The Celtic Riddle

"It's not far now," Michael said. We continued along the path, which followed the edge of the cliff, occasionally veering too close to the edge for someone as uncomfortable with heights as I. The water lay rather far below us. It was spectacularly beautiful. Though it was still clear, as it had been all day, dark clouds were forming close to the horizon, and the sky on this side was a very dark gray, almost black. From time to time, the sun would pierce through the cloud, almost like a spotlight, and a bright circle of light would appear on the water below. As I watched a heron swooped low, skimming the water below us, "Next stop is America," Michael said, pointing out to sea. It was true, when I thought about it. There really was nothing but water between this point and North America. "I'd like to go there some day," he said wistfully, then more practically, "Rain coming. Weather comes up very fast here. We won't stay long."

Stay where, I wondered, but then I saw it. It was not quite as I'd imagined it: Rose Cottage. In every way, in fact, it was quite inappropriately named. Heather House, perhaps, or even Gorse Cottage, but not a rose to be seen. Instead, there was a wind-weathered house a hundred yards inland, its face to the sea, and its back to a mountain. It was not large, not compared to Second Chance, that is, and in many ways rather plain. Instead of the thatched roof of my reverie, the roof was slate. The walls were whitewashed and two rather tired-looking wooden chairs sat out front.

I turned to Alex. He stood almost transfixed by the sight of it, as if he could not believe his good fortune. He loved the place, I could tell, and even though I knew this might mean I'd lose his company back home, I felt a rush of happiness on his behalf.

"Take a pew, why don't you?" Michael said, gesturing to the chairs, "while I get the key." Alex sat on the sturdier-looking chair of the two and gazed about him. I looked around as well, out to sea, and then beyond the cottage to a patch of trees. When I looked back, Alex had a small smile on his face and was nodding his head.

"It's great, isn't it?" I said, feeling just so pleased for him.

"Quite wonderful," he replied, having found his voice at last.

Michael continued his search, lifting a couple of old pails on the porch and feeling up into the rafters. "What's the problem?" I asked him.

"The key," he replied. "It's usually around here somewhere. I thought Mr. Stewart would like to see inside."

I tried the door, and it opened. Michael shrugged. "Last one here forgot to lock up, I guess. No harm really. There's never anyone about, and there's nothing in here worth much."

We stepped inside into the main room. It may not have been the little jewel I'd imagined, but I immediately fell in love with it. On our left was a stone fireplace, cold stubs of candles stuck in wine bottles on the mantel, melted wax making little sculptured beehives at their base. Facing it was an old couch, not the perfect chintz I'd pictured, but satisfyingly comfy, and it right angles to it, two large chairs, the kind you yearn to flop down in. Another chair had been placed beside Dne of the two windows facing the sea, turned slightly as to best capture the view. And what a view it was, across the heather to the cliffs and then as far as you could see over the water. I turned my gaze out to sea. It was one of those times when the light is extraordinary, when the sun is shining, but the sky and the water are almost black, the circling gulls slashes of white against the approaching dark. The wind dropped suddenly, the shriek of gulls as well, and the world fell silent, a kind of morbid stillness, as if breathless, waiting for something terrible to happen.

Thinking that even an hour or so locked with the Byrne family in that dark room with the red velvet and the war paintings and the swords and spears had put me in a dreary frame of mind, I wrenched my attention from these gloomy thoughts and turned back to the room.

In contrast to my unease about the world outside, the room had a very ordinary and comforting feel to it. To the right of the door was a rough-hewn table pushed against the wall, with two wooden chairs on either side. There was a pile of books on the table, and a well-worn sweater had been placed over the back of one chair. At the back, there was a tiny open kitchen, rather primitive in terms of appliances, just an icebox and a gas cooktop with two burners, which I took to mean there was no electricity. There was water, though, an enamel sink with a pump, and mismatched dishes stacked on open shelves. A doorway led off to the right, to what I assumed was the bedroom.

I looked about me. "Breeta," I called out. "Come and say hello."