About three underworld weeks after Ferdia was delivered to his grandfather, life in the world of the Tuatha Dé Danann returned to normal. Muroad, who had assumed the role of nanny for the infant, was his constant companion. She was convinced that the Ferdia was abnormally perceptive for a child of his age, and she never tired of sharing her life, experiences and the history of the people of Dana, with him. Ferdia did appear to take it all in occasionally even nodding his head when asked if he understood. Muroad had never encountered any child quite like Ferdia and she was always ready to describe the infant’s special gifts to anyone who would listen.
After a time, however, her audience diminished because having heard what the old woman had to say, further explanations seemed repetitious. This troubled Muroad but for a long time she couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason for her concern. She did know that even people who are always happy and respectful might tire of an old lady’s ramblings but that was not what concerned her. It was something about the child and his life, and she hoped that if she thought about it long enough, the answer would come.
Eventually, after many hours of holding Ferdia, rocking him in her arms, singing the songs of the people to him, feeding the infant and, of course, cleaning up after him, the answer came. Muroad arranged an appointment with Lugh to discuss the problem.
“You know, Lugh, that I love your grandchild as if he were my own flesh and blood and I only want what is best for him,” Muroad began.
Lugh replied stroking his long facial hair, “I have no doubts whatsoever on that score.”
She continued, “I also know that you took him here to protect him from the evil which threatened his life in the world above the ground.”
“That I did,” Lugh stated.
Muroad paused looking down as she wove the end of her shawl around her hands, “Your motive and actions were without doubt both understandable and appropriate.”
Lugh looked at the old woman with a quizzical expression, “But?”
Taking a deep breath Muroad looked the king in the eye, and the words poured out of her, “But…what kind of a life will Ferdia have here among the people. Of course he will be safe and well loved, but he will never be more than an infant because his age is virtually frozen here, as is all of ours. He will never develop into a boy and into a man and while he might absorb everything we tell him, he will never be able to pass these things on to his own sons and daughters. Is this what you want for your grandson?”
Lugh sat with one arm across his chest and the other continuing to stroke his luxurious moustaches. He thought about what Muroad said and after some time he responded, “I too have given a great deal of thought to the future of this child and I cannot argue with anything you have said. As much as I value the presence of this child among us, he is only an infant and to keep him here will deprive him of an opportunity to live a full life and experience all the things that we knew during our years above the earth. On the other hand, in accepting this child, I swore an oath to protect him from the evils that threatened his life and I must be true to my oath.”
Muroad nodded her head in agreement, “It is a difficult matter to balance the two.”
“Actually,” Lugh continued with a smile, “not so difficult. Let me see whether I can work this out. The evil, which originally threatened Ferdia in the world above, has undoubtedly long since passed. In that world nearly two thousand years have passed since Cathbad presented the child, and Maeve, her sons and grandsons, and all the enemies of the child’s father have long since died. Unfortunately, although the specific evil that brought Ferdia here is gone, my pledge was to protect the child from evil that threatens him in the world above ground, not just the specific evil that threatened him when he came among us. And so, it seems to me, as long as there is evil in the world above, I have not completely delivered on my pledge and the child must remain.”
The old woman sighed, “And since there will always be evil in the world above, the child will never be able to leave your protection.”
Lugh smiled, “Not necessarily. There are other components to my pledge, the first being that the evil must threaten his life and the second is that the protection was only to apply until he was able to protect himself. Because of that second component we must accept that my pledge anticipated that this child would grow and mature so that one day he could protect himself. That would not be the case if he never left our world. If there were to come a time when society above the earth was relatively safe and Ferdia could grow to manhood with little fear for his own life, he should be returned to the land above the ground.”
“So you would allow Ferdia to grow into manhood,” Muroad said with a smile.
“Of course I would, and I will.” Lugh replied patting the old woman’s arm. “I will study the world above and determine the appropriate time and decide what mortals might best foster my grandson. When the circumstances are properly aligned, I will deliver Ferdia to a world where he will grow and mature and fulfill his own destiny.”
Muroad hesitated for a moment and then spoke again, “But Lugh, he is your grandson. If he were to leave, you would never see him again. He will be gone and in a short time, as it passes in our world, he will be dead. Will that not bring you great sorrow?”
Lugh smiled at her concern, “It will of course. But Ferdia has his own destiny and as it cannot be fulfilled here, the only other possibility is the world above the earth. I would be less than a proper grandfather if I were to deny him his destiny for my own selfish reasons. Beside, one never knows. Perhaps one day he will return to us.”
“Thank you my king,” Muroad replied as the tears filled her eyes. “The child will be ready when the time comes.”
BOOK TWO: THE AGE OF THE CELTIC TIGER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The elderly widow stood on the paving stones outside the farmhouse where she had spent most of her adult life. The June morning was bright and the woman basked in warmth of the early summer sunshine. The paving stones hardly required the brushing they had just received but Margaret O’Neill loved the feel of the broom in her hand and the bit of fresh air and exercise was a small pleasure she truly enjoyed.
Her wrinkled eyes smiled as she looked down across the fields toward the River Boyne, twinkling in the sunshine far below. In her mind she remembered standing in this very spot sixty years earlier, a young bride in the arms of her Brendan, tall and strong. She could not have imagine having lived a happier life, but her husband was now passed on these ten long years and her children were off to Australia and the United States pursuing their own happiness.
Margaret loved the peace and quiet of her little cottage particularly on sunny days when the whole valley came to life, but in her own way she looked forward to the day when she would be reunited with Brendan. Of course there were neighbors and friends who frequently called, because that is what people in rural Ireland did in the early 1990s before the economic boom created the Celtic Tiger. Margaret always looked forward to those visits but without her family to mind, something was missing and she believed that she would find it only when she entered into the next life.
Laughing out loud, Margaret scolded herself, “Don’t be so morbid…what are you like?” She straightened her back raising her face to the warmth of the sun and looked, once again, down toward the Boyne. “Well old girl,” she said continuing her conversation with herself, “at least there’s nothing wrong with your eyes—in the distance anyway.”
Far below a couple was walking through the fields in the company of a massive dog who romped free, chasing birds, butterflies and whatever took his fancy with little or no chance of ever catching anything. That would be the O’Sullivans, she thought, out on one of their regular strolls through the Boyne Valley. They were a strangely matched couple, he was tall and lean, a quiet scholarly man, while she was short, broad and full of chat. Cathal and Evelyn lived about a mile away in an old farm cottage, not unlike her own, and for the most part they were content with each other
’s company.
The O’Sullivans took pleasure in their walks and would call on Margaret whenever their path crossed her gate. They were a pleasant couple and Margaret enjoyed their brief visits, particularly because that massive Irish wolfhound called Molly would accompany them. Margaret was well accustomed to dogs but she held a special place in her heart for Molly. As playful as she was in the field, Molly became a perfect lady when she entered Margaret’s property. She would greet her host, her great head nearly chest high on the old woman. Margaret would pat the dog’s head and scratch her behind the ears assuring Molly that she was a fine dog. Molly would then follow her host into the kitchen where there would invariably be a bone that Margaret kept stored in the refrigerator for just such an occasion. If the day was fine and the visit took place outside, Molly would sit next to Margaret, otherwise the dog’s spot was under the kitchen table. While the human beings visited, Molly enjoyed her treat.
Margaret had discovered that Cathal was a professor of Celtic Studies at University College Dublin, while Evelyn was an artist, designing and manufacturing silver jewelry. On one occasion Evelyn showed Margaret some of her work and it was easy to see why her neighbor was developing such an excellent reputation. The jewelry was normally silver, intricately worked into traditional Celtic designs. As recently as ten years ago some Irish people might have thought her jewelry was old fashioned or better suited for the tourist market, but it seemed that traditional was back in style.
Her neighbors explained that their walks, and indeed living as they did in the shadow of River Boyne, were important to the couple because few places were so steeped in history as the Boyne Valley. They told her that each walk provided Cathal with another insight into his academic specialty and Evelyn drew inspiration for her Celtic designs from ancient rock carvings and structures that lay strewn about the valley. Molly, on the other hand, enjoyed the great open spaces and the freedom to run, chasing and exploring whatever required her attention.
Looking down on the trio, Margaret envied them their freedom and health. Unfortunately they had not been blessed with children which, she had been told was not an intentional choice. They were older but, God willing, their day might yet come. In the meanwhile, they strolled through the fields, Cathal slightly stooped with his hands behind his back while Evelyn, obviously carrying the conversation, speaking as much with her hands as she did with her mouth. “God bless and keep them,” Margaret said aloud as she turned to return her broom to its spot behind the door.
In the field below, Evelyn was indeed advancing a spirited argument for the return of Brehon Laws, which, she insisted, provided far greater equality between men and women. This was not an issue of grave and immediate importance to Cathal and he was attempting to direct the conversation to the beauty of the day.
“All these years,” Evelyn sighed, “and I didn’t realize I was married to such a chauvinist.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh,” Cathal replied with an affectionate smile. “I was only enjoying the peace and quiet of a beautiful afternoon in the company of my wonderful, beautiful and, of course, equal partner.”
Evelyn reach over a put her stout arm around her husband’s thin waist, “Since you put it that way,” she replied, “it is a beautiful day.”
The two walked on in companionable silence. Cathal was dressed in the outfit of a country gentleman; brown woolen trousers tucked into his Wellington boots, an argyle sweater vest, tweed jacket with corduroy patches on the sleeves and a flat hat to keep the sun from his eyes. Evelyn also wore corduroy trousers tucked into her wellies with a grey oversized Aranknit jumper stretching well down her thighs. Her amazing mop of tightly curled redblonde hair defied any attempt to contain it in headgear so it danced naturally in the breeze. Evelyn linked her arm with her husband’s and nearly skipped along in stark contrast to his leisurely pace.
The couple continued on, commenting on the beauty of the flora they encountered and laughing at the antics of Molly the wolfhound who, at the time, was being tormented by a magpie. Cathal whistled and Molly obediently deserted the bird and returned to his master’s side. “That’s a battle you’ll not win girl,” he told the dog as he rubbed her ear. The magpie flew off and Cathal released to dog who loped off in search of new discoveries.
As Molly neared a copse of hawthorn bushes, she suddenly froze in her tracks, and then glanced back at the O’Sullivans who were by then at least fifty yards behind and further down the hill. They were accustomed to the dog’s habit of keeping an eye on them ensuring, they supposed, that as the couple was in Molly’s care she would not want them to wander off. As a result, they paid her little attention and continued on their way. Molly, however, did not move. Rather, she lowered herself onto her forearms and hocks and rested her nose against her find.
It was several minutes before the O’Sullivans noticed that Molly had disappeared from view. This was of no major concern to the couple because the field was vast and Molly was well trained. She could easily be hidden in a deep dip in the terrain or behind a fence or hedgerow. In fact she was only several yards from them but higher up on the hill and sitting on her haunches in the hawthorn grove. Cathal and Evelyn slowed their pace and looked around waiting for the dog to reappear but when she failed to emerge, Cathal whistled confident that the dog would take his position at his master’s side. Another few moments passed but still the dog did not appear.
Puzzled now, more than concerned, the two slowly retraced their steps trying to determine the last place she had been seen. As they reached the place just below where Molly crouched they heard a strange whine, not a whine of pain or fear but a sound that had never before been part of Molly’s communication skills. Turning toward its source, they began their climb up the hill until the dog came into view.
“What is it girl?” Evelyn asked as Molly inclined his head toward her voice. “What have you found?”
As the couple reached the hawthorn bushes they stopped in shocked silence. There in hollowed out granite stone lined with a small mattress was an infant boy who was certainly not more than several weeks old. The child, who was dressed in a simple gown fashioned from wool, smiled brightly as his right hand touched the big dog’s nose. Molly was obviously delighted, so she licked his tiny hand.
Evelyn stood in shock with her hands covering her mouth and repeated over and over again, “Oh my God…Oh my God…how…who could have done this?”
Cathal looked around half expecting to see someone fleeing from the scene. However, just as was the case when he was looking for Molly, not a person or animal was visible for as far as he could see.
Evelyn soon recovered from her shock and reaching down she picked the child up and cradled him in her arms. He responded with continued smiles and a bit of a gurgle and soon Evelyn was carrying on a perfectly nonsensical discussion with the infant. Molly meanwhile was justifiably proud of her role in the discovery and insisted that her nose remain in constant range of the infant’s hand.
Cathal stood aside stroking his chin, watching his wife’s antics. He quickly accepted the fact of the discovery and now he was trying to sort out how it was possible that the child would be left in the middle of a field many hundred yards from any possibility of discovery. Since babies did not just drop out of the sky, someone must have put him in the field. And if someone did leave the baby they must have know that there was only the most remote chance that someone, like the O’Sullivans, would happen upon the spot. Abandoning an infant in the middle of such a field was tantamount to killing the child. This was undoubtedly a mystery worthy of his favorite author, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Cathal began a clinical evaluation of the matter.
Obviously the child was well fed and clothed and as he was at least a month old, someone must have taken good care of the baby since birth. There was little question but that the child had recently been placed in the bushes because although he wore no diaper, the baby’s garment was not soiled. In addition, although it was a bright sunny day, the child’s face was
pale white with no blush from the warm sunshine. And yet, Cathal and Evelyn had been leisurely walking these hills, in clear sight of the hawthorn copse, stopping occasionally to examine oddities, for at least an hour and they saw no one. Cathal looked around for some sign that someone beside his wife and himself had broken the knee-high grasses and weeds leading to the site, but he could see nothing. He could plainly see broken damp grasses showing their own path but it definitely appeared that no one else had walked these fields for at least several hours.
And then there was the most peculiar crib in which the child had been found. Cathal reached down to examine the rock and the mattress that lined its indentation. It was quite clear to him that hollowed section was man-made and the rock had been carved out for a specific use, perhaps as a large washbasin. On the other hand, it could just as easily have been fashioned for use as a crib because the mattress, which seemed to be made of rough cloth stuffed with feathers, was obviously custom made for the stone. The child had been secure and comfortable in his bed. Cathal tested the stone’s weight and immediately realized that it would take at least two very strong men to even lift the granite stone. To transport it onto the hillside would have required a wheelbarrow or handcart. Whatever about the lack of broken grasses caused by an individual, there was no visible indication that a wheeled vehicle had crossed the field.
While Evelyn continued to rock the baby and delight in his happy reaction to her attention, Cathal began to search the bushes for anything that may help to identify the baby or his parents. His scientific mind could make no sense of the situation but perhaps someone left something behind, a letter of regrets for example, to explain the child’s presence. His preliminary search found nothing but then, he spotted what appeared to be an old woolen blanket on the hill beneath the hawthorn bushes. Cathal missed it at first glance because it was a brownish green that blended with the bushes, but now he climbed up to take a closer look. There were, in fact, two blankets that were bundled around something and tied at the top with rough twine.
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