Lake of Sorrows

“No, but I miss a lot now that I can’t get into town as often as I used to. Have they identified the body?”

“Not officially, but everyone thinks it’s someone from around here—a guy named Danny Brazil, who supposedly emigrated twenty-five years ago and was never seen again. A strange name, isn’t it—Brazil? Is it Irish?”

“Yes,” Scully said, “from the Irish O Breasail. Historical sources say they were mainly found in Waterford, but there’s long been a pocket of Brazils in Offaly as well.”

“Did you happen to know Danny Brazil?” Nora asked.

“The family are our nearest neighbors. Danny used to keep bees over the hill here behind the house. Was it an accidental death, or—”

“The police don’t think so. They’re calling it a murder. I can’t really say any more than that.”

“Well, I’m stunned. Who would want to kill Danny Brazil? He was a hero, a champion in these parts, a splendid hurler. And his injury came at the worst possible time for the Offaly team. They were in with a chance that year, but when he dropped out—well, their chance dried up, vanished straightaway. An awful shame.”

“You don’t think his death had anything to do with that?” Nora asked.

“With dropping off the hurling team in the middle of the championship? Ah, no; he was very seriously hurt. I saw it happen myself, along with thousands of other people. No one thought he was feigning the injury—and why would he do a thing like that? He wanted them to win as desperately as we all did; they just couldn’t pull it off without him.”

Nora’s brain began to simmer with unanswered questions. From what was known about the few triple deaths, it seemed as though the victims had been killed during periods of great social stress, especially when food supplies were scarce. What if there were other kinds of social stress—adversity or bad luck—that some people still believed could only be lifted through blood sacrifice? She cast the thought aside. There had to be another, more logical reason that Danny Brazil had been killed in such a mysterious, ritualistic way.

Cormac had been silent for some time. Now he asked, “Michael, do you happen to remember reading anything in O’Donovan’s work, or in any of the older manuscripts, anything that mentions this area being known as a place of votive deposits or sacrifices?”

“Nothing that I can recall, not specifically. The medieval writers might not have known about such things, or might have chosen to suppress them if they did know. But it certainly fits with the ancient name of this place,” Scully said. “According to O’Donovan, the patch of ground we’re standing on is called Illaunafulla—’Island of Blood.’ O’Donovan had no explanation for it; he just noted that that was the name he’d found in the annals.”

Nora felt as though someone had run a cold finger down her spine. “And what about Loughnabrone?” she asked. “I meant to ask Cormac what it means. I know lough means ‘lake,’ but what’s the rest of it?”

“It’s quite a grand poetic name. Shares the same root as my daughter’s name—bron,” Michael Scully said. “Loughnabrone means ‘Lake of Sorrows.’”

9

It was Midsummer’s eve, the longest part of the year, and felt like it, Nora thought. Another eight hours on the bog today, and not even another fingernail. She looked with envy at Ursula’s team, who were making great progress with their bog road, and sighed. They were finishing up for the day, gathering up their tools, tossing trowels and kneepads into their buckets, spades and rakes into the wheelbarrows for the trek back to the trailer. Some of the crew were spreading black plastic tarps over the cuttings.

Nora packed up her own tools, wished her fellow crew members a good evening, and started back to her car, passing Ursula’s team on the way.

Rachel Briscoe seemed agitated as she searched through one of the buckets. “Where are they?” she demanded of the first person she saw, a young woman clearing away debris nearby.

“Where are who?” the other girl asked, irritated. “What are you on about?”

“My binoculars. I put them right on top of this bucket.”

“Look, Rachel, how should I know? I never went near them.”

Another of the archaeologists, a young man, approached Rachel from behind. “Here they are,” he said. “I was just having a look at some wildlife—”

“Give them to me,” Rachel said. She reached to take the field glasses from his hand, but he stepped aside and moved them just out of her reach, teasing. Rachel gave him a look of pure hatred and formed her words slowly: “I said, give them to me.”

“Off to do a little bird-watching again tonight, are you?”

Neither of them noticed Ursula striding toward them. “Oh, for God’s sake, grow up, will you?” Her voice cut through the air as she snatched the binoculars from the young man’s grasp. She held them out to Rachel, who stared at her for a long moment before taking them and stalking off without a word. Nora was close enough to read Rachel’s expression, and what she saw was a violent churning beneath the pale surface.