Maggie’s brow creased, but then an idea came to her. “Is there a bookstore in town? One that might carry books about the Spellbook?”
“I’m afraid not,” was the unhappy reply. “There’s only the one bookshop in town, and Dr. McCusker owns it. But he keeps all the books about the Spellbook up here at the Abbey. Says as how it gives the tourists a reason to climb the hill.”
“Lovely,” Maggie said coldly, her irritation finally starting to show through her amicable facade.
“Hm. Well yes.” The shop woman straightened herself up. “As I said, I am sorry about all this. But the Abbey has a great deal to offer aside from the Spellbook. I encourage you to look around the cathedral and the grounds. The altar is from the 15th Century. There’s a statue of Madonna and Child carved from Connemara marble. And the organ is one of the largest outside of Dublin.”
Blah, blah, blah, thought Maggie, only half listening. How to find the Spellbook…
“The grounds are also quite interesting,” the woman went on. “This hill has been a place of great religious importance since before even the first Christian missionaries arrived from Britain. Several structures have been built here on the hill, each upon the ruins of the last. We’ve kept what’s left of the walls and foundations of those temples and fortresses and you’re free to stroll through them at your leisure.”
Maggie managed a genuine smile for the very nice, very helpful woman. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that the McCuskers had emptied the Abbey of any trace of the Spellbook. “Thank you very much for your help.”
Maggie exited the shop into the cathedral, hiked her backpack up on her shoulders, and walked outside into the ruinous dragon’s tail, a forced smile on her face and rising anger in her heart.
***
What the hell is going on? Maggie was beside herself.
I finally come across a spellbook of light magic—one with a healing spell, no less—one that might shed some light, so to speak, on both my Dark Book and my ‘Healer’ ancestor. But no sooner do I find it and glimpse a sum total of two unimportant pages then it’s packed up and removed early from the exhibition. The curator in Dublin says it’s gone back to Ballincoomer, and young little Kitty McCusker seems to confirm that, but when I reach the quaint little village in the western Gaeltacht, I discovers that Kitty’s daddy, the Great and Terrible Dr. McCusker, has diverted it to Kilkenny, or Killarney, or Kill-a-Freaking-Mockingbird. Indefinitely. Oh, and the good doctor has gone with it, taking with him every last other damned book about the Spellbook.
She exhaled through gritted teeth.
Nice.
But despite herself, the history of her surroundings was starting to soothe her, and as she stomped through the grass and stones she could feel her heartbeat begin to slow.
There were seven ruined chambers in all, the most recent abutting the present Abbey with the older ones receding away in reverse chronological order, so that walking through them toward the end was like a trip back in time. The march through the centuries was marked with brass milestones—small plaques embedded in the ground, not unlike grave markers, explaining a bit of the history and significance of each dearly departed building.
The first plaque was right next to the Abbey wall. It explained, in English and Irish, that the Abbey in its current form dated from 1853. The two ruined chambers closest to the Abbey had once been a dormitory of sorts, but had been destroyed in the Rebellion of 1848. Apparently some Nationalists had taken refuge in the dormitory wing of the Abbey, and the Loyalist commander, not thinking much of this, had sent a hail of cannon fire into the wing, to the predictable horror of the residents of Ballincoomer. What wasn’t knocked down with cannonballs was burned by the fire started from the Abbey’s own shattered lanterns. When all was said and done the dormitory wing was, well, in ruins, and a large gaping hole filled the wall adjoined to the cathedral.
In truth, however, these first two rooms were the best preserved. The walls were still original height in some places, with glassless windows peering down on the town below. The plaque went on the explain that while the practice up until 1848 had been to build or rebuild by cannibalizing whatever stones were left from the previous structures, the residents of Ballincoomer—at least the Nationalists who both attended the Catholic Abbey and had supported the Rebellion—wanted to keep the ruins as a memorial. The money to buy stones to repair the damaged cathedral wall had come from a favorite son who had made a good go of it over in Boston. He had been able to send back enough money to pay for the repair, thereby allowing the dormitory walls to stand as a monument to the Irish struggle for independence.
The next ruined room dated from 1713. It had been part of a larger chapel which had burned to the ground in an accidental fire. Although the fire had done little damage to the stone walls, what remained of them was still considerably shorter than the dormitory ruins, their stones having been removed to help build the new abbey. A quick scan of the ruined dormitory walls confirmed a great number of stones whose hue matched that of what remained of the chapel walls.
And so it went. Each room’s walls were shorter than the last as the Ballincoomerians had built new church after new church next to and from the ruins of the last. This left the last skeletonized chamber to be barely a ruin at all. Of what had presumably been four walls, only two remained, rising no more than two feet off the ground at their tallest point. The final brass plaque stood guard next to this meek ending to the dragon’s tail. Maggie stood over the plaque, her shadow falling diagonally across its face, and read.
‘On this spot stood the original church building, erected c. 600-650 A.D. by the Welsh missionaries who founded Ballincoomer. Constructed entirely of stone and devoid of any mortar to hold the bricks together, the church followed the architectural style of other Christian outposts in Ireland. Of notable deviation at this site were the nearly ubiquitous carvings on the interior of the stone walls. The pictographs and their accompanying text, in both Old Welsh and Old Irish, are believed to have been the missionaries’ first attempt to preserve and pass on their beliefs and teachings. The church was destroyed in 1210, during English King John’s ill-fated attempt to subjugate Ireland.’
Welsh, huh? Maggie jutted out a thoughtful lip as she recalled the sign in the cathedral. “Ballincoomer,” she said aloud, followed by the similar sounding, “Baile nan Cuimri.” Old Irish for ‘City of the Welsh.’ “That makes sense.”
She thought she recalled learning that St. Patrick had been Welsh—or Briton, at least—and supposed that if she had been a Welsh missionary in the Seventh Century, she’d likely have headed to Ireland too; with the notable—and dangerous—exception of the Vikings, most of the rest of Europe was already Christian by then, thanks to the Romans.
Intrigued by this Celt-Celt connection, Maggie crouched down to inspect what was left of the engraved stones. Sure enough, every last one of them bore crudely carved diagrams, symbols and words. She could read the Old Irish well enough, but not the Old Welsh. At least she supposed it was Old Welsh. Apart from the information from the plaque, Old Welsh was also suggested by both an amazing frequency of ‘ff,’ ‘dd’ and ‘ll’ combinations and a noticeable dearth of vowels other than ‘y’ and ‘w.’ Her single course in Modern Welsh was going to be of no use to her. She squatted down next to remains of the wall and searched for snippets of Old Irish to read.
Who knows, she thought, maybe I’ll find something interesting.
By the time she’d finished the thought, she’d accomplished its hope. A few feet to the left of the plaque and half obscured by tall grass was a diagram surrounded by words in both Old Irish and Old Welsh. What caught her eye was the word ‘fáitsine,’ Old Irish for ‘prophecy.’ Just like the word, albeit in English, in the newspaper photograph, scrawled above the MacLeod boy’s empty crib. Maggie knelt forward onto the moist ground, slipped her backpack off, and, pushing the grass aside, examined the carving.
Only the bottom half of the diagram remained, its top half long
since destroyed, or removed to build new walls. Still, what was there was more than intriguing. The bottom of a circle sat carved in the stone, its insides filled with busy, interlacing Celtic knotwork. The pattern of the knotwork suggested three equidistant points of some importance on the circumference of the circle, one each to the lower left, lower right, and, although no longer present, the top center. At each of the two lower points, 120 degrees apart, the knotwork came to a flourish, with words carved there. The words were in Old Irish, with what was presumably an Old Welsh translation beneath.
To the left was the phrase, ‘The banshee shall return to claim her legacy.’ To the right stood, ‘The magic of the Celts shall be reignited.’ But Maggie couldn’t read the third and final inscription—because the brick was gone.
Moved by something more than mere curiosity, Maggie ran back toward the ruined walls behind her. She knew the chances of finding the missing brick were slim. Even assuming it had been commandeered to build a new wall, it was entirely likely that it had been shattered by a flying cannonball or otherwise destroyed. Still, she had to try.
The search of the first set of ruins back proved fruitless. She hurried to the next. And the next. It wasn’t until the chapel from 1713 that she finally found it. Upside down and badly worn, half-blackened by soot, still, there it was about a third of the way down a four foot section of wall, its dull gray quite obvious among the darker reddish bricks of the ruin.
Although the position of the circle clearly indicated the brick was upside down, the letters appeared to be right side up, the tops of their letters hugging the outer circumference of the ring. Even so, they were greatly worn, their centuries old lines no longer discernible to the naked eye. Seized by an idea, Maggie ran back to her bag and extracted both a sheet of notebook paper and a pencil. She quickly made a rubbing of the first stone she’d found, with its two verses. Then she sprinted back to the lost stone, carefully positioned the paper over its pattern, and rubbed the pencil over the paper for all she was worth. When she’d finished she raised the sheet. What she found there, the completion of the unbroken circle of the ancient Welsh prophecy, chilled her soul:
‘The banshee shall return to claim her legacy.’
‘The magic of the Celts shall be reignited.’
And: ‘Infantsblood shall be spilt onto ancestral earth.’
21. welshbookofsouls.co.uk
The shop woman had been right. Ballincoomer had only the one bookstore. However, the little town of one thousand residents boasted six drinking establishments, all but one of which specialized in beverages of the alcoholic kind. The exception was named ‘Kafka’s’ and was a dimly lit, hole-in-the-wall café devoted to, according to its sign, ‘Good Coffee and Better Connections.’ This somewhat cryptic catch phrase was elucidated by two other signs, both in tasteful neon: ‘We Serve Starbucks’ and ‘High Speed Internet Access.’ Kafka’s was an internet café. Maggie pulled open the unexpectedly lightweight door and stepped inside.
She fetched herself a short mocha from the bar to the left, then perched herself on a stool at one of a dozen state-of-the-art-deco computers lining the wall to the right. A few mouse clicks later she was staring at the ‘Search.com’ homepage. She paused, formulating her query.
She knew Scotland’s national library was in Edinburgh. She knew England’s was in London, and Ireland’s in Dublin. She supposed then that Wales’ national library was likely in Cardiff. But she thought better of surfing through every page devoted to Wales’ capital city and instead got right to the heart of the matter, typing ‘Wales library national’ and clicking the ‘SEARCH’ button. Her surgical accuracy was rewarded and one click later she was downloading ‘www.nlw.co.uk,’ home site for the National Library of Wales in, not Cardiff, but rather the beautiful seaside university town of Aberystwyth.
In short order she had navigated to the search engine for the library’s holdings. She was presented with several options. While ‘Title’ would have been quickest, she was lacking that information. So too with ‘Author’ and ‘Call Number.’ This left ‘Subject’ and ‘Keyword.’ She cracked her knuckles and set to work.
It was nearly forty minutes later before she finally found it. Or at least she hoped she’d found it. ‘The Welsh Book of Souls.’ A handwritten manuscript from circa 500 A.D. The all too brief online entry described it as ‘a cataloging of beliefs, myths and prophesies from the time just prior to Wales’ conversion to Christianity.’ Further remarks explained that some of the ceremonies described involved child sacrifice. Maggie knew it wasn’t guaranteed to shed light on the cryptic carving atop Dragon Hill, but she also knew it was about as good a lead as she was likely to get.
She pointed the mouse onto the button marked ‘holdings’ and clicked. They had several copies of this ‘Book of Souls.’ The original Old Welsh manuscript was housed safely away in the Historic Collections. But there were also plain-text versions available in the general collections, and even two translations of the work into English. This last part was important. She knew she would be hard pressed to read the original.
Still… She tipped back on the tall stool, her feet swinging several inches above the floor. Wales, huh?
***
Taggert’s face was a sickly, pale blue from the glow of the computer monitor in his otherwise shade-darkened study. His right hand rested on the mouse, guiding the device across its pad as its arrow-shaped alter ego glided across the flickering screen. Click after click led Taggert deeper and deeper into those rare, and seldom visited websites devoted to such esoteric subjects as dead languages and ancient manuscripts.
His left hand was taking notes.
***
The mocha was long gone, but Maggie still sat there, staring at the screen displaying the call number for the Welsh Book of Souls. She glanced down at the chocolatey remains in her paper cup and regretted not having ordered a tall.
Words and phrases danced in her head. ‘Spellbook’ and ‘bean-slànaighear.’ ‘Prophecy’ and ‘infantsblood.’ ‘Ballincoomer’ and ‘Aberystwyth.’
Ultimately she knew she had three choices.
First, she could wait around Ballincoomer—‘indefinitely’—and see whether Dr. McCusker ever returned and if so whether he’d bring with him the Spellbook of Ballincoomer. Despite her unexplainable misgivings about Kitty, the Spellbook held within its covers a healing spell, and therefore a possible connection to her ‘healer’ past.
Second, she could walk to the bus terminal and buy a ticket first to Dublin, then a ferry ticket to Aberystwyth, home to the Welsh Book of Souls. This book might hold within its covers more information about the prophecy etched on the abbey ruins, and therefore a possible connection to the present mystery.
Or third, she could just walk back to her hotel, forget all this nonsense, and get ready to head home to Aberdeen. For Aberdeen held within its city limits her new home, her new school and her new life, and therefore an undeniable connection to her future happiness.
She sighed a heavy sigh, then stood up, pushed her stool in, and swung her bag over her shoulder. Then she walked out onto the street and turned determinedly toward her hotel.
After all, she’d have to make arrangements to check out early if she was going to go to Wales first thing in the morning.
22. The Estranged Wife
Warwick looked at her watch and nodded. “Come on then, Alison. Our three-thirty should be here by now.”
“Our three-thirty?” Chisholm looked up from the reports she was rereading.
But before Warwick could expound, Officer Kerr knocked on the inside of her door frame. The young patrolman, his short but thick black hair combed away from his strong face, flashed a smile at the visiting sergeant, then looked over to Warwick. “Your three-thirty appointment has arrived,” he announced.
“See?” Warwick waved toward the blue clad herald. “Thank you very much, Kerr.” Then pointing toward Chisholm, she executed the introductions. “Fraser Kerr, this is Sergeant Alison Chisholm
of the Glasgow Police Department. Sergeant, this is Officer Fraser Kerr.”
“Nice to meet you, Officer Kerr,” Chisholm nodded in greeting.
“Please,” another smile, one that made his blue eyes sparkle, “call me Fraser.”
Chisholm smiled too at this display. “I’ll consider it.” Then taking a full look at the strapping young policeman, “I’ll definitely consider it.”
“Excuse me, Fraser,” Warwick interrupted impatiently. “But you wouldn’t know whether the interrogation room is free, would you?”
“I would,” Fraser Kerr responded with a gracious nod, “and it is not.” He jerked a thumb toward the hallway. “Russell’s working over some bloke in there right now.”
“Mm.” Warwick pursed her lips. “What about the conference room?”
Kerr thought for a moment, then answered, “Aye, that should be free. The Inspector’s got a meeting, but not until ten, I believe. So that should work.”
“Wonderful,” Warwick said. “Could you show our guest into the conference room? Sergeant Chisholm and I will be there in a moment. Then twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Kerr cocked his head.
“Right,” Warwick confirmed.
“Will that be enough time?”
Warwick just raised an impatient eyebrow.
“That is,” Kerr ran a finger inside his collar, “Russell usually takes longer than that.”
“I’m not Russell,” Warwick replied levelly. “Twenty minutes.”
“Your wish, milady,” he replied with a large smile and an exaggerated bow and slipped away.
“Well, he was cute,” Chisholm observed with a devious smile.
“Yes and no,” Warwick replied. “But he’s helpful. And a good officer.”
Chisholm rolled her eyes at Warwick’s prudery, but only a bit and she was fairly certain Warwick hadn’t seen. “So who’s our three-thirty appointment?”
“Who else?” Warwick asked rhetorically as she stepped into the hallway. “The Lady MacLeod.”
Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 12