Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  “Hee, hee, hee,” laughed the Irishman in a high-pitched cackle. “It’s right ye are about that, stranger. I’m yer bloke. Hee, hee.”

  Another swallow. “But what’s a ruddy Englishman like yerself doin’ in an out-o’-the-way place the likes o’ this?” he said, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of a thick-vesseled hand.

  “Just researching the county,” replied Andrew.

  “Well, it’s nobody knows it better’n me, I’m thinkin.’ Been here all my life, I have.”

  Suddenly the man stopped. His eyes narrowed as his face clouded with suspicion.

  “Say, ye wouldn’t be no friend o’ that Amairgen Dwyer bloke, now would ye?” As he spoke, he articulated the name with scorn.

  “No . . . no, I’m not,” replied Andrew. “I’m afraid I don’t know the name.”

  “Then ye’ll aye be a lucky man. Stay away from ’im is all I got t’ say. Most peculiar name I ever heard. Whoever called a wee tyke Amairgen, can ye tell me that! If ye ask me, it ain’t his real name. He’s a rum customer, that.”

  Again he paused suddenly and looked Andrew over again.

  “Ye’re not one o’ them television blokes,” he said, “what comes around t’ film the comings and goings when they got their equinox thing?”

  “No,” laughed Andrew. “I’m not a newsman either. What equinox thing?”

  “Every spring. That’s when the Dwyer bloke brings in his hundreds o’ queer ones, plugging up the towns an’ the roads with their robes an’ their nonsense. ‘Fore ye know it, our cattle’s drying up an’ our dogs is barkin’ all night at the moon. They bring nothing but ill, I tell ye.”

  As he listened, gradually the name came into Andrew’s memory with the ringing of a faint bell. He continued to probe.

  “You say this . . . this Dwyer lives around here?”

  “Ay. He’s the druid bloke, out t’ the compound where the old stones be stickin’ out o’ the ground. He and his barmy-robed blighters chantin’ their prayers t’ the stones and the sky and the stars. The whole lot o’ em’s dotty if ye ask me. Just what we told them telly folks. Get the druids out o’ here. The likes o’ us has no use for ’em.”

  The farmer took another satisfying swallow from his glass. Now that a fresh supply of Murphy’s stood in front of him, his tongue loosened all the more.

  “Have you ever been out there?” asked Andrew.

  “Ay, mate. I been there.”

  The man glanced about the pub, then leaned toward Andrew over the table in confidentiality. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Walked up through the woods,” he said. “Wanted t’ lay eyes on the place for myself, though I wouldn’t go back. Set me t’ tremblin’ all over just t’ look at it—big fence an’ gates about the place. ’Twas the stones off in the field that gave me the shakes. Tremblin’ from head t’ foot, I was, till I got back an’ got three pints o’ O’Faolain’s stiffest stout in me.”

  He stopped, eased back as if he had just recounted the heroic adventure of a knight in King Arthur’s court, then took a long, slow, thoughtful drink and emptied his glass.

  Andrew rose, obtained another, and returned to the table. The man, shaken by the memory, took a while to come to himself. The sight of a new full glass, however, brought a sparkle returning into his eyes.

  Now it was Andrew’s turn to keep his voice low. He pushed the glass toward his new friend.

  “But if a fellow did want to get in,” he asked softly, “past the gates—how might he do it?”

  “I know that—hee, hee . . . ’tisn’t a problem,” laughed the Irishman. “Though ye’d never catch me back there again, I’m tellin’ ye.”

  “How then?”

  The Irishman drew close across the table.

  “I’ll tell ye a secret, laddie,” said the farmer, eyes shining in fun. “I heard him whisper the code t’ one o’ his druid cohorts. Hee, hee. I’m not so batty as they take me for.”

  “You heard him? Where . . . here?”

  “He comes down t’ O’Faolain’s now an’ then. Druids get thirsty too, ye know. Pays the likes o’ us no mind, but I listens t’ more than he thinks. Hee, hee. He’s always carrying on in somber tones about getting the Stone they’re missing, and when they get it, Ireland’ll rise again, and talkin’ about the druidical priesthood o’ the ancient kings. Blarney and tommyrot, nothing more, hee, hee. Priesthood . . . missing stones! Hee, hee. He looks over t’ me and I knows what he’s thinking. He’s thinkin’ that all the lights are on but nobody’s home, that I’m just an old fool. But I listen t’ every word that comes out o’ the queer blighter’s mouth.”

  Another swallow of Murphy’s followed.

  “Where is their compound?” asked Andrew.

  “Just up the hill, over the road a bit. Go up there, an’ ye’ll see the stones fer yerself, and likely a few blokes wandering around in robes muttering in some queer old tongue, talking t’ the trees and the rocks, looking up in the sky one minute, down t’ the ground the next . . . we are one with the grass . . . we are the grass. Hee, hee! Ever heard ye such foolery?”

  “Were you here yesterday?” asked Andrew.

  “Yesterday—why that . . . what, here?”

  Andrew nodded. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”

  “Well, O’Faolain didn’t get so much as a pint’s worth out of me yesterday, on account o’ havin’ t’ see t’ my cows. My hired bloke was sick.”

  “But you still haven’t told me the code to get in,” said Andrew, returning to the druid theme.

  “That’s the easy part, laddie,” replied the man with a wink. He drew close again, reached across the table and clutched Andrew’s shirt, and pulled him forward. “Nothing more,” he whispered, “than spellin’ out the word C-E-L-T with the numbers on the gate. That’s what he said, though I never tried it myself. Just spell out the word—like on a phone, he said.”

  Andrew nodded, taking in the information with interest. As soon as was conveniently possible, he rose and made his departure.

  Nine

  As the tipsy Irish farmer had assured him, the number sequence 2—3—5—8, punched onto the coded keypad at the entrance to the Celtic Druidic Center, caused the black iron gate to roll instantly back on its track.

  Andrew had parked about fifty yards in front of the gate, where the entryway widened, and approached the gate on foot. As the gate opened, he slipped inside. Thirty seconds later, the gate automatically closed behind him.

  What he saw spread out in the distance below was the same sight that had met Paddy’s astonished gaze three days earlier—a castle and compound with an enormous grassy expanse behind and to one side, in the middle of which stood the fabled and ancient Standing Stones of Carlow.

  Five or six people stood out near the stones. He couldn’t tell if Paddy was among them. All he could tell for certain was that one of them wore what Andrew took for a traditional white druid’s robe.

  Keeping to the edge of the drive near the trees and out of sight as much as possible, Andrew crept down the hill toward the compound.

  The drive led straight to the front of the castle across a large paved car park. Only three or four automobiles were visible, though several outbuildings and garages surrounded the castle. Andrew saw no one nearby. He recalled to mind Columba’s approach to King Brudei’s palace. But he would not march to the front door of this place to demand entrance, thought Andrew. The modern day Broichan he had to face was out in the field with the stones of supposed power.

  He crept to one side of the castle, shielded from the view of those at the stone site about three hundred yards away. Gradually he circled the main buildings. If he was going to get to the stones unseen, he would have to do so from an angle on the other side of the castle.

  Five minutes later, still moving slowly and trying to keep one or another of the largest of the standing stones between himself and the druid, Andrew gradually drew near the small gathering in the field. Fortunately all but the man in the white robe were t
urned the other way. He could only see their backs.

  Two of the group were women. He thought the one wearing a hat might be Paddy, although he couldn’t be sure.

  The robed druid stood facing him, but with eyes lifted skyward, chanting incantations in a weird and mystical voice.

  Andrew inched forward. He reached one of the large upright stones and used it to shield himself from view. He peeped around its edge. When the coast was clear, he crept into the open, hurried to the next stone, and slipped behind it.

  He was near enough to hear them now, and to see the druid’s features. He recognized the face from news photographs as Amairgen Cooney Dwyer, the well-known druidic priest and head of the Irish Celtic Center. He was a tall and powerfully built man, imposing by stature and whatever other power he possessed. As he listened, Andrew found himself mesmerized by the cadence of Dwyer’s chant.

  I invoke the ancient land of Eire, much coursed by the fertile sea.

  Fertile is the fruit-laden mountain with waterfalls by the lake of deep pools.

  Deep is the hilltop well, a well of tribes is the assembly, an assembly of the kings is Tara.

  Tara of the hill of the tribes, the tribes of the sons of Mil.

  Like a lofty ship is the land of Eire, darkly sung with incantation of great cunning, the cunning of the wives of Bres of Buaigne.

  But the great goddess Eire—Eremon has conquered her.

  I, Amairgen, invoke the power of the sacred stone of her kings.

  The stone awaits her kings who will rule the new Eire,the new Eire which will rule the kingdom,the kingdom which will rule all the kingdoms.Her sacred stone has come.I invoke the power of the ancient land of Eire.

  With effort Andrew forced his attention back to his situation. He couldn’t let himself be lulled to sleep by all that!

  Again he ducked his head and crossed to another stone. From here he could see the features of some of the other figures. There was Larne Reardon all right, a few paces beyond the woman with the hat. Yes, it was Paddy, her face pale, her hands bound together with cord. And now suddenly it dawned on him that the other woman standing beside Reardon—that flowing blond hair—who else could it be but Blair!

  Andrew could go no farther without betraying his presence. It was time to see what kind of courage he possessed.

  Slowly he stepped from behind the stone and approached. Dwyer sensed the movement and glanced down. Instantly his chanting ceased. The heads of the others turned.

  “Whatever you’re up to, Dwyer,” said Andrew, “the game is over. You can continue with this ritual as soon as we’re gone, but I am taking Miss Rawlings with me.”

  At first sound of his voice, Paddy spun around.

  “Come over to me, Paddy,” said Andrew.

  A cry of terrified relief escaped her lips. She started to run.

  “Stop!” boomed Dwyer’s voice. “Stay where you are!”

  Paddy froze. All eyes locked on Andrew.

  “Trentham, stay out of this,” now said Reardon. “You have no idea what this is all about.”

  “We’ll sort it out later, Reardon,” said Andrew. “I don’t know how you got involved in all this or even what your role is. But right now I’m taking Miss Rawlings away from here.”

  He glanced toward Blair with an expression of saddened bewilderment.

  “How did you get mixed up in this, Blair?”

  She returned his stare without speaking. The look she cast him was not one of fondness, nor even of recognition, but the look of a stranger. Andrew sought her eyes, but they would not return his penetrating gaze. He now knew that his belated realization had been right on the mark—he had never known her at all.

  “Do you know this man, Fiona?” said the man beside her whom Andrew did not recognize.

  “It’s Andrew Trentham,” she replied, still looking in Andrew’s direction. Her voice was strange and hard, as foreign as her expression, a different voice than Andrew had ever heard from her mouth.

  “The bloke you were trying to sweeten up to get a line on—”

  Andrew felt a knife plunging into his gut. He heard nothing more of what the man said. The whole thing had been a setup from the beginning! She had just been using him.

  With great effort he forced back his composure.

  “Trentham, this doesn’t concern you,” repeated Reardon. “There are powers here greater than you and me, greater than any of us.”

  “You won’t get away with it, Reardon. I’ve encountered a power recently too, the power of God. It’s greater than the power of these druids, I can tell you that.”

  He turned to Paddy. Her face was pale and frantic.

  “Paddy . . . come with me,” said Andrew.

  Now the druid approached with great mumblings and incantations and threats. Paddy’s feet remained nailed to the grass.

  But a new source of power was indeed coming to Andrew Trentham, though even he had little idea how great was this present conflict and how truly the power of Columba’s God was in the process of wakening within him.

  “Stay where you are,” said Andrew in a voice of newfound strength, its power surprising even him. “In the name of God I command you to stop and be silent.”

  The druid halted. No one spoke. The two men faced each other for a tense second or two.

  Andrew again remembered Columba’s encounter with Broichan. The next instant the words of the Forty-sixth Psalm were flowing from his mouth as if he had committed them to memory:

  “The Lord of hosts is with us,” he said in a strong voice. “Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the heathen. I will be exalted in the earth. The Lord of hosts is with us.”

  As if he had been hit with some invisible force, Dwyer’s frozen mouth twitched in stunned silence.

  “You have no power over her, Amairgen,” Andrew continued, “nor over me.”

  Hearing his assumed druidic name used in command against him, and with such authority, jolted Amairgen Cooney Dwyer into dumbfounded submission. His eyes flashed with hatred, but he did not move or answer.

  “Now I tell you again,” Andrew continued slowly and deliberately, “I am taking her, and nothing any of you can do will stop me. Come on now, Paddy.”

  At last Paddy ran forward. The others watched, still as statues. Blair’s eyes contained innumerable daggers. Paddy, trembling, fell into Andrew’s waiting arms.

  Andrew began backing away in the direction of the castle, keeping his left arm around Paddy to steady her shaking legs. He continued to face the others, staring intently to keep them from following.

  They had only retreated some fifty or sixty feet when suddenly Andrew’s eyes shot open in astonishment.

  With sudden disbelief he realized what he had been looking at out of the corner of his eye the whole time—a small chunk of upright sandstone stuck vertically into the ground next to the spot where Dwyer had been chanting his poetic ritual!

  One of its iron rings and links hung from the top of the block. The other had been freshly buried some six inches into the ground. Standing only some twenty-one inches in height, it was by far the smallest stone of the circular collection surrounding them. But obviously Dwyer considered it the most crucial missing link.

  It was the Stone of Scone!

  “Paddy,” he said, “do you see what—”

  “Yes, yes,” she interrupted in a quivering voice. “It’s the Stone. They stole the Stone. They only brought it here two days ago. I saw them delivering it.”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but—wait, what am I thinking! We’ve got to notify Scotland Yard.”

  Still moving backward, he let go of Paddy, pulled out his mobile phone and quickly punched in the necessary code to reach the UK.

  “Shepley,” he said when the inspector answered, “you’re not going to believe where I am and what I’m looking at this instant!”

  Shepley listened in disbelief.

  “So Glencoe must have been a red herring,” he said.

&
nbsp; “Glencoe?” repeated Andrew.

  “Never mind,” said the inspector. “Tell me exactly where you are.”

  Andrew described the Celtic Center. “I know Ireland’s not in your jurisdiction,” he went on. “But I’m telling you the Stone is here, and I’m looking at the people responsible for stealing it. So get somebody here. Fast.”

  Hearing Andrew on the phone, Malloy suddenly came to himself. From somewhere he produced a gun.

  “Let’s go, Paddy,” cried Andrew. “Run. We’ve got to get to my car.”

  He turned and sprinted in the direction of the entryway, with Paddy panting beside him. Andrew shouted into his phone as they ran.

  “We’re not going to stick around, Shepley!” he cried. “They’ve got a gun, and we’re outnumbered five to two. We’re getting out of here!”

  He glanced behind them to see Malloy taking aim across the field while Reardon, Blair, Fogarty, and Dwyer all bolted for the castle.

  Ten

  The sharp report of gunfire exploded behind the two runners.

  Paddy screamed.

  “Come on . . . we’ll make it!” shouted Andrew. He led her running across the front of the compound toward the drive. She ran awkwardly, her hands still bound together.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” puffed Paddy.

  “We’re nearly there,” returned Andrew, reaching out both to steady her and pull her along up the driveway toward the gate.

  Another shot sounded. A bullet slammed into a tree to Andrew’s right, sending splintering pieces of bark flying.

  They must have passed the invisible beam of an electric eye, for ahead the black iron gate rolled back. Andrew’s car was only seconds away. But there was no time to feel relief as they ran through the gate. Behind them now came a new sound.

  Andrew glanced back. The door to one of the garages stood open. Two well-equipped motorcycles roared out, the robes of their riders flapping in the wind behind them.

  Andrew and Paddy sprinted the final yards to the car.

  Only now did Andrew realize the mistake he’d made when he arrived. His car was still pointed down toward the castle! Turning around would take precious seconds. They would never be able to outrun motorcycles on these winding Irish roads!