun in its retreat. A gust pulled at Jim’s hat, until he had to grasp the bill with both hands to keep it from flying away.
Megan looked up, trying to shrug between the shivers. Jim looked at his watch. It was almost three in the afternoon. Surely, someone was at home.
Several more minutes of very cold waiting ticked by. Megan knew without looking or touching, that her nose was streaming and bright red. She was too cold to care. Finally, the door opened. It creaked and protested every centimeter of the way.
Chapter 22
The door opened the smallest bit. All Jim saw was one very brown eye staring at them through the crack.
“Aye, what will you be wantin’?”
“Father Timothy, it’s me, Megan Kennedy.”
“Ah, Miss Kennedy, grand, grand.”
The door growled and groaned every centimeter it was pulled, but it opened at last. A priest in a brown monk’s cloak, cowl, and hood pulled the door open all the way. Jim could see the man’s deep-set brown eyes in his very wrinkled face.
Rain, as well as wind, began to pelt at them fiercely. The old priest only had to signal for the two to hurry across the courtyard and into an enclosed area.
Jim got brief impressions of a courtyard littered with leaves and branches, a few cracked benches, and walls that surrounded a barren winter garden. In the distance, he heard goats bleating below the sound of the wind racing around the corners. The old man stopped once more and put his shoulder to another door off the courtyard.
This door squealed in protest and Jim helped to shove it all the way open.
The trio quickly entered and with an effort, Father Timothy closed the door against the weather. Jim stood inside and dripped onto the flagstone floor while he looked around in amazement.
The cavernous room looked like it had been hollowed out of stone. The mortar covering the wooden framed walls had darkened to a gray-brown over the centuries. The room had a huge wood-burning stove on the farthest wall away from the door. In the center of the room was a marred but highly polished long table that could seat maybe twelve or fourteen. Herbs hung from the rafters and the musty smell of damp and of old men in less-than-clean wool robes overshadowed the woodsy scent of the herbs. Jim shrugged out of his overcoat and then helped Megan with hers.
Megan and Jim stood in the foyer as another priest, his cowl down and his hands tucked securely inside his sleeves, approached from the opposite end of the room and gestured for them to step closer to the stove.
“Ah, Miss Kennedy. I was telling Father Francis the other day how we had delighted so in your visit last summer. Come sit down and have a meal.”
“Thank you, Father.” Megan stepped into the room tugging on Jim’s arm to follow.
They were shown places at the long table with high back chairs on each side. Two more priests hurried about, putting plates and spoons on the table. The priests filled mugs at each place with a beer-like liquid. Jim gave a surreptitious sniff. He’d hoped for something a little more substantial to ward off the cold. The damp, frigid air had made itself to home up Jim’s spine, effectively giving him the shivers. He smiled at the priests and nudged Megan.
“Oh, this is my friend, Mr. James O’Flannery. He’s come all the way from the States. We went to see the stream and the Holy Tree, and they quite impressed him.”
“Mr. O’Flannery, is it?” The priest’s eyebrows rose. His brown eyes twinkled, mumbling Jim’s name under his breath and then a look of recognition played across his plain face. “A county Mayo name?”
“Why yes, Father Timothy. How did you know?” Jim could do nothing but smile at the little man. He was so personable and open.
Father Timothy laid a finger against the side of his nose and winked at Jim. “I’m a bit of a historian.”
“Hardly, Father Timothy.” Megan patted the old man’s arm solicitously. “I’ve seen many a library, but none as complete as the one you’ve amassed.”
“So kind, Miss Kennedy, so kind. Now, please pray with us and partake of our simple meal.”
The four priests with Jim and Megan stood behind their chairs and Father Timothy blessed the food.
Once seated, they started with the savory soup. It was delightful and hot.
Jim nodded to Father Timothy. “Benedictine, eh? Surprised you’re still here. Though, I’m glad you are. This meal is wonderful.” Jim raised his mug to the priests in salute. “I read Megan’s article. It seems you’ve had some rough times with the people in the area, as well as the church.”
Father Timothy steepled his fingers. “There have been letters written to the head of the order about closing the monastery. ‘Waste of money,’ they say, ‘waste of resources. What good do they do?’ they ask. Then our good bishop reminded them that we have started an on-line shop to market our cheeses. We’ve a webmaster, the whole of it. We’ve had orders from all over Europe, but we’re still in the red, what with two of the nanny-goats dying. It’s been something to start the business. It’s been a challenge, but no sacrifice is too small for our Lord.”
“Right.” Jim again raised the mug to his lips. The ale must have a high alcohol content. After he’d consumed only half of it, Jim felt his ears start to buzz. He abandoned the beer for the sampler of cheeses one of the brothers had placed in front of him. The smooth texture and delicate flavors were phenomenal. Jim decided right then and there to get the web address. His grandmother would love some of these cheeses for Christmas.
The abbey was dry and warm and the food first class. They ate companionably, speaking on about every topic when Jim felt the telltale prickle against the back of his neck. It could only mean one thing. He put down his spoon and looked around for Seamus. He could almost smell the little elf’s tobacco. Seamus would keep himself under wraps for a while yet.
Jim cleared his throat. Maybe if he asked Father Timothy, he could get an answer that might help him with Seamus.
“Father Timothy, do you believe in guardian angels?” Jim said it plainly. He might as well get some solid professional advice about Seamus, and who better to ask than a Benedictin
e? If he remembered right, they were known for being quite tough, no-nonsense priests.
Father Timothy looked up in surprise, his bushy eyebrows raised. “Why, certainly, of course.”
“Do you believe that they can change themselves into anything to convince you that they are a guardian angel?”
The priest looked at Jim and his expression was hard to decipher. Perhaps the old man thought Jim was as bonkers as Megan did. The lady in question cleared her throat loudly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Father Timothy answered.
“Well, say this angel comes to help a person out of a predicament, but when you inform him that you don’t believe in guardian angels, he turns himself into something else, say…” Jim looked down into his soup bowl, trying hard to be nonchalant. “A leprechaun, for instance.”
When Jim glanced at Megan, he noticed a becoming flush cover her from her eyebrows to the top of her sweater. Seamus harrumphed loudly and Jim was sure the whole room heard him. Father Timothy merely leaned forward, raising his eyebrows again.
“Now, I’d much rather believe in an angel than one of the wee folk.”
“See, and didn’t I tell ya. Sorry state about your religious training, James boy-o.”
Jim ignored Seamus and continued. “But supposing this angel did appear, and the person he appeared to wasn’t sure if he was trying to kill him or help him. What do you think?”
“Well, I believe that if the angel was sent on a particular mission that he’d do anything he could to accomplish it.”
“Uh huh.” Jim slowly nodded his head. He turned slightly and quirked an eyebrow at Seamus who’d appeared on the top of Jim’s mug, before the leprechaun pulled on his earlobes and disappeared.
“Would it surprise you, Father, to know that there is an angel in this room right now?” Jim asked.
“Not at all, not at all. There are angels everywhere, watching over us all the time.” The brothers and priests all nodded in agreement.
“What do you suppose they look like?” Jim felt Megan’s foot collide with his shin, and he stifled a grunt.
The Wild Mountain Thyme Page 15