by Erin Hart
“So if it’s not about money, what is it about?”
“I doubt you would understand.”
“Let me try. If you’re going to kill me, you owe me some sort of explanation. I want to understand.”
He moved behind her, tipping her head back and looking down into her eyes. His upside-down face looked distorted and strange. “You know, somehow I believe you do. But how do you explain something that isn’t based in reason? Look out there—” He tipped her chin down again and gestured toward the lake and bog that stretched before them. “You might as well ask for reasons from the earth, the water, the wind.
“It grieves me when people talk about an artifact only in terms of its monetary worth. As if its significance can be quantified, reduced, vulgarized in that way. I used to work in museums, and now they depress me unutterably—the contents of votive hoards, fallen from powerful talismans to mere trinkets and curiosities, and all those throngs of bored schoolchildren and gaping tourists trooping past, sullying sacred objects with undeserving, jaded eyes.” He held up the collar with his free hand. “Can anyone be blamed for wanting to keep this from them? Apart from its exquisite form, an object like this is nothing less than a window through which we can gain access to a mind that grasped the most astonishing and sophisticated concepts. The person who created it worked in a miraculous material that never decays, never corrodes. He shaped it truly believing that his inspired creation would confer superhuman power on the person who wore it. Who are we to disparage his beliefs? We carry them within us still. What is Christianity but blood sacrifice masquerading as modern religion? We’ve lost our faith in the world around us, in our own deeper selves—in the sacred connection between blood and death, the places on earth that can lead us deeper within ourselves. The destruction of this bog is a case in point. I detest that superior attitude we hold today toward ancient people; it releases a kind of fury in me. You probably can’t understand that, can you?”
“To a point. But is any object—even something so exceptional and exquisite and powerful—really worth the lives of three people?”
“What a small circle you live in, Dr. Gavin; your tiny moral universe. It’s four people, in point of fact, or soon will be—you’ve forgotten yourself. And yes, something like this collar is worth four lives, four hundred lives, and many more. No matter what’s been done to thin the population, I think it’s impossible to deny that human beings still remain in constant, practically endless supply. You think me callous, unfeeling. That may be true, but I’m not unique. Governments and corporations routinely treat human beings like cattle—because the people allow themselves to be treated that way, to be led to the slaughter like dull-witted beasts. But I have the utmost reverence for the sacredness of human life and death. Those who’ve never shed blood with their own hands should never presume to judge me for what I’ve done. And you’d be surprised at the number of people who actually wish to die, though sometimes they don’t really know it. People like Ursula, who can hardly contain their curiosity about death, who enjoy pushing at the threshold, though they’re too frightened to make the final, fatal leap.”
He was moving closer, and Nora didn’t dare try to slip away. She tried in vain to see whether Brona Scully had made a break. There was no sign of the girl. Quill’s hand moved, and Nora felt the cold dagger blade flat against her cheek.
“Shall I tell you what surprised me most about killing someone?” Quill asked. “How the act itself has such breathtaking beauty. I didn’t expect to find the color of blood so astonishing—that glorious crimson. Have you ever been present at a death, Dr. Gavin? Even with those who aren’t the most—acquiescent—there is undeniable gratitude; you can see it in their eyes, just before the light passes. Do you know what this place, this patch of land is called?” His voice was low, almost hypnotic.
“Illaunafulla,” she said.
“Very good; someone’s been giving you lessons, haven’t they? You must also know what it means, then.”
“Island of Blood.”
“And how do you suppose it got that name? An island of blood in a lake of sorrows. We’ve given up thinking of the spilling of blood as a necessary part of existence. I can’t understand why. We go to such lengths to deny the intense joy to be found in death—the ultimate joy, really. And in your line of work, Dr. Gavin, I’m sure some part of you has felt it quite keenly, too. What’s the difference if you choose the time and manner for yourself, or someone else chooses for you? Death by sacrifice is a sacred privilege. Now kneel.”
Nora looked at the heavy dagger only inches from her face. She was not going to get down on her knees. She started to twist away, but the dagger handle made contact just below her left ear, and she went down on her side in the soft grass.
When she opened her eyes, her vision blurred, then came into focus. She was lying facedown in the grass, with her hands tied behind her. As he tested the knot that bound her hands, Quill whispered in her ear, “Haven’t you ever wanted something so much, Dr. Gavin, that you were willing to do anything to get it? I suspect there’s something you want above anything else in the world, right this minute. I’m so sorry I’m going to have to cut your opportunity short.”
As he dragged her upright, she saw the dagger in his right hand, a shiny blade with an ancient-looking handle. Her feet were free; maybe she could manage a well-placed kick. She lunged sideways, trying to catch him off balance, but he deflected the tackle and reached for something at the back of her neck. She realized what it was only as the ligature cut into her flesh and she felt three knots pressing into her skin. He pushed her ahead of him, onto the dock that led out into the lake.
Once they’d reached the end, he forced her to kneel and jerked the cord tighter, cutting off her air supply. She was starting to get light-headed. She thought of her parents, wondering how they would survive another murdered daughter, and she knew they would not. The ancients had it right; their gods were corrupt and demanding, childish and wrathful by turns. The idea of a benevolent deity was off the mark. She fought the darkness that welled up in her blood and tried again to wrestle free from Quill’s grip, but he was strong. She felt the cold blade against her throat.
At the same moment she heard a cry, like an animal’s throaty howl. Desmond Quill whirled around, pitching Nora forward and letting go of the ligature. She felt a rush of blood to her brain, and turned to see Brona Scully at the end of the dock, triumphantly holding the golden collar above her head.
Nora bent her knees and launched her feet at Quill’s ankles, aware of the dagger only inches above her head. He staggered sideways and fell to one knee, making a desperate swipe with the knife, but Nora kept her feet in motion, striking out at any part of him that moved. She heard Brona’s quick footfalls on the dock, and looked up to see her bring the heavy collar down on Quill’s head, stunning him.
Brona dropped the collar and went for the knife, but by that time he’d recovered. He lunged, pinned her to his chest with one hand, and with the other lifted the gleaming knife to her throat. Nora struggled to her feet, panting, with her hands still bound behind her. Quill’s clothing and hair were disheveled. Brona’s blow had opened a gash on his forehead, and blood was now trickling into his eyes. The golden collar lay on the rough wood planks between them.
“Right back where we started, Dr. Gavin,” Quill said. “What was the point of all that? It just means that another person has to die.”
Brona’s eyes were still defiant. She drilled Nora with her gaze, then let her eyes sweep down toward the collar, and Nora knew she had to do something.
All at once the sound of an enormous explosion split the air, and a huge ball of smoke and fire erupted from the other side of the hill. Nora had no time to wonder what was going on; realizing that this was her only chance, she tipped the collar with the toe of her shoe and, with one fluid kick, hurled it into the air. She saw the whole thing as if in slow motion: the collar gracefully turning end over end, flashing gold, and Quill’s eyes followi
ng it. He flung out his right hand, the one holding the dagger, but he couldn’t reach the collar; he lost his balance and toppled over the edge of the dock into the water below. There was a cry and a splash.
Nora’s eyes traveled back to Brona. She’d been cut. The girl looked down at the scarlet tide advancing down her chest; then her head dropped forward and she sank into a small heap on the weathered planks. Nora ran to Brona’s side, but her hands were still bound, and she watched helplessly as the stain grew larger. There was nothing she could do to stop the bleeding. She felt tearing pain in her chest as she lifted her head and shouted to anyone who might hear, “Help! Help! Please, someone, help us!”
She thought she was dreaming when she heard heavy footsteps pounding down the dock, and Charlie Brazil’s terrified face appeared beside her. “Have you got a knife?” she gasped. He just looked at her. “To cut me loose! We’ve got to stop the bleeding if we can.” Without a word, Charlie took a penknife from his pocket and sliced through the leather cords that bound her. Nora went to work, oblivious of the blood on her hands, keeping pressure on Brona’s wound while Charlie removed his shirt to use as a bandage. He looked dazed, slightly singed and sooty, and Nora remembered the explosion. A growing wail of sirens was audible in the distance.
“The house is gone,” Charlie said. “The house is gone and my father—” His gaze turned toward Dominic’s body in the apiary.
“I know,” said Nora. “I’m sorry; there was nothing I could do.”
When help arrived, Nora heard voices as if through a fog. It wasn’t until the Guards lifted her away from Brona’s side to let the ambulance attendants take over that she felt her knees falter, and noticed the sharp bite of the wind. “Can someone get a blanket over here?” the Garda beside her shouted.
As they draped the blanket around her, she saw Cormac moving toward her through the blue-and-yellow crowd, his face haggard and drawn. His mouth dropped open at the sight of all the blood on her. “Not mine,” she said. “It’s not my blood.” She looked down at her hands and fell against him, suddenly so tired she could barely stand. She felt his chest contract as he let out a long, ragged sigh of relief and pulled her close. “Ah, Cormac, I never meant for any of this to happen.”
“Shhh. Be still now. Be still.” They stood in the middle of the dock as the Guards and emergency medical personnel moved in a constant mill around them, hurrying with stretchers, blankets, and rescue equipment.
“Don’t let go of me,” she whispered. “Please don’t let go.”
A few minutes later, the ambulance men took Brona away on a stretcher, but her face was uncovered. Detective Ward, following, stopped to speak to them. “She’s lost quite a lot of blood, but she’s alive,” he said. “I believe you saved her life, Dr. Gavin.”
Nora wanted to tell him that wasn’t the way it had happened at all—that it was Brona who had done the saving, who had nearly made the ultimate sacrifice to save her. She would tell him later. Ward turned to leave, and Nora caught his sleeve. “Wait—what was that explosion? Does anyone know? Charlie said the house was gone.”
“It was the Brazils’ house. Looks like a gas explosion. I don’t know any more, Dr. Gavin.”
“And what happened to Quill? He admitted killing Ursula and Rachel, and I saw him murder Dominic Brazil with my own eyes.”
“Yes, we know all that, Dr. Gavin. We know.”
“Then what happened to him? We were struggling, and he fell into the water. He didn’t get away?”
Ward’s eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know?” She shook her head. He put one arm around her shoulder and led her to the end of the dock. A hard breeze blew over the lake, raising a shiver on the water. “This lakeshore is treacherous, like quicksand. Struggling only makes it worse.”
In the marshy area below their feet, all that remained visible of Desmond Quill’s body was a pale hand sticking up out of the water. Gripped tightly in his fist was the bright gold collar, cast once more into its role as a votive offering, a dreadful sacrifice to appease the capricious gods.
Book Six
TO HEAL SORROW BY WEEPING
If it were possible to heal sorrow by weeping and to raise the dead with tears, gold were less prized than grief.
—Sophocles, Scyrii. Frag. 510
1
Eleven days after Desmond Quill’s murderous spree had ended at Loughnabrone, the cottage at the Crosses was nearly restored to its former order. In the aftermath, Nora had focused on cleaning the house. It was something to do, something concrete. On hands and knees, scrubbing the wine stains from the floor and walls, she reflected that it might easily have been her blood spilled here. What had stopped Quill from slitting her throat—and why was she obsessed with the thought, unable to let it go? She knew enough about survivor guilt by now to recognize the signs, but that didn’t prevent her from seeing it again and again: Dominic Brazil’s inert body slumping sideways, the red flood creeping down Brona Scully’s chest, Quill’s dead hand grasping the bright gold collar.
Having something useful to do had helped to break up those visions over the past few days; they came less frequently now. And every minute she spent clearing away the damage down here was another minute she could avoid going upstairs and packing her suitcase, avoid thinking about how her time with Cormac was nearly at an end. The future loomed before her, unknown.
She considered the nameless, faceless creature her brother-in-law was supposed to be marrying in only four weeks’ time. It was easy to imagine the woman as reckless or desperate, perhaps not terribly bright. But Triona, beautiful and brilliant and usually very cautious, had fallen for him as well. Intelligence had little to do with it. Every relationship meant taking a chance, leaping headlong into the void, suspended by hope. And only some were lucky. She remembered the jumble of silk and the handcuffs from Owen Cadogan’s hidden stash, and the thin leather cord she’d seen around Ursula Downes’s throat. Maybe Ursula had been taking ever-greater chances, flirting with death, trusting that Owen Cadogan, or Desmond Quill, or whoever, for whatever reason, would loosen the cord in time to pull her back from the brink. For the first time Nora saw Ursula’s actions for what they had been, a cry for understanding and connection, born of a need as deep as that for food or water, or shelter, or warmth. Even Desmond Quill’s attraction to blood could be seen that way. A deep need for connection to something beyond themselves had been the very reason that ancient lake dwellers made sacrifices, sank weapons, gold—sometimes even fellow creatures—into dark and seemingly bottomless pools. Quill had been right about one thing, Nora thought; that we shouldn’t look back with contempt before taking a closer look at our own currently acceptable behavior.
She looked around at the books stacked back on the desk, the pictures repaired and rehung, the crockery—what was left of it—back on the sideboard shelves. She opened the box of new stoneware she’d found to replace the set Desmond Quill had smashed. Everything else that had been shattered in the past few days would be much harder to repair or put right, but this much was easy. Each piece was wrapped in crumpled tissue paper, cushioned against its fellows for transport. As she took out each new plate, unwrapped it and set it on the sideboard shelf, the same thoughts kept tumbling through her consciousness: Quill had known enough pertinent details about sacrificial victims found in bogs, and he had used that information to mislead the police into thinking that the recent murders might be some sort of ritual killings, stringing them together with Danny Brazil’s death. They had been rituals of a kind—Desmond Quill’s own blood homage to the talisman, the sacred object he sought.
Nora stood back to observe her work. The last plate was in place, and the dresser looked almost as it had before Quill had torn up the cottage looking for the drawing of the Loughnabrone collar. That was what they were calling it, now that it was safely in the hands of Niall Dawson and his fellow curators at the National Museum. The newspapers were calling it the find of the century, the television reporters breathlessly describing
this spectacular new addition to the material heritage of Ireland. Once it had been examined, analyzed, and authenticated, it would no doubt go on display at the National Museum. She couldn’t help thinking of all the schoolchildren Quill had so scornfully envisioned, trooping past it, bored and jostling one another, oblivious to the collar’s ancient power and its recent bloody history.
It suddenly struck her that Quill had destroyed more than was necessary in searching for the drawing. He knew the drawing was in the book; all he’d had to do was find the book and take it. But he’d done much more: smashed all the crockery and the wine bottles, knocked over furniture; pulled random books out of the bookcases that lined the walls. This room was filled with evidence of a virulent anger and hatred, something she hadn’t witnessed in the admittedly brief time she’d spent with him. Contempt, yes, annoyance, condescension; but nothing like this. It was too late to find out what had triggered this fury. No one would ever know for certain.
Nora attacked the loose photos that had been dumped on the floor. She had previously just scooped them up and put them back in the box, but now she sat down to reorder them. She had a box like this herself, photographs that wouldn’t fit in any album, odd sizes, or single shots of events no one remembered. Most of these pictures were ruined, curled and with mottled, berrylike wine stains. She’d have to take them back to Evelyn and let her decide what to do with them. She started sorting through old black-and-white photographs of Gabriel and Evelyn in their younger days; snapshots taken at parties where everyone was drinking and smoking; pictures of Gabriel at work on an excavation; a copy of an image she’d seen at Cormac’s house, of himself and Gabriel in a trench, proudly displaying their discovery. About halfway into the pile was a faded color photo, crumpled into a ball. She opened up the wrinkled print and saw the image, faded now; Gabriel and Evelyn McCrossan, and Desmond Quill. Their hair had been darker in those days, their faces unlined. From the clothing, the men’s haircuts and long sideburns, Nora guessed the picture had been taken sometime in the early seventies.