The Celtic Riddle

He looked startled. "The treasure, you mean? I suppose so. It was never about the treasure, but now that I have it, why not? A bonus, perhaps. Here," he said pushing it toward me with one foot. "You open it. I need to keep my hands free," he said, tilting his head toward the gun.

My fingers were shaking so badly I had to struggle with the knots in the twine. It had started raining again, and the wet was soaking into my clothes and dripping off my hair into my eyes.

"Take your time," he said. I was, desperately hoping that help would come, and surreptiously trying to look about me. The trouble with being at the sacred center of ancient Ireland, the Axis Mundi, a place from whence all of Ireland could theoretically be seen, and a fire burning here could be repeated from hilltop to hilltop until it could be seen across the island, is that there is nowhere to run. Or more accurately, I could run, but there was nowhere to hide from the maniac with whom I found myself inhabiting the place, except perhaps, a very small clump of trees on the downward slope to the west. To get to it, I would have to pass him.

"Your father did look for you," I said, desperately hoping to buy myself time, or distract him for a moment. "Owen Mac Roth, I mean. Your birth father. He looked everywhere for you."

"Did he now? How touching. I'm sure he was to be pitied. As I was."

"Eamon did too. They wouldn't tell him, the authorities, I mean."

"Need I say, too little and too late?"

"But the family, Margaret and the three daughters, are innocent. They know nothing of all of this. Surely you know this."

"I too was innocent," he replied. "But I suffered immeasurably because of Eamon Byrne. If I cannot have my revenge on Eamon Byrne, I will have it on his children. Besides, they have lived a life of luxury in their innocence. Whatever they wanted, I'm willing to wager, Eamon would have given them. And now I will bring them to ruin. Please continue with that package."

I did. I knew he was getting angry, and I didn't want to provoke him. But I wanted to tell him, although I didn't dare, that he was wrong. He wasn't going to destroy Eamon Byrne's children. Oh yes, he could ruin them financially. But I had seen the determination in Eithne Byrne's eyes, and I didn't think she could be defeated.

Thinking about that kept me going, looking for some way out of the horrible predicament in which I found myself. But I knew I was running out of time. At last, the knots loosened. Whoever had wrapped this package, had known what they were doing. Carefully I rolled open the plastic, to find another roll, this one of unbleached linen.

"Stop," he ordered. "Let's have a little fun. What do you think it is?"

"Nuada Silver Hand's sword," I said.

"Interesting. How did you arrive at that conclusion?" he said.

"The first letter of each of the clues, starting at the end, with the last one, like ogham, bottom to top, spelled out Nuada Argat-lam," I said. "Eamon Byrne was always looking for the treasures of the gods, so I figure this has to be the sword, one of the four gifts of the gods. It's long enough, isn't it?"

"Ah, interesting. Let's see if you're right," he said. "Proceed. You've come this far, you might as well finish it."

I thought that whatever it was, it would have to be pretty spectacular to distract him for a moment or two ,so I could try to get away. I wasn't sure a worn-out old iron sword would do it.

But it wasn't Nuada's sword. As the next layer of wrapping was pulled aside I saw a hand, a silver hand. Across the lower knuckles of the silver fingers were four large jewels, rubies, I'd say, and at the second joint were four little windows, in a clear stone, polished quartz, perhaps. It wasn't pagan, though, not something that would date to the time of Nuada, if ever he existed. It was Christian and very old, what is referred to as a reliquary, something to hold the bones of someone very special, a bishop perhaps, or even a saint. There was scrollwork etched into the silver in Celtic patterns, and it was one of the most beautiful works of art I had ever seen.

"Let's see!" Charles said, and I handed it to him. It was heavy and for a second he set down the gun. I lunged for it, but he saw me coming, also reached for it, and it spun to the ground a few yards away. As he scrambled to retrieve it, I made a dash for it, slipping and sliding down the side of the hill, trying to make for the shelter of some trees.

"Stop!" he yelled. But I didn't. I heard the report of the gun, felt a short burst of pain in my side. Nothing much, I thought. He can't really have hurt me. But then my legs wouldn't work and I found myself falling, then lying, facedown in the mud. I heard first some shouting, then a roaring in my ears, as the rain kept running in rivulets over my hands, and the world darkened around me.

Chapter Nineteen. WISE AM I