Malice

9

Standing outside a former tenement building in the East Village, Lucy Karp jumped at the sudden shriek of a passing ambulance's siren. Easy, girl, you'd think you hadn't grown up in the heart of Manhattan, she chided herself. Sirens were your lullabies and yellow cab horns your wake-up calls.

Then again, she had reason to be a little jumpy. Less than twelve hours earlier, in her room at the Sagebrush Inn, Espey Jaxon had given her fifteen minutes to pack a few items and then they headed out the door, which had made Ned a very unhappy, and horny, cowboy. She'd promised to make it up to him, but he'd stomped off.

In a field behind the inn, a black helicopter had been waiting to whisk them to the Taos County airport, where an unmarked black-what else, she thought-jet waited on the tarmac with its engines already turning. They'd arrived at Fort Dix army base in New Jersey in the early morning. Given the hour, Jaxon suggested that they grab some sleep in a small apartment complex on the base.

The sky was just beginning to get less dark in the east when Jaxon knocked on the door of the room she was staying in. When she was dressed, he escorted her to a reception area and asked her to wait while he went off "to make a couple of calls."

Jaxon seemed agitated and distant when he returned. But he quickly buried whatever was bothering him and took her to breakfast in the same apartment complex, where he ate quickly without talking, lost in his own thoughts.

There were only a few other people in the dining room, most of whom sat alone or in small groups, none of them interacting with anybody else outside of their comrades. "What is this place and who are these people?" Lucy asked.

"You don't want to know," Jaxon replied, looking up from his coffee. "It's the sort of place where nobody questions anybody else about who they are or what they're doing. Which is convenient at the moment because I'm officially not here and neither are you."

After breakfast, Jaxon led her to a small office and pointed to the telephone. "It's a safe phone," he said. "Cell phones can be monitored. Is it too early to call your friend now?"

Lucy looked at the clock on the wall: 7:00 a.m. "No time like the present," she said. "He doesn't sleep much." She quickly dialed a number and waited for the answer.

"Hi, Cian, it's Lucy," she said. She listened for a moment, then giggled. "Never say that around my boyfriend, even if it's Irish Gaelic. He has a terrible temper and if he saw me blush, he'd know you were up to no good. Hey, I know it's early, but would you mind if I dropped by? I have something I'd like your help with. What? No, Cian, I do not need any help with that, thank you very much. Good, see you then, and is it okay if I bring a friend? No, he, not she, is not an attractive female. Besides, how could you even suggest that you'd have eyes for anyone but me? Uh-huh, okay, I'll accept your apology this time, but don't let it happen again."

Jaxon had followed the conversation with an amused look. Lucy grinned back at him, happy that his scowl was gone. "If you're ready to go, Uncle Espey, I'd like to make this quick. I have a handsome young cowboy to get back to in New Mexico."

An hour later, Lucy calmed herself after the ambulance passed and walked down the worn steps leading to the cellar of the former tenement on East Fourth Street. She arrived at the bottom with Jaxon behind her and pressed the buzzer beneath a small sign that read: Celtic Bookworks, Go mbeannai Dia duit.

May God bless you, Lucy translated in her head, and quietly responded, "Gurab amhlaidh duit. The same to you."

A shadow appeared behind the peephole. As several bolts clicked and slid open, Lucy was tempted to start humming the Mission Impossible theme music. Maybe Tom Cruise will open the door; even if some others think he's gone off the deep end, he's still cute.

Instead, an enormously fat man of about fifty with gray mutton-chop sideburns and wearing a stained wool caftan appeared when the door opened. He squinted at her like an overweight mole from behind thick square-rimmed glasses that rested on top of a small upturned nose. But he was smiling broadly as he fumbled for the key that would open the security gate between him and his visitors.

"My dear Lucy, dear child, do come in," he gushed, unlocking the gate and pushing it open. "How very nice to see you again. You look absolutely wonderful. Apparently your new life in the desert has suited you well. I do believe your breasts are larger."

Lucy stepped forward to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek that made him smile all the wider, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "Ciamar a tha thu, Cian?"

"Tha mi gu math, tapadh leibh/leat," the fat man replied. "Ciamar a thu sibh/thu fhein?"

"Gle mhath!"

Lucy turned back to Jaxon, who was standing behind her looking perplexed. "Cian Magee, this is federal agent Espey Jaxon, an old family friend as well as a true gais cioch," she said.

Jaxon reached around and shook Magee's meaty hand. "I have no idea what you two are saying, but pleased to meet you," he said.

"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.

Although she'd already informed Jaxon of Magee's credentials, she went over them again for effect. "Cian is the world's foremost authority on Celtic languages, or at the very least, the foremost authority in the United States. He's also someone I would trust with my life."

Magee blushed so hard that for a moment Jaxon thought he might be choking. "The dear girl is exaggerating my bona fides," the fat man said. "However, she's quite right about my willingness to lay down my life for her. She is a true marvel when it comes to languages. I'm a nobody in the linguistics world, but I know many others who consider her the most gifted hyper-polyglot ever."

"Well, her high opinion of you, your abilities, and your character are why I'm here," Jaxon said. "I'd like to ask you to listen to a recording and if you can, translate it for me. But first I have to tell you that this is a very sensitive matter-top secret-so I also have to insist that you keep this confidential. And to that I add my apology for asking you to step into a world that even on the periphery can be very dangerous. I have no right to ask you to do this, and if you want me to leave, I will with no hard feelings and no shame. But I can say that it's possible that this recording will affect the lives of many people."

"Oh my, yes, absolutely secret," Magee replied, nodding emphatically, his tiny eyes bright with excitement. "Not that I really have anyone to confide in, other than a few friends like Lucy. I could use a bit of danger and intrigue in my life. I mean, look at me, a fat, slovenly old man with more phobias than I could shake a stick at, except I'm afraid of sticks, too. No, no, Lucy, I know you're about to protest that, a ghra mo chroi, but it's true. We Irish, even Irish-Americans, are great bullshitters, but we know when it's time to tell the truth. I'm okay with it." Then Magee slapped his thigh again and shouted, "Out with it, man! Let's have at this puzzle!"

Jaxon smiled and brought out the MP3 player and disc. Fifteen minutes and a dozen replays later, Cian Magee sat back in his easy chair with a thoughtful look on his face. "First, the language is called Manx, the native tongue of the Isle of Man," he said at last. "However, the men speaking here are not native speakers."

"What do you mean?" Jaxon asked.

"Well, to explain that, I'm going to have to give you a quick history lesson," Magee said. "The Isle of Man sits in the middle of the Irish Sea between Ireland and England. It has been at various times under English, Irish, Scottish, and even Viking rule. Right now it's a British Crown dependency, which means it's a possession of the British Crown but not part of the United Kingdom. It has its own form of government-called Tynwald, which is a holdover from the Viking days. Its inhabitants also have, though only just, their own language called Manx."

"Only just?" Lucy asked.

"Yes, Manx was quite nearly a dead language. It's in the Celtic family and most closely related to Middle Irish, from which it diverged sometime around AD 900. Like with many other peoples whose lands are taken over by invaders, efforts were made to suppress the native culture and language. On the Isle of Man, the English overlords discouraged the use of Manx, and forbade teaching it in schools or using it in public. However, some of the decline can also be laid at the feet of the natives. It's a common theme for the subordinate culture to try to assimilate into the dominant culture in order to prosper; therefore, they look upon those who cling to the native culture-and language-as backward, country bumpkins, uneducated. So it was on Man, where especially by the nineteenth century, speaking and teaching the language took such a sharp decline that by 1974, the last native speaker of Manx was dead."

"But what did you mean that the men on the recording are not native speakers?" Jaxon asked. "If the last died thirty-odd years ago, they couldn't be."

"Well, in some schools of linguistic thought, only small children who have been brought up speaking the language can be considered native speakers," Magee said. "However, that's not what I meant. The Manx being spoken on that recording is a bastardized form of the language. Although the men are fluent, their pronunciations are definitely not the same as what was spoken on Man. Sort of like how the English that an Australian speaks is markedly different from a native of London; they have different words that are either entirely homegrown-like 'bloke' to mean 'man'-or derivations of words from a local culture-like billabong, an Aboriginal word for 'watering hole.'"

"Meaning?" Jaxon asked.

"Meaning that if I had to guess, I'd say that these two people did not learn their Manx from anyone on the Isle of Man."

"Are there other places where it's spoken?" Lucy asked.

Magee shook his massive head and pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "Outside of a few scholars, or expatriates, nowhere except the Isle of Man that I'm aware of."

"I thought you said the last of the native speakers died in 1974," Jaxon said. "But some people do speak the language on Man?"

"Oh, yes…the history lesson," Magee continued. "Other than a few recordings, the death of that last native speaker might have been the end for the language-which is different enough from its cousins Irish and Scottish that neither can understand it. Making matters worse, there had never been a written form of Manx. However, about the same time that man died, there was a resurgence of native pride on the Isle of Man, tied to nationalist goals that some hoped would lead to complete independence from the British Crown. With the help of linguists and hundreds of hours of recordings made prior to the 1970s, they began teaching children to speak Manx in a few schools, though those with any fluency probably still only number in the hundreds."

"So do I need to go to the Isle of Man to translate this?" Jaxon asked.

"Oh, no, not at all," Magee said. "About twenty-five years ago, I was approached by the education society from the Isle of Man and asked to help revive the language. To be honest, it was the best thing I've ever done." He stopped and shook his head sadly. "I only wish that I wasn't afraid of flying and of the ocean so that I could have gone to Man personally. Instead, they brought me the old recordings, as well as taped interviews with people who remember bits and pieces from hearing their grandparents."

Jaxon took out a notepad. "Okay, then, I'm ready whenever you are," he said with a smile.

Magee grinned back. "Okay, I get the hint. Now, there's a couple of words and aspects about the structure that aren't completely clear to me, and perhaps my skills are a bit rusty. It has been years since I heard Manx. However, the two men on your recording seem to be talking in some sort of prose, or a poem."

"A poem?" Lucy asked.

"Well, yes, and given the business of our friend here, I'm wondering if it is some sort of code," Magee replied. "Anyway, in the beginning there's a greeting that doesn't seem to mean much to either of them. But the crux of the message comes from the older man who says: 'A son of Man will march among the sons of Ireland and silence the critic for the good of us all.'"

"It does sound like a code," Lucy said.

"Yes, an instruction of some kind, perhaps," Jaxon agreed. "I wonder if they're talking about patriots from the Isle of Man. You mentioned that there was a nationalist movement on the island. Have you ever heard of any Isle of Man connections to terrorists, say, the Irish Republican Army?"

Magee frowned. "Not that I'm aware of. The nationalist movement was pretty benign when I was involved in the language project. It was more of a cultural pride thing and something that seemed would have a nonviolent political solution. I mean, it's not like the Isle of Man is occupied by British troops or under the thumb of Parliament. Independence would be more symbolic. But who knows? Maybe the nationalists have grown more violent in the years since."

Jaxon bit his lip. "A son of Man…so someone from Man will march with the sons of Ireland…boy, does that sound like good old-fashioned IRA polemics. Maybe some cross-fertilization? And then silencing the critic. An outspoken politician? Somebody within their own ranks?" He sighed, then added, "I think I better talk to my friends with MI5-the British secret service-and see if they can make heads or tails of it."

Magee shrugged. "Like I said, I'd be surprised if it's nationalists. It's really a sleepy little island-only thirty-three miles long and thirteen wide. It relies on tourism. They are a seafaring people from way back, which reminds me that there is one bit of naughty business associated with the Isle of Man."

Jaxon and Lucy both leaned forward. "Naughty?" they asked.

"Well, for hundreds of years the Manxmen, as they're called, were quite the smugglers," Magee said, happily going back to storyteller mode. "It really picked up in the seventeenth century. Ships from all parts of the world would anchor off the Isle of Man, hidden in any of the hundreds of small bays, and unload their cargoes into the small, fast sloops of the Manxmen. The smugglers would then make the run to remote shores of England or Ireland, where they'd sell their goods for the black market and then slip back out to sea. Of course, the Crown's tax collectors weren't too happy, and the Royal Navy was sent to stop the smuggling. The price of getting caught was pretty steep; some ships were sunk and their crews abandoned in the freezing waters of the Irish Sea, or if caught, they were hanged from the closest yardarm. However, on the Isle of Man, the smugglers enjoyed a sort of Robin Hood reputation. They've a lot of fun stories about the merry chases they would lead the British on."

"Can you tell us one?" Lucy asked.

"Certainly. Let's see, well, many of the stories are attributed to one particularly resourceful scoundrel named Quilliam. I recall one tale of Quilliam, who, when spotted by a British frigate and knowing he couldn't outrun the warship, told his men to go belowdecks. He then grabbed the wheel and ignored orders to stop until the Brits fired a warning shot across his bow. A longboat was lowered from the frigate, commanded by an angry English officer who demanded to know why he'd kept going. Quilliam told the officer that he was dreadfully sorry, but he wasn't feeling well. All the rest of his men, he said, were either dead or dying from what he guessed was cholera. 'You're welcome to come aboard and see for yourself,' he's reported to have said. Hearing about the dreaded disease, the English longboat stayed well away from Quilliam's sloop and skedaddled back to the frigate. Once the British were out of sight, Quilliam ordered his men back to their stations and, after a good laugh, they were on their way again."

"What happened to the smuggling operations on Man?" Jaxon asked.

"Well, the British tried just about everything to put a stop to it," Magee said. "And by 1778 were bound and determined to squash it once and for all. You'll remember they were in a bit of a fight over here in America, and they needed the revenues the smugglers were siphoning off. So they came up with an offer that-as Marlon Brando might've said-they hoped the smugglers couldn't refuse. The British government offered to pardon any smuggler, many of whom had prices on their heads, who volunteered to give up the smuggling life and enter the Crown's service as a sailor or soldier. Legend has it that five hundred turned themselves in and joined up. Those who did not were hunted down on the Isle of Man and sent to prison or hanged. Even at that, it still took another fifty years to stamp out all of the smugglers. It's a well-known fact that many of the wealthiest families living there now owe their fortunes to a smuggler in the family tree."

Lucy looked bemused but then shrugged. "Smugglers from hundreds of years ago seems pretty disconnected to this."

Jaxon nodded. "I agree. But it was an interesting tale."

"Thank you, we aim to please. And well, with your permission, and perhaps Miss Lucy's assistance, I'd like to continue doing a little research," Magee said. "I still have friends on the Isle of Man who I correspond with on occasion. Maybe they could make some sense of the poem. I'll make sure my inquiries seem innocent enough."

Jaxon thought about it as he was standing up. He reached for Magee's hand. "Be careful and don't tell anybody about where you heard the poem. I'll appreciate hearing about anything you come up with."

"It will be my pleasure," Magee said, and turned to Lucy. "You want to give me a call when you're available, my love?"

Lucy also stood and walked over to give Magee a hug. "I will, Cian," she said. "Oh, I almost forgot. What's 'Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh,' mean? It sounded like a sign-off to me."

"What? Oh, yes, you're quite right," Magee replied. "'Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh' means 'What must be, will be.' Sounds pretty dramatic."

"That it does," Jaxon agreed. "Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh, then."

"Dia dhuit," Magee replied. "Which is how we Irish say 'God be with you.'"