"Sorry, it's just the sort of showing off we language geeks do whenever we see each other," Lucy apologized. "I was speaking Scottish Gaelic. Let's see, I started by asking him how he was doing. He replied that he was 'Well, thank you,' and asked how I was. I told him 'Very well.' 'Gle mhath!'"
"The dirty little minx also tossed a changeup at me," Magee said with a wink. "She switched to Irish Gaelic when she referred to you as a 'true gais cioch,' that is, a true warrior. But I didn't fall off the potato truck yesterday, a ghra mo chroi."
"So which is it, Cian?" Lucy laughed. "A dirty little minx or 'love of my heart'?"
"I didn't know they were mutually exclusive," Magee said, chuckling. "But come in, come in. Do be careful that my books don't collapse on you or you may not be found until I do my spring cleaning."
"You? Spring cleaning? What year?" Lucy laughed.
"Now, now, I cleaned up the place not more than six or seven months ago," Magee replied. "You'll have to forgive the mess, Agent Jaxon, this hovel serves as both my place of business and my swinging bachelor's pad. But I believe that disorganization is the sign of a fertile mind." He turned and waddled deeper into the passageway of the bookstore-slash-apartment.
Somehow he eased his bulk past precariously perched piles of dusty books-some with bits of papers protruding from their pages, and many of which supported old food wrappers or un-washed plates with a fork or spoon stuck to the surface-and into the main room. It resembled a cave, but made of books and papers. The only natural light came from a small garden-level window to the side of the front door where they'd entered, and another just like it around the corner in the "living room." Otherwise, illumination was provided by an odd assortment of lamps.
In one corner of the room was a large wooden desk upon which the books and papers were only slightly more organized than those in the rest of the room. A smaller table next to it held an ancient manual cash register, the door of which hung open, demonstrating that its contents were sparse. Except for what appeared to be a first-edition La-Z-Boy chair in another corner, not another square inch of open shelf, table space, or chair existed.
Magee stooped, gathered a load of books from the seat of another overstuffed and much-patched chair, and plopped them on top of the larger desk, scattering papers, pens, and food wrappers. He then picked up a leaning pile of books from a tall stool and, after looking around for a place to deposit them, gave up and dumped them on the floor.
"Sit, please," he said. "I think it's reasonably safe." Clearly exhausted by his efforts, he padded over to the La-Z-Boy and sank into its groaning interior.
Looking around, Jaxon saw that there was another, smaller room, set off from the main area by a gauze curtain, beyond which he could make out a messy bed and a small table on which sat a microwave. Behind the La-Z-Boy he noted a half-open door that he guessed led to the bathroom. The place smelled of old, mildewy books and ancient dust, as well as stale sweat and cooking odors. However, the odor wasn't overpowering, thanks in large part to the sidewalk-level windows that were propped open despite the outside temperatures.
"So Cian's an unusual name," Jaxon noted. "Is it a Gaelic version of Sean?"
"Similar anyway," Lucy answered for her friend. "It means 'ancient, or enduring' in Irish Gaelic. And actually Magee is an Anglicized version of Mag Aoidh, which means 'fire.' So we're sitting in the presence of Enduring, or Ancient, Fire."
Magee blushed and mumbled something about names not meaning much. But Jaxon could tell that he was pleased by Lucy's translations.
On the way over, Lucy had filled Jaxon in on the reasons that her friend and fellow "language geek" Cian Magee didn't get out much. "If at all," she'd added. "He suffers from a few phobias, including agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces, which combined with an intense fear of situations from which escape might be difficult-in his case, a fear of crowds-doesn't lend itself to an active lifestyle outside his apartment. Apparently when he was younger, and much before I met him, it wasn't as bad. He tended to go from his parents' home straight to quiet, cocoonlike places, such as the library and small bookstores, especially at odd hours when there wouldn't be many other people around. But at least he got out some. Now, I don't know if he's left the apartment for months. He lives off a partial disability check and what little he brings in at the bookstore, and has everything delivered-food, books, all his necessities. Thank God for the internet, the occasional customer, and a few loyal friends, or he'd have almost no communication with the outside world. However, he is well respected as an expert in Celtic culture and languages, so he is contacted from time to time by other researchers, which gives him something to do."
"What about his parents?" Jaxon asked.
"They died about ten years ago, in an apartment fire over in the Bronx," Lucy said. "It pretty much sealed his fate."
Jaxon glanced at a small portable electric "fireplace" against the wall facing Magee's chair. His host noticed the glance and smiled. "It's my cois tine, where, by Irish-Celtic tradition, stories are told and the fate of the world decided. We Irish have always held poets and storytellers in high regard, even as high as our kings. It's part of the reason why we were one of the few literate northern Europeans during the Dark Ages."
He leaned forward as if to cut Lucy out of the conversation. "It's also my poor attempt at ambience for when lovely young ladies stop by to entertain me," he added, wiggling his bushy eyebrows suggestively at Lucy, who giggled.
Suddenly, Magee's face crumbled in despair. "I'd offer you something to eat and drink, beyond the rather foul excuse for water my landlord provides, but the delivery boy hasn't yet come today. I suppose Lucy told you that I'm not exactly a man about town."
"Yes," Jaxon replied. "She did mention that you were something of a homebody. A man after my own heart; I'd much prefer to be home with the wife and kids than disturbing your peace this morning."
"Ah, humph, yes, homebody, that's me," Magee agreed. "Anyway, you're not disturbing me. I do believe that I could probably hunt down a few saltine crackers and perhaps a bit of peanut butter."
"That's okay, Cian, dear. We ate before we came," Lucy said.
"Well, then, I suppose you want to get right to the business at hand," Magee said, slapping his thigh. "I must say, this is all quite an exciting event in my humdrum little life. A visit from a gorgeous sex kitten and a federal agent. I feel like I've fallen into a James Bond movie."
Magee's reaction reminded Lucy that this was not a game. What might be a fun fantasy for readers of spy thrillers or a lonely fat man was a dangerous and all too common thread throughout her life and the lives of her family.
When she heard the recording that Jaxon brought to her in New Mexico, she knew the language was from the Celtic family tree. She was fluent in most of the varieties: Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Welsh, Breton, and Cornish. But with this, she was stumped. However, she'd known who to turn to when it came to the Celts.
Thirty years her senior and obviously no Ned Blanchet, Magee had always been infatuated with her, but not so much out of lust-at least not the standard kind-but more a sort of adoration for a mind that absorbed languages the way sponges absorb water.
Magee was no slouch himself. He spoke all the Celtic languages, plus Old English, which to the modern English speaker might as well have been a foreign language, as well as Nordic languages, including the ancient version used by the Vikings. But like other polyglots, he was fascinated by Lucy's "gift."
Linguists, psychiatrists, and other brain scientists had been studying her since she was a child, trying to ascertain why she, and a very few others like her, picked up languages with such ease. However, they couldn't even agree on how people learned languages, much less what made Lucy such a special case. They all agreed that whatever the means, most people's ability to learn languages deteriorated as they got older, explaining why from puberty on, most people have a difficult time picking up foreign languages, except for words and phrases out of tourist books. But Lucy and other hyper-polyglots, or language savants, not only continued to learn well into adulthood, they became as fluent as native speakers.