Book of Kells

by R. A. MacAvoy

  “Well, hello, my man, you old bastard, ya!” Kieran saluted him in the neatly pronounced but slightly nasal accent of Kimmage. “How the fuck are ya?”

  “Good enough, eh?” John slapped his shoulder and shook his hand warmly. “Good enough.”

  “And what brings you here to this den of shameless bibliomania? Would you like a cup of tea? I’m just getting ready to knock off.” Kieran loosened his tie and sat down on his desk.

  He was a good-looking fellow, rather nicely built, a long head and face, with curly light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a clipped, slightly reddish beard. He was an insane hurling fan and belonged to a good amateur team.

  Derval hated him with a pure hate.

  John admitted he could endure some tea.

  “Good man.” Hakett disappeared into the staff room and came back with tea and two heavy china mugs. “Would you fancy a biscuit? Oatmeal or jelly centers?”

  John replied that he didn’t care much.

  “Then you’ll get the oatmeal, ’cause I’ve a terrible hunger for jelly centers. Some Ald One—some dithering old cunt, God love her—left her parcel in here and as we’ve no way of uniting the lost little bikkies with their mammy, all we can do is inhale them, right?”

  John grinned. “I’ve no moral objections.”

  Kieran ate noisily and neatly. “You never did say what brought you here.”

  Instead of replying, John laid the satchel down on the desk. His companion saw the tooling and made appreciative noises.

  John pulled out the Book of Kells.

  Kieran gasped audibly at the sight of the gilded silver cover, dazzling with filigree plaques and irregular cabochon jewels. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Where the fuck did you get that? Whose bloody throat did you have to cut to get your shithooks on it?”

  John smiled and opened to the carpet page.

  “Jesus! Jesus Christ!”

  John had never seen his friend so abashed, and that in itself was a pleasure, for Kieran was one of those young men who affect a fashionable indifference to everything. Now he was simply twitching with admiration. “Jesus, shit, oh dear,” he said. “Are you going to tell me you did this?”

  “I did not,” John replied truthfully. “I’m taking care of it for a friend of mine. I wanted to see the two of them together, just for the crack.”

  “It must be worth a fucking fortune.”

  John made no denial, but said instead, “It was commissioned for a priory. To be used for the mass.”

  “Good enough. Good enough.” Kieran nodded his head. “Let’s not be near it with the tea, nor the grease off the food.”

  He whisked everything back to the staff lounge. John could hear him washing his hands furiously. He could also hear him getting the keys. John’s heart began to beat fast. What would happen if an object met that part of itself existing in another time? Would the book blow up? Would the world blow up?

  Maybe just John himself would blow up.

  But the matter was literally out of his hands now. For Kieran was back. He had put on his conservator’s white cotton deacidified gloves. Tenderly he lifted the jeweled wonder on the desk. Together they walked to the pH-controlled and humidity-regulated case where one of the chief treasures of the world lay. Kieran handed what he thought was the copy to John and opened up the glass.

  “Don’t touch her, for fuck’s sake,” he warned. “I’ll just slip her ‘child’ in with her and we’ll have a look-see.”

  It was done. John held his breath. The old Book of Kells was at the Chi Rho page. Kieran turned to the same one in the new copy and pushed them close. The edges touched. John’s heart nearly stopped.

  Nothing happened. There was a long sweet silence.

  The vellum had darkened with age, and the colors faded just a little. There were little stains and frayed edges. But otherwise they were exactly the same.

  John stood amazed. Even stripped of its book shrine, mutilated and cuffed about by time, it had exactly the same power to move. It was a magical thing: a talisman. Of what, John wondered? It had the life of Jesus written four times over in it. Was it a symbol of the bond between deity and humanity—a true product of spirit and body? But it wasn’t Jesus who had been responsible for John’s being able to fondle the great book in its completeness. It was Bridget, and she was…

  John tossed that question aside. He looked over at Kieran, who had stepped back so as not to let the tears fall on the precious books. “Jesus, they’re lovely, aren’t they?” Kieran said softly. “Fucking gorgeous.”

  John turned away in embarrassment from all this emotion.

  “What got me just now,” Kieran continued more composedly, “was that the one who did the copy didn’t just duplicate it—it’s a reconstruction of what she must have looked like when she was first finished. Look at how they matched the vellum.” He pointed to a shadow made by a grouping of creamy white blood vessels on both pages. “They used the exact same part of the animal on this. It’s not just a surface replica. It’s a fucking masterpiece.”

  Kieran removed the “new” one and gave it back to John, locked up the case, and readjusted the instruments. “Who did this?” he asked.

  “A team of craftsmen,” John answered. “A priest did the metalwork.”

  “Where?”

  “In Scotland.”

  Kieran took off the gloves and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

  “It’s a great comfort to me to know that something like this has been done. You never know what could happen. It’s stupid to have anything like this in a major city in times like these.”

  “Oh yes, the sulphur dioxide.”

  “That and the chance of the fucking bomb.”

  John opened his mouth and then closed it again. Kieran went for the tea, and John slipped the book back into the satchel.

  “These accessories: the shrine and the bag. They’re not copies?” Kieran asked.

  “They are not.”

  Kieran smiled slyly. “Trying to sound like an Irishman, John? Or have you been reading James Stephens?”

  John made no sense of this remark, but hadn’t the energy to question Kieran. He sipped his tea: a great comfort after the ordeal of introducing the book to itself. That bout of fear had come upon him unexpectedly and he had suffered it in total silence, without raising any suspicion on the part of his companion. You really ought to think about things beforehand, he told himself. You really ought to.

  Kieran caressed the dark surface of the satchel. “They did an incredible job on these accessories. It really brings it off. The style is perfect.”

  John nodded in agreement and tossed off the tea. He had already spent too much time indulging himself. He had things to do. And anyway, he didn’t feel like talking to Kieran just now. Not after looking through the two books. The Book. John loved its spectrum-bright, unfaded colors far better than he had realized. He felt a sudden foolish passion to make all things in life—acts and words and colors—pure.

  “I’ve got to be off now. Must get to the bank, eh?”

  “Well, I must say, you know how to make a smashing impression of yourself. You’ve made my day. No! My effing week!” Kieran brightened up. “I’ll meet you after. We’ll have a few jars.”

  John refused with a good imitation of regret. He shouldered the satchel and walked briskly around to Dame Street. Despite its being a long bank day he got there just before the bank closed and withdrew every penny he had. Fifty-three pounds, sixpence. He began to walk briskly toward O’Connell Bridge.

  The rush hour was now full on and the sidewalks packed. Close to the bridge a horse-drawn wagon, a flat-bedded rubbish hauler, turned in to join the cars. A whole family was on it: traveling people. The father stood up in the front, the reins in his hands. Behind him on a pile of filthy clothes and bedding sat a bunch of dirty-faced but obviously healthy children, all of them with hair that was fiery red.

  The bridge was lined on either side with fruit sellers. Buskers, a fiddler and an accord
ionist, made wild music, a hat out in front of them. John threw money into it.

  The Liffey seemed too narrow to John now. Successive generations had forced it into tighter and tighter banks, which had then been frozen into stone. It was fairly deep and very dirty. The river Pottle—the water that John and company had crossed outside the gates of Dublin—was gone, and the black pool with it, all covered over with streets. They were now nothing more than drainage patterns, unknown to anyone except the civil engineers. John sighed as he swiftly crossed over the short span, passed poor old Daniel O’Connell, gobbed with pigeon shit.

  In the middle of O’Connell Street stood Clery’s department store. John disappeared into it and emerged half an hour later with forty pounds of his money spent. He had sewing needles, a shoebox full, as well as dozens of spools of brightly colored silk buttonhole twist. It was a stroke of genius, he told himself, remembering how Ailesh had braved considerable danger to retrieve her single brass sewing needle. A steel needle of the quality sold in the twentieth century would be worth the equivalent of thirty pounds in the tenth. Silk, he knew, was also expensive and sought after. Best of all, these goods were compact and he could carry a king’s ransom in a small shopping bag. Of course the clerks had all thought he was insane, but what skin was that off his back? Ailesh would have cows.

  Feeling successful and lavish he headed for his favorite chip shop. Evening was getting on. The street lamps were just being turned on as he made a right onto the Drumcondra Road. He was now in the old Georgian neighborhood, where the houses were made of brick, with slate roofs. Fanlights ornamented the brightly painted front doors of the small shops, pubs, off-track betting establishments, and homes. He passed a turf accountant. He passed MacGill’s Public House, a red-lacquered, gold-lettered sign over it. Behind the counter of a little grocery store, the whole family were watching the RTE evening news, everyone with a dinner plate balanced on his lap. John caught this glimpse in the open door as he went by. He could smell O’Donnell’s all the way down the block, and he was so hungry that he quickened his pace to meet it.

  It was an old place, which had been in operation since the twenties. Bare, unpainted concrete floor, low ceilings, wooden tables and bentwood chairs… Dark wood moldings set off creamy colored plaster walls. A sentimental German oleograph of the Sacred Heart adorned one wall, with a red electric vigil light in front of it. There was also a poster of the Declaration of the Irish Republic, and a calendar. Over against the rear was the chipper. The first time John had come in here, it had been love at first sight. The frying machine filled the whole back wall. It had bright green and pale yellow enamel art deco panels in a fan shape, with fancy chrome counters, warmers, and deep-fat fryers. Elaborate glass and chrome racks held the dripping hot fish and chips.

  There was no variety at O’Donnell’s. One either got potatoes or fish or both together. Hot tea and cold beer were sold, and milk for the children, but that was it. Still, the portions were generous and very fresh. And as the cook-owner knew his business, it was delicious as only simple good food can be.

  O’Donnell was a proud man. He kept the chipper spotlessly clean. The customers who came in here were from the neighborhood, working people, and John always felt at home among them.

  As it was suppertime, there was a line of people getting large orders of take-out for their families. A few individuals were treating themselves. Over in the corner a young couple on a date were feeding each other and laughing. John got to the end of the queue and tried to decide whether he wanted tea or beer just now. He had already resolved on the number one portion: four large pieces of cod on a mountain of fried potatoes. And he wanted a beer, too, but he was afraid that the alcohol would make him sleepy. No, he thought to himself. I’d better have the tea. I have to ride a horse tonight.

  He felt something jab his leg. Feeling down his trousers he discovered that the needles were getting him. Some of them had worked their way out of the paper envelopes. He turned the bag around the other way and saw a big fellow standing behind him who grinned and nodded.

  “Handsome rucksack, that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Reminds me of something I saw a while ago.”

  “Oh, really. Fancy that, eh?” John replied in a rather flat, discouraging tone. He didn’t want to go through a big conversation just now. He wanted to eat and be on his way. This was especially true since he no longer enjoyed speaking English very much. The stranger kept on, undiscouraged.

  “I work for Board na Mona, you know.”

  John answered, “Really.”

  “My cutter turned up a piece of stone a while back, covered with little knots and swirly things just like that pack you’ve got.”

  John didn’t reply. There was a humming in his ears beyond that of the uproar of Dublin. He remembered the peat-darkened shards of Bridget’s cross, and that memory made him endlessly weary. “Grabbed in the ass by fate,” his father used to say about coincidences like this. If there were coincidences like this. If there were coincidences…

  The stranger kept talking. “I’d be in your debt to know where you got it. It’s a pure pleasure: a good piece of work like that.”

  The line moved up. John found himself at the counter. He ordered quickly. The fellow kept talking. “Did you get it from prisoner’s aid?”

  John turned around to look at him. “I did not. I mean, a friend of mine did it. I’ve just got it for a few hours and I’m returning it to her.”

  The stranger smiled. “The name’s Burke—Peter Burke, but my friends call me the Smasher.”

  John didn’t think it was a name of good omen. Then he got the point of the nickname; it was a compliment. Peter Burke is wonderful (is maisin). Smashing, as the English language had adopted the expression. He was huge, sturdily built, strong-faced, but with a personal warmth.

  “Your supper and tea. That’s ninety pence.”

  John took his plate and mug and turned away from the chipper to face the man behind him. “I’m J—uh—Eoin Thornburn. I’m in a big hurry, but if you want a good look at the satchel, you’re welcome.”

  Burke thanked him with a grin.

  John sat down and began dousing the plate with malt vinegar. He was well into the second piece of cod when the Smasher came over with his own meal. “You don’t mind if I sit here? Thanks. You know, it’s not often I’ve been in Dublin. My teeth have been killing me lately, and I went to see my cousin Tim Cooney. He’s got a clinic on Eccles Street. And by the way, if you need a good cheap dentist, he’s the very man! At me all day and I can eat tonight!”

  John smiled and nodded. He realized just now that if he had trouble with his teeth in the tenth century he was going to be up a creek. But then, he wouldn’t stay long enough to worry about that.

  But what would his life have been like, if he hadn’t been able to get back? Short and brutish, like history had told him? Or bright as the movie Camelot? Neither one, of course, but a lot like every life. Toothache, disease, death, and crying babies. But we die once anyway, wherever. But that was not to say things would be the same.

  He smiled, letting his thoughts wander. He could be an historical figure. Eoin Cattle Leaper, they’d called him. John the…the headachy was closer to the truth. But if he couldn’t be a hero, he could be at least an ancestor. What if this man sitting here was one of his and Derval’s descendants—imagining that they had gotten stuck where there were no little pills or condoms.

  The odds were rather for than against this fellow being a descendant of that mythical child of his and Derval’s. Everyone in the tenth century who had a reasonable number of living children could be and probably was an ancestor of millions of people. John had put the satchel up on the table. The Smasher was gently examining it with his finger following the knotwork pattern. His hands were enormous, with blunt, thick fingers. But the way the nails were shaped and the turn of the thumb was not like his, nor Derval’s, but more like Ailesh’s, and those of her father. His snub nose was like Aile
sh’s too.

  A hard place formed again in John’s throat. The Smasher, who was usually a silent person, had been talkative only because he was so nervous about accosting a stranger. Now, deep in art appreciation, he was himself again. Both men sat silently, John eating and Burke examining. “You’d better eat your supper,” John said, as he finished the dregs of his tea and popped the last pieces of potato into his mouth. (God, how he’d missed potatoes. How he hated onions.)

  “The line isn’t perfect on this one, but it’s still a fine-looking article,” Burke confided.

  “Eh?”

  “The line. It’s not like it was on the pieces of stone I found. On them the swirls were all connected. It was… mazing.”

  John replied, “Yes. Amazing.” He nodded. How many others would have noticed that, he wondered, even as he tried to keep his face bland.

  “Your friend doesn’t make ’em to sell, by any chance?” Burke asked a little desperately.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, too bloody bad.”

  John stood up to go, picked up the satchel and his parcel. He looked down at the Smasher just in time to catch his eye. “Why don’t you make yourself one? You’ve had a good look at it. For twenty pounds you could get the leather and the tools. I bet,” he added meaningfully, “that you’ve got it in you to do it.”

  “What, me? Go on!” The Smasher shook his head, embarrassed. “No, I’ve never… Well, God bless. And thanks.”

  Burke offered his hand. John shook it strongly and said in old Irish, “The blessing of Mary’s Son, the Maiden Bride, and all the saints to you.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry. I have no Irish at all anymore,” the Smasher answered and sat down to eat his food.

  John caught a bus for Houston Station, took a commuter train to Greystones and a cab out to Mrs. McCaffrey’s farm. By the time he got there it was late: about nine-thirty. There was no moon to guide him down from the road to the stables and house. He could see in the distance that the stable lights were turned off, for which he was profoundly grateful. Still he had to go past the bungalow. Halfway down the road he heard the dog coming, barking a little. John cursed it, but there was no way to escape now, so he stood his ground as the big Doberman came rushing up. “Tancred! Be quiet!” John called out in a stage whisper. The beast stopped barking, but what happened next was almost worse. He knocked John flat onto the road, whining and slobbering over his face. John extricated himself from the dog’s tender affections with difficulty and stood up, dusting himself off.