I looked at the Byrne family across the great gulf that was Michael's grave and coffin, and I realized, that with the exception of Deirdre, I hated them. He'd asked what there was to lose, looking for the treasure, and now the answer was clear. I knew in that instant that if I could bring every single one of them down, I would. I came to terms with the fact that I was very, very angry. I would avenge him if I could. But even more than that, I had a suffocating sense of a creeping evil that threatened everyone I held most dear: Alex, who as one of the recipients of Byrne's largesse, was surely a potential victim; Jennifer, who might have drowned that day on the water, a careless casualty in a vicious game.
Then I remembered I had made a promise to Michael Davis. I told him I would help him find the treasure. I felt I would do anything to fulfill that promise, not just because I had made it, but because to find the treasure seemed the only way to put an end to the horror. But even as I thought this, I knew I had no idea where or how to start. All I had was a chant, an ancient spell, perhaps, recited by a Celt who might or might not have existed, and two clues the poem had led us to, clues that told me nothing, just scribbling, a cruel joke perhaps, of a bitter, dying man.
The priest was talking about God, and I concentrated on that, and on the ancient Celtic deities, the Dagda, Lugh the Shining, the triple goddess, Banba, Fotla, and Eriu. And I thought whoever or whatever is out there, I could use a little help.
Then the wind whipped the sea into whitecaps, and the rain swept in undulating sheets across the land, like a lace curtain in the breeze, and I had a horrible feeling that in looking for divine assistance I had blasphemed, and the gods were warning me with this rain. The service over, people headed for cover, some to the church, others to their cars to steal away. Denny left with some people I took to be his family. Rob walked Maeve to her car.
Alex, Malachy and Kevin, Jennifer and I ducked under some trees to wait it out, hoods pulled over our heads, shoulders hunched against the damp. It was inexpressibly dreary.
"Very bad day," I said to Kevin. It was all I could manage to say.
"The worst," he sadly agreed. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The sun came out, and with it, not one, but two rainbows arched across the sky. It was breathtakingly beautiful, almost painfully so, the world's colors back again, huge drops of rain on the large leaves of a plant nearby. I thought of Amairgen's ray of sun and the beauty of a plant. I looked out across the little cemetery, the headstones worn until the names on them could barely be deciphered, the carved figures fading with time, now just a little clearer because of the rain. At one corner of the graveyard, just a few feet away, stood a single stone, a miniature and rough obelisk, about three or four feet high. Carved on one face at the top of it, I could see a Celtic cross. Below that a series of cuts, some straight, some angled, had been slashed into the stone along one edge. I turned away, but then looked back again. I knew my prayer had been answered. I saw that help had come. Alex followed my glance across the graveyard. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed.
"Ogham," Alex said, "an ancient Celtic script and the first known written language in Ireland. Named for Og-mios, sometimes called Oghma, the Celtic god of poetry, eloquence, and speech, and the supposed inventor of the script. It's thought to have originated in this part of Ireland and is apparently based on the names of trees. As I understand it, it's a linear script composed of groups of lines, up to five of them, either horizontal or angled from upper left to lower right, across a vertical spine or stemline. In the case of the standing stone we saw in the cemetery, the sharp edge on one of the front corners of the slab was the vertical stemline. The slashes, if you'll remember, went to either side of that edge of the stone.
"Now, each group of lines can be made to correspond to a letter in the Roman alphabet. Some groups of lines cross the vertical stem, others are restricted to either the right or left of it. The position of the lines relative to the vertical is important. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"I do, and it's brilliant," Jennifer said.
"I think I do too," I said. "But just to clarify, are you saying that it makes a difference whether the lines are to the left or right of the stemline?"
"I am. For example, five horizontal lines to the right of the vertical make an 'n'; five horizontal lines to the left is a 'q.' A group of five horizontal cuts right across the stemline is an 'i.' Five diagonal lines across the stemline make an 'r.' It's not very sophisticated, I suppose, as written languages go, rather cumbersome in fact, and I think it was mainly used for commemorative purposes, inscriptions and the like, rather than as a daily, working language, but I should think it will work well enough for our purposes.
"Now, here are the letters," he said, pointing to a chart. "I got them from the local library. Let's get out the clues and see what we can see."
My hands were almost trembling with excitement as I got out Malachy and Kevin's slip of paper with Byrne's initials and home address at the top and carefully smoothed it for Alex's study.
"I think this is the most exciting thing I've ever done in my whole life," Jennifer sighed. "What does it say, Uncle Alex?"
"We'll have to see, won't we?" Alex replied. "Here we go. Four lines to the right of the vertical is… "- he paused and looked at his chart.-"an 's.' Then there's four lines that go straight across the spine which is," he paused again, "an 'e.' Then five to the right, an 'n.' Are you getting this all down, Lara?" "I am," I replied, showing him the piece of paper on which I'd written SEN.
"All right then, let's go on. Two horizontal lines running across the stemline: an 'o.' Then three horizontals, to the left of the line which is a 't.' Another V is next, I believe, then another 'e,' then an 's.' No wait, it's a 'u,' another 'e,' then one to the left: an 'h.' "
And so it went until Alex had deciphered them all. There were lines to the left, lines to the right, horizontals, verticals, and diagonals. In the end, I looked at my piece of paper. SENOTSESEHTNOEB ESRUCA was what I had written. My heart sank.
"Do you think it's Gaelic?" I asked no one in particular.
"I'm not sure, but it's not Latin," Alex said. "That I do know. An anagram perhaps?"
Jennifer peered at it. "Senat seset nob es ruca," she exclaimed, or something like that. We looked at ner.
"A curse be on these stones!"
Chapter Eight. A BOAR ENRAGED
As occupations go, service to the Byrne family fit into roughly the same category-particularly if you took into account the opportunity for a long and healthy retirement-as fiddle player on the Titanic, a fact not lost on Deirdre Flood. Deirdre was well on her way to the Bus Eireann pick-up point in Dingle Town that would take her to Tralee train station, and thence to the farthest point in Ireland she could contemplate, when I overtook her on the road. She was dragging along with her a large and dented suitcase and what looked to be a hatbox. It was a few days after Michael's funeral, and Deirdre was making a run for it.
She was reluctant to accept my offer of a lift into Dingle Town, but eventually the weight of her bag and the long stretch of road ahead won her over. "I've given my notice," she said, as we got under way, her eyes straight ahead, her hatbox clutched tightly on her lap. "There's nothing in the Will says I have to work there forever. I asked those solicitors, Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn, and they say I can leave whenever I wish. I'm using my holidays as notice," she added defensively. "They can't say as I'm taking advantage, but I won't stay another day under that roof. The cook left too. They'll have to fend for themselves." I enjoyed a fleeting, but satisfying, image of Margaret Byrne in black Chanel suit and snakeskin pumps attempting to boil water.