He stuffed Paddy into the passenger side. The automatic gate was now sliding closed. The two bikers roared up the drive after them.
Andrew hurried around, got in, and flipped on the key. But instead of turning around, and without pausing to think, he yanked into gear and accelerated straight toward the gate.
He had no time for the C-E-L-T-code now!
“What are you—?” began Paddy. The next instant she gave a cry and ducked down.
Andrew blasted through the gate, sending the wrought-iron frame flying off its hinges. It bounced and clanked loudly to the side of the road as Andrew sped past.
The two young apprentice druids had been ordered to prevent an escape. The last thing they expected as they rounded the bend and approached the gate was a maniac speeding down upon them in the middle of the road! The car accelerated and swerved first toward one then the other.
Paddy just had time to look up. She ducked down again in terror. Before they could gather their wits, both cyclists careened off the road in front of the onrushing car. One cycle, now absent its owner, crashed into a tree. The other tumbled down the embankment on the other side into a deep ditch paralleling the entryway, depositing its druid-cyclist head over heels into brush and undergrowth.
Andrew sped on down toward the castle.
“Where did you learn to drive like that?” shrieked Paddy.
“I don’t know how to drive like this! I’m making it up as I go along.”
“You’re doing pretty well if you ask me! I’m about to be sick.”
Out of one eye Andrew saw Malloy running toward them. A second later a gunshot fired. A window shattered. Dwyer was running across the pavement toward the castle shouting orders to at least a half dozen more of his robed protégés as they poured out the front door of the compound.
“No time to get sick now, Paddy,” cried Andrew. “Hang on to your hat!”
He crunched the steering wheel hard to the right. With a tremendous screech the car skidded around in a semicircular arc on the paved lot. Malloy had not anticipated the move. Suddenly he found himself sideswiped and thrown to the ground.
As they skidded back around in a direction generally facing the driveway they had just descended, Andrew jammed his foot to the floor.
Recovering himself, Malloy scrambled to find his weapon and get back to his feet. His aim was now wild and erratic. Several more shots sounded but missed the retreating automobile.
With the rear tires squealing and leaving a black patch of rubber stretching behind them, Andrew accelerated back up the hill, whizzed past the cyclists climbing out from among the trees, and zoomed out of the gate still picking up speed.
Dwyer and Reardon stood staring after them, then ran for one of the parked cars. They would take up the chase themselves.
Eleven
Ninety seconds later, Andrew’s car roared onto the highway two miles west of Carlow. Paddy was struggling to free her hands from the cords that bound them.
“My car—it’s still at the pub!” she exclaimed. “I just remembered.”
A sudden idea came into Andrew’s head.
“You have your keys?” he said.
“They’re in my pocket.”
Andrew braked hard and skidded into O’Faolain’s Green.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Paddy.
“Once those cyclists are back on their bikes we won’t stand a chance,” said Andrew. “We’re going to Plan B. Come on, get out . . . hurry!”
Andrew ran inside the pub with Paddy on his heels. He hurried straight to his new Irish acquaintance.
“Hey, laddie!” called out the familiar voice. “How about another pint?”
“No time now, my friend,” said Andrew, bending low and confidentially and talking fast. “Do you remember what we were talking about before . . . about getting into the druids’ compound? It worked. I got in. But now the druids are after me!”
“After you! That’s no good, laddie. I told ye an ill wind was blawin’ about the place.”
“Will you help me?”
Immediately the Irishman began climbing to his feet. He had to make an effort to keep his wobbly knees from trembling at thought of fighting off the druids, yet he summoned his courage like a loyal soldier whose captain had given the order.
“Ay, that I will, laddie. Ye can count on Coogan Mulroney.”
“Then come with me!” said Andrew.
He led the farmer called Mulroney outside, then handed him his keys. Paddy followed.
“I need you to drive my car to the police station in Carlow,” he said. “I want them to think they’re chasing me. Can you do that?”
Mulroney nodded, ennobled if not sobered by the task set before him.
“I know you’ve had a pint or two of the black stuff,” said Andrew, “but try to keep on the road and go as fast as you can. There’ll be a commendation in it for you if we can fool the druids.”
“I’ve never driven over twenty-five in my life, laddie.”
“That will do just fine,” said Andrew, feeling a sudden twinge of conscience at what he had asked the man to do. “I don’t want you getting hurt—and fasten your seat belt!”
Andrew looked behind them toward the compound. “Hurry—look,” he said pointing, “—here’s their car cresting the hill. They’re headed this way!”
“You can count on me, laddie! Fool the druids . . . I’m good at that.”
Andrew helped him in. The car roared recklessly into life, then sprayed a trail of gravel behind it. Mulroney sped off, weaving back and forth across the pavement, quickly accelerating to the twenty-five miles per hour comfort level, then gradualy up to thirty.
“The poor fellow!” exclaimed Andrew. “I hope he makes it to Carlow. But quick, before they see us . . . get in.”
They jumped into Paddy’s rental car and scrunched out of sight. A minute later they heard a vehicle roar past. Andrew raised himself enough to sneak a peek.
“They’ve taken the bait. They’re after him!” she said. “Let’s go! It’s your car—do you want to drive?”
“Are you kidding? I’m trembling from head to foot and haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.”
A few seconds later, with Andrew at the wheel, they half skidded onto the road and now sped off in the opposite direction.
“As soon as we’re good and clear of this place,” said Andrew, “we’ll stop and get you some food.”
“What I could really use is a hot bath and a bed.”
“Unfortunately, that will have to wait. By the way . . . you cut your hair—it looks nice.”
“Thank you,” said Paddy with a worn-out smile.
The relief both suddenly felt resulted in several minutes of silence. Paddy was the first to break it.
“Thank you for coming,” she said in a quiet voice. “I was so afraid.”
“What else could I do?” replied Andrew. He glanced over at her weary face, which was finally beginning to relax. “We English squires, you know,” he added with a smile, “are obligated to rescue damsels in distress.”
“Well if ever there was a damsel in distress,” rejoined Paddy, “it was me! I was a complete idiot to try to solve this on my own.”
“If you hadn’t, the mystery of the Stone might never have been solved.”
Behind them in the distance they heard the whine of police sirens.
“Sounds as if Inspector Shepley got somebody on the case in a hurry.”
“We really still don’t know all that was involved, do we?” said Paddy.
“Recovering the Stone will be a big part of unraveling it.”
“It was bigger and more dangerous than I realized.”
“Next time we won’t make that mistake.”
“We?” repeated Paddy.
“Of course. I’m in it with you now,” said Andrew. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. But first we’ve got to get out of Ireland.”
Twelve
The sun had set, but the sky promised a won
drous pink-and-orange twilight.
Andrew Trentham and Patricia Rawlings stood on the upper deck of the same ferry on which Andrew had crossed the North Channel of the Irish Sea some fourteen hours earlier. Both were exhausted but relieved to at last be bound for the Scottish coast.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” sighed Paddy with weary contentment. “Especially after a day like this.”
“It’s what the Scots call the gloamin,’” replied Andrew. “It is a special time of day.”
“You know,” said Paddy, “I’ve never actually set foot in Scotland. This is going to be a first for me.”
She paused and glanced at Andrew with a twinkle of fun in her eye. She had dozed a number of times as they drove north, and with the added benefit of a warm meal inside her was now feeling much better.
“And come to think of it,” she added, “that reminds me—it was Scotland that first brought us together . . . in a manner of speaking.”
“How do you mean?” asked Andrew.
“I tried to get you to tell me why you were so interested in Scotland, and you were evasive.”
Andrew laughed.
“So how about it now, Mr. Trentham? Haven’t we been through enough together that you could confide in me?”
“You are probably right. Whatever reasons I had for keeping it to myself no longer seem important. I suppose I was afraid of your going public with something I would see on the papers or hear on the telly the next day. Somehow I find it hard to worry about that anymore.”
“I wouldn’t publicize anything without your approval, not after what you did.”
“I appreciate that,” replied Andrew. “And you’re right. We have been through quite a lot together. So in addition . . . I think it’s time you called me Andrew.”
“I’m honored.”
“And by the way, how did you get my phone numbers?”
“I said I’d apologize later—so . . . I’m sorry. Actually, I don’t suppose I can be too sorry. Getting in touch with you may have saved my life. As for how I got them, I’ll tell you when you let me in on your mysterious Scottish secrets.”
“Touché!” rejoined Andrew.
They had nearly arrived at Stranraer. It was time to return to Paddy’s car on the lower deck. Minutes later the ferry docked, and Andrew continued to drive as they disembarked onto the Scottish shore.
The gloaming deepened. They began their way across the southernmost region of Scotland, directly across the Solway Firth from Andrew’s home in Cumbria. Sight of this very Stewartry coast from the hills above Derwenthwaite had prompted much introspection several months earlier. As dusk descended it grew quiet and peaceful between them. Andrew drove at a leisurely pace as he reflected again on the changes that had taken place within him since then.
Their conversation slowly drifted into more thoughtful channels. Andrew began sharing with Paddy about his family, about Duncan, and then about his gradually deepening interest in his Scottish roots.
“I’d never thought much about it before,” he said. “Then all of a sudden, a few months ago, I couldn’t get enough of it. It was as if I had to know who I was, where I’d come from, and what role this land of Scotland might have played in both those things. That’s when I started reading some of the old tales from Scotland’s history, stories Duncan had told me when I was a boy.”
“What kind of tales?” asked Paddy.
“About the ancients who first came here, the men and women who conquered and tamed the land, and those who brought the Christian faith to Scotland.”
“This Duncan sounds like a man I would like to meet.”
“Perhaps you shall one day,” replied Andrew. “Curiosity about my own roots began it for me. Then Caledonia itself took over. The history is absolutely fascinating! There’s none like it. I feel as if I’ve been living in a completely different world since I was bitten by the Caledonian bug.”
“Your enthusiasm is infectious. So who were the first people to come here?”
Before Andrew knew it, he was recounting to Paddy an abbreviated version of the Wanderer’s story. She listened, mesmerized.
“You are a marvelous storyteller!” she exclaimed when he was through. “My heart was pounding when that mammoth attacked. I’ve never heard history told so . . . so much like an adventure. You make it come alive. I felt like I was really there.”
“I suppose that’s because to me it is an adventure—and a majestic one.”
He paused reflectively. “But it’s more than that,” he added. “Somehow Scotland’s past has a vitality that makes me feel connected to it. I can’t help but feel that these old characters of former times have much to teach me, that there are universal lessons here for our time. Cruithne and Fidach, and the importance of unity and brotherhood. And Foltlaig and Maelchon and having the courage to fight for your land.”
“Cruith . . . what?” said Paddy, trying to repeat the strange-sounding name. “Who are these people?”
Andrew laughed. All it took was a few more questions from Paddy and again the storyteller rose up. Only now it was Andrew rather than Duncan, recounting the tales he had heard from the old Scotsman’s mouth. The hours flew like minutes.
“Do you see what I mean?” he said after they had relived another era or two together. “All this that is going on with us who live today, even this crazy adventure we’ve undertaken today—it pales into insignificance alongside the heroism and grandeur of those ancient times.”
“I am starting to see what you mean,” replied Paddy. “Is this what you call the Caledonian bug?”
“That’s it! It comes over you rather like a virus.”
“I guess I’ve got it then. Can we just head north for Scotland right now? I want to see it all!”
Andrew laughed.
“What is it that makes Scotland’s history so compelling?” asked Paddy. “I can feel it as you’re telling me these stories. I sense it just driving through these hills, although now we can hardly see them. But what is the magic?”
“It’s Caledonia itself—Scotland . . . the land, the history. It’s heather and peat and battles and clans and tartans and bagpipes. It’s the people, the Celtic past, the language I think to a degree, the music, the color, the culture . . . the wonder of all of it.”
“You mentioned earlier about the bringing of Christianity to Scotland.”
“Have you heard of Saint Columba?”
Paddy nodded.
“He came to Iona in the sixth century. I was just there a few days ago—incredible now that I think of it. It seems like a month! That’s quite a story too.”
“I’m listening!”
Andrew briefly told her the story of Columba and Diorbhall-ita. When he was through, again it was silent as they reflected on the story and its spiritual implications.
“But you’ve only told me the history of Scotland—Caledonia as you call it—up to the year 600,” said Paddy at length. “I feel as if we’ve only begun.”
“Exactly. There’s much more to come. It gets better and better! But remember, I’ve only begun this quest recently myself. I still plan to do much more reading.”
“Will you tell me what you learn?”
“Of course! And wait until you hear about Glencoe,” added Andrew. “It is one of the later stories—from the seventeenth century. Duncan told it to me recently. It will make you weep.”
“What’s it about?”
“Clans and loyalty and betrayal, about changing times in the Highlands . . . and about a maiden named Ginevra and a young Highlander named Brochan.”
“Sounds like a love story.”
“You’re right.”
“Does it have a happy ending?”
“Yes and no,” replied Andrew. “Its happiness is bittersweet. But even the sad endings in Caledonia are tinged with magic.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You said it a minute ago . . . because Caledonia is a magical place.”
They arrived at Derwenthwaite af
ter midnight. Andrew had called ahead to Franny, who had one of the guest rooms waiting for Paddy with clean sheets, fresh flowers, and a soft pillow. After what she had been through, and especially after the hot bath Franny was in the process of drawing for her, she could have slept anywhere.
“Do you want to call your producer?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t think Edward Pilkington would appreciate being awakened at this hour. Besides, I’m too sleepy.”
“Then sleep well.”
An odd expression came over Paddy’s face. “I don’t know what more to say,” she said, “other than simply again to thank you . . . for everything.”
“Don’t mention it—damsels in distress and all that, remember.”
“And thank you for all the stories. What a perfect end to the day.”
“I enjoyed telling them—helped put all it into perspective.”
“Well . . . good night, Andrew.”
“Good night, Paddy.”
Thirteen
A bright, sunny Cumbrian summer’s day dawned over Derwenthwaite. Both adventurers awoke refreshed and invigorated.
As Paddy came down from her guest room and was greeted by Franny, she heard Andrew’s voice on the phone.
“Are you ready for a nice English breakfast, my dear?” asked the housekeeper.
“Yes . . . thank you,” said Paddy.
“Mr. Andrew is in the dining room waiting for you.”
She led the way and Paddy followed. Andrew was just hanging up the phone as they entered.
“Good morning!” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” replied Paddy.
“I’ve been trying to get through to Inspector Shepley, but he’s out. He’s supposed to call me. And you need to call your producer.”
“You’re right. I probably should check in before Luddington finds out about the Stone!”
“Why don’t you do it right now? I’ll pour us tea.”
A minute later Paddy had her producer on the line.
“Mr. Pilkington,” she said. “This is Patricia Rawlings . . .”
A brief pause.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 58