The Celtic Riddle

Chapter Six. A RAY OF THE SUN

Now Mr. Stewart," Ban Garda Maeve Minogue said. Her tone was severe, but there was a hint of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Minogue was in her early thirties, I'd say, with reddish hair, now pulled back and tucked neatly into her cap, and that flawless complexion so many women in Ireland are blessed with. "That is quite a punch you throw."

"I wish I'd hit him too," Kevin grumped.

"You should be glad you didn't, Kevin," Minogue said sharply. "If you'd hit him with that frying pan, O'Connor might be dead, and you'd be in a fine mess. As it is, he won't be eating solid food for days. Last I saw of him, he was down at Tom Fitzgerald's pub, taking in his daily requirement for calories in liquid form.

"Now, Mr. Stewart," she began again, "seeing as there are three witnesses here who claim you were provoked and the fact that you have a member of a sister law enforcement agency here," she said gesturing to Rob, "who can attest to your good character, as wellas several people around town who can speak to O'Connor's less than exemplary behavior of late, we will not be laying charges. Conail O'Connor is threatening to bring assault charges on his own, which he is quite entitled to do, but I do believe he will change his mind, seeing as how he's already been the butt of several jokes regarding the difference in his and your ages, to mention nothing of size. We will not be laying charges against him either, unless you wish to make a case for it. Extenuating circumstances."

I wondered what these extenuating circumstances might be, but decided it was better not to ask.

"I won't be laying charges," Alex said.

"Me neither, I guess," Malachy said. "Though that boyo better not come 'round to our place again."

"Right, then. Now if you gentlemen will agree to behave yourselves for the balance of the evening," the garda said, "I'll be away." She glanced at her watch. "Off duty at last," she sighed.

"Can I buy you a drink in that case?" Rob asked.

"That would be grand," she said. "I'll call in and then be off home to get changed and come back, if that's all right?" Rob smiled his assent. I got the distinct impression he was smitten.

"Well, can I buy you two the whiskey I've been promising?" I asked, turning to Kevin and Malachy. Rob may have found himself a new woman, but I had my two new men.

"You can," Malachy said. "She's buying us a drink," he said in Kevin's ear.

"And how about you, Alex?" I said. He was favoring his bruised knuckles.

"I believe I will," he said. I ordered three whiskeys for the men, a cola for Jennifer, and a glass of wine for myself. Rob declined my offer and headed off to his room, to beautify himself, no doubt, for Garda Minogue's return.

"Who's that woman at the bar?" Jennifer asked me. I looked across the crowd.

"Fionuala Byrne O'Connor," I replied. "Why?"

"One of the hags, you mean?" Jennifer said. "That makes it even worse."

"Makes what worse?"

"She's been chatting up Dad," Jennifer said. "Fortunately, he didn't seem to notice."

She sounded annoyed, and I had to smile. Fathers and daughters, I thought. The jealousy seemed to go both ways. She had a point, though. Fionuala was definitely out for a good time. She was holding down a stool at the bar, her tight, short skirt riding provocatively high on her thighs, and a cigarette, held delicately between brightly painted fingernails, sending swirls of smoke around her head. I wondered if she'd heard about her husband's jaw's intersection with Alex's hand.

I was also speculating whether Jennifer would like Maeve Minogue any better, when Michael and Breeta joined us.

"What happened to your hand?" Michael said, eyeing Alex's knuckles, now an unbecoming shade of blue.

"It came in contact with Conail O'Connor's jaw," Malachy proffered.

"He was trying to kill Malachy at the time," Kevin piped in. "O'Connor, I mean. He had his hands around Malachy's neck and was throttling him. Malachy was almost unconscious." My, I thought, how these stories grow! Denny would be telling this one to the post on the pier before long. "Alex and I went after O'Connor, Lara too.""Knocked him out cold." Malachy grinned. " 'Twas a fine sight to see. I think we should drink another toast to Alex's right hand." I ordered them another round, but passed myself. It was beginning to look as if this was going to turn into a long night, and I thought I might be called upon to do a little chauffeuring later.

Michael looked at me. "Can you enlighten us a little? We saw O'Connor leaving Tom Fitzgerald's place. Face all swollen, and in a right bad mood. Staggering drunk, of course. Headed off down one of the lane-ways," he added.

"Not in this direction, I hope," I said, thinking that a drunk Conail O'Connor might be a real problem.

"He might be," Michael said. "But if he is, it's going to take him a while to get this far, the shape that he's in. So tell us what happened this afternoon."

I told them the story, with a lot of help from Malachy and Kevin.

Throughout this conversation, Breeta said nothing, although she looked shocked enough when she heard the story. She seemed sort of out of it, somehow, her mind somewhere else entirely. I'd offered her a drink, but she didn't take me up on it, and sat, instead, holding a glass of soda water, which she barely touched, as she stared into the flames of the fireplace across from us.

"I've lost my job," she said, suddenly rousing herself from her torpor.

"Oh dear," I said. "That's too bad. What happened?"

She was silent for a moment or two. "I've been working in a dress shop," she said finally. "A very fancy dress shop, in Killarney. I think," she said slowly, "I think-they didn't say so, but they didn't think I looked good enough to work there. They wanted someone who looked better in the clothes." Her lip trembled, but she didn't cry.

"What do you mean, Bree?" Michael exclaimed. "What do you mean you didn't look good enough to work there?"

"I've put on so much weight," she said. A tear slipped out of one corner of her eye. She brushed it away angrily. "And they're right. I don't look good in the clothes. I don't care about the job. It wasn't very interesting," she went on. "But I'll have to give up my flat in a couple of weeks, and I don't know where I'll go."

"I think you're just beautiful, Bree," Michael said, his voice hoarse. "And you can stay with me. I know I'm not good enough for you, working on your family's estate and everything. But I have that little flat in the staff cottage. Now that John Herlihy's gone, maybe I can get his. It's bigger, with a little kitchen and everything. There's room for…" He stopped and looked down at his rough hands. "There's room for all of us."

I wasn't sure who all of us were, but I thought his offer was very nice, and Breeta could do a lot worse. Michael wasn't exceptionally bright, maybe, but he was smart enough, and he was also kind and generous, and obviously sweet on Breeta.

"Thank you, Michael," Breeta said softly. "I appreciate your offer. Very, very much. It's the nicest thing that's happened to me in a long time. I will have to think about it, but…" Her voice trailed off, and they both sat looking at each other.

Ain't love grand? I thought. Certainly it was thawing Breeta, which was nice.

"That settles it. We'll have to look for that treasure," Michael said suddenly. "Really look for it. I mean it. Everything will be all right, Bree. There'll be lots of money. We can all look together. I'm sure there will be enough to go around when we find it. You can have my share." He paused. "I forgot," he said, turning to me. "What happened when you went to ask about Breeta's clue?"

"We were stunningly unsuccessful," I said, as Alex nodded. "Your mother," I said looking at Breeta, "insists it was an ordinary robbery. Some money was taken from the safe along with the clue, if we believe the clue is really missing, and a map or two. She also said the family has decided to have nothing whatsoever to do with the hunt for your father's treasure."

"I don't believe that," Malachy said indignantly. "What was that shite Conail O'Connor doing at our place if he wasn't looking for the treasure?"

"But we don't need them, do we?" Michael persisted. "Breeta knows the poem. Come on, Bree. Tell us about the poem. Please!"

"Oh, Michael, you're such an optimist. Touched in the head. Maybe Da was just making a joke, teasing us all."

"And maybe he wasn't! It's worth a try, anyway. What do we have to lose?"

Breeta looked over at him affectionately. "All right," she said at last. "It's called 'The Song of Amairgen,' and it is supposed to be the words spoken by Amairgen of the White Knee as he set his right foot on Ireland's shore. My father made me translate it from the Old Irish, and to memorize it. It goes something like this. I am the sea-swell, the furious wave, the roar of the sea." The sound of her voice was lovely, the Irish lilt and cadence carrying the words along.

"Her Da taught her well!" Kevin exclaimed, his hand cupped over his ear. "Young people today, hardly any of them are interested in the old tales, want to pretend the past doesn't matter, but Breeta always was. She's like her Da in more ways than one."

"Hush," Malachy said.

"I am a ray of the sun." As she spoke, Michael reached out and took her hand. This time she did not pull it away.

"I am the beauty of a plant." These were lovely images, and I found myself falling under the spell of the words. And so it went until she came near the end. "Who drives cattle off from Tara," she said. "That fine herd that touches each skill." She paused for a moment. "That's the translation, but there are some who have interpreted these phrases about the cattle as being about the stars, rather than the herd. It's a question, almost, like 'Who calls the stars? On whom do the stars shine?'"

"I hope they shine for us," Michael said fervently.

One thing was certain, the stars were not shining for Conail O'Connor. The door of the bar burst open, and a very drunk Conail lurched in. His hair was matted down by rain, and his jaw looked swollen and sore, his face flushed with alcohol. I felt a surge of panic as I saw him look our way. But it wasn't us he was looking for.

"Nuala," he roared. "Get your coat. We're going home! As for you, gobshite," he said, grabbing the man next to Fionuala, one who'd been the object of her charms since Rob had left, "keep yer fecking hands off my wife."

The man stumbled as Conail pulled him off the bar stool.

"Now, Conail," Aidan, the proprietor and bartender, said. "Calm down now, will you?"

"I wasn't doing nothin'," the other man said. "Just talking, that's all."

"Talk to somebody else," Conail shouted. "Come, Nuala. Now!"

"I'm not going anywhere with you, Conail," she replied. "And it isn't your home, anymore. You and I are finished. Don't you dare darken my door or come anywhere near Second Chance ever again!"

Conail grabbed her arm, his face contorted with rage. Several people stepped back. I sensed rather than saw a few people slip out the door preferring to brave the rain than to be involved in this nasty little scene.

"Mr. O'Connor," Garda Minogue's calm voice said. She was out of uniform, looking softer and rather pretty, in fact, but there was no ignoring her tone. "Might I suggest you get a room at the hotel down the street before you find yourself spending the night in jail. Let go of Mrs. O'Connor's arm, please."

Conail, still holding Fionuala's arm, ignored her and started yanking his wife toward the door.

"I believe Garda Minogue has asked you to let go of Mrs. O'Connor and leave the premises," Rob said. I hadn't seen him come back, but I made a mental note to tell him his timing was impeccable. "I suggest you do exactly as she says," he said, with an emphasis on exactly. He was standing very still, arms down at his side, but there was a degree of readiness there, I could tell, to move very fast if he had to. There was also something in his voice I'd never heard before, something that said Conail had better comply. Conail apparently heard it too, because after a second or two, he let go and left the bar, shoving a table by the door very hard as he did so, sending several glasses crashing to the floor.

Absolute silence greeted his abrupt departure. A few more guests followed Conail out into the street. The Conail O'Connors of this world could not be said to be good for business.

"How about a jig or two, Malachy," Aidan said finally, grabbing a broom and dustbin. "Free drinks all evening for you if you'll help me entertain my guests here."

"Done," Malachy said. One of the waiters took the broom and started working away at the trail of broken glass Conail had left behind. Aidan disappeared into a back room for a moment and came back with a fiddle and a Celtic drum. "Where's Sheila?" someone called from the crowd.

"In the back, where else?" Aidan said. "But I'll get her out for this."

Sheila, Aidan's wife and co-proprietor came out of the back room, her face pink and steamy from the kitchen. "Where's your flute?" the man in the back called. Sheila grinned. "We're having a bit of a ceilidh, are we?" she said, pulling a tin flute out of her back pocket. "I had a feeling we might when I saw Malachy and Kevin come in. It's grand to have you back, Breeta," she said.

"What's a ceilidh?" Jennifer asked.

"A musical event," the man at the next table said. "Brought your dancing shoes, have you?"

Aidan watched as Malachy pulled the bow across the strings a couple of times, tuning his instrument. "Pick the tune, Malachy," he said, "and we'll follow you."

"Best call your uncle," Kevin shouted to one of the young men at the bar, who nodded and headed for the phone. "One of Denny's sister's boys. Denny should be here."

Malachy launched into a rousing number, followed by Sheila on the flute. Aidan marked the beat on the bodhran. It was a real toe-tapper, and pretty soon the crowd was swaying in time to the music, and one of the older women in the crowd started to dance. Within a minute to two, the furniture was moved back against the wall, and Malachy was fiddling as fast as he could. Jennifer grabbed Alex's arm and pulled him up. Breeta shyly reached over and took Michael's hand. Maeve even convinced Rob to get up and dance, an event I considered extraordinary. Kevin stood up, a little shakily, and bowed very formally. "May I have the pleasure of a whirl around the floor?" he asked me. I didn't know the steps, but it didn't really seem to matter. In truth, it seemed impossible to sit still. Everyone who was able to was laughing and drinking and dancing enthusiastically. Those too old to dance were smiling and clapping in time to the music and singing along. Everyone that is, except Fionuala, who stood for a few moments at the edge of the crowd, clapping halfheartedly in time to the music, her face a study in conflicting emotions. After a few twirls with Kevin, I turned to look for her again, but she was gone, and soon both she and Conail were quite forgotten, as the music and the conviviality restored everyone's spirits.

When most of us were breathless, Aidan yelled above the din. "We'll have to take a break for a moment!" he shouted. "I have to make a living, don't I? So who's for another drink, and for some of Sheila's food? Best bar fare in town!"

Breeta and Michael collapsed, laughing, onto the stools at our table. Jennifer and Alex joined us shortly thereafter. "That was brilliant!" Jennifer gasped. "Absolutely brilliant." And it was. The whole evening had an exuberance and spontaneity to it that was sadly lacking in much of the music and dance that is promoted as Celtic these days. This was the real thing. Jennifer reached over and hugged me. "I'm having the best time," she said. "Ever!" I hugged her back.

"There'll be a music festival on here in two, three weeks," Michael said. "There'll be music and dancing everywhere in town. Too bad you won't be here. Or maybe you will. Maybe you'll be enchanted by the place-plenty are-and want to stay forever. It happens, you know."

"Let's stay!" Jennifer said. So much for the girl who hadn't wanted to leave her friends in Toronto even for a week or two.

Malachy and Kevin were up at the bar, now, and Aidan was pouring them both a drink, and one for Denny if he'd promise a story. "All right then," Aidan shouted over the din a few minutes. "If you'll fortify yourselves with a little liquid libation, we'll be hearing a tale from Denny." There was a roar and some foot stomping approval.

"Tell about the time you heard the banshee, Denny," a young woman at the back called out.

"Someone get Denny's chair," Aidan said, and a rocker was quickly pulled up in front of the fire.

"In honor of Breeta's return to The Three Sisters, she can pick the story," Denny said.

"Pick a good one, Breeta," a man called out.

Breeta thought for a moment. "In honor of my Da," she said at last, "I'd like one of the old ones, Denny. Tell us the story of how the Good People came to rule Ireland."

"Good choice, Breeta," Malachy said.

Denny rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment or two.

"The tale I'm telling you now happened a long, long time ago," he began. "Before Amairgen and the Sons of Mil set foot on these shores. Not so far back as the plague that killed the sons and daughters of Partholan. Not so far back as that. But a long time ago, even so.

"In those days, there were giants roamed the earth, and creatures with one leg and one arm, like serpents came out of the sea. Back then, unsheathed weapons told tales, the sky could rain fire, and the shrieks of the Hag would be heard in the night.

"And it was then that the fiercest of battles, the struggle of light over darkness, were fought and won by the Tuatha de Danaan."

The bar was absolutely silent. Three small children, sons and daughter of the innkeepers, crept into the room and sat on the floor, transfixed. Driving rain splattered against the window, and the fire cracked and hissed.

"Now there's many a story about how the de Danaan came to be here in Ireland. Many a tale. Some say they came from Scythia, driven out by the Philistines; others say they came from northern realms, from four glorious cities where they learned magic and druidic skills.

"There's more than one tale about how they arrived. Some say they arrived in a mist, others that they came in ships which they burned so they would not fall into Fomorian hands or so they themselves would not be able to flee.

"However they got here, when the smoke or mist cleared, the Fir Bolg, for it was them who lived in the western reaches of our island, found the Tuatha de had already fortified their place.

"The two groups met. They inspected each other's weapons, those of the Fir Bolg heavy and fierce-looking, the Tuatha de's light and agile. 'We should divide up the island equally,' the Tuatha de told the Fir Bolg.

"But the Fir Bolg were not impressed by the weapons of these newcomers, and they decided not to accept the offer, but instead to fight. And thus it was that the first mighty Battle of Mag Tuired was fought on a plain near Cong. At the head of the Fir Bolg was Eochaid, son of Ere; leading the Tuatha de was the prince Nu-ada."

"Nuada Silver Hand," one of the children called out.

"Nuada Argat-lam, Nuada Silver Arm," Denny agreed. "But he wasn't called that just yet, not till after the battle, and I'll tell you why. The battle was fierce, and there were heavy losses on both sides. But the Tuatha de won victory and pressed the Fir Bolg northward, where eleven hundred were slain, among them Eochaid, son of Ere.

"But there was a price to pay. In that wondrous battle, Nuada lost his hand. Diancecht the healer and Credne the brazier made for him a silver hand, which worked just like the one you have," Denny said, grabbing one of the children's arms. "For the Tuatha de had the magic, didn't they?

"But this was a great loss for the Tuatha de, for Nuada could no longer be their king, Tuatha de kings having to be perfect, and even though the silver hand worked so well, Nuada was no longer considered perfect. So the kingship fell to Bres, the beautiful, who was not only half Fomorian, but a very bad king. And the Fomorians exacted so much tribute from the Tuatha de that they suffered greatly, even their gods, like the Dagda and the rest. Just when it seemed darkest, a new champion arose, the greatest of them all, Lugh Lam-fada, Lugh of the Long Arm, and he, along with the other gods, and Nuada, with a real arm now, through magic made, fought the second great battle of Mag Tuired, more vicious than the first, the battle for supremacy over the dreaded Fomorians."

What followed was a wonderful tale, of magic harps, swords and spears, of gods and goddesses, of prophecies and promises broken, of bravery and treachery, of fathers killed by sons, and sons by fathers, and in the end, the death of Nuada on the field of battle, and a prophecy, from the Morrigan, goddess of war, of the end of the world.

"And this is only one of the tales of the Tuatha de," Denny concluded. "There are many more, until, as you all know, they were defeated at last by the Sons of Mil and banished to the sidhe, the islands and the underworld, where they live to this day." He paused for a moment. "And how about a little something to wet the whistle, barman?" he said.

The crowd applauded, then turned back to their friends and their drinks, and soon the room was a din of conviviality.

As the others chatted away, I couldn't help my mind wandering a little, back to the unpleasant episodes with Conail earlier in the day. Extenuating circumstances, Garda Minogue had said, in explaining why they wouldn't be laying charges against O'Connor. If the recent ugly scene was anything to go by, those extenuating circumstances included a bad fight with his wife, one which could have signalled the end of the marriage, a fact that could have resulted in O'Connor's reckless exit from Second Chance that afternoon as we were arriving, and his ill humor later on. Just as his wife inherited half of Byrne Enterprises, by all accounts a very successful business, and one he'd had a hand in running, or running down, to use Byrne's own words, Fionuala turfed him out. No wonder his excessive fervor in searching out the clue: He'd want to beat that family to the treasure, whatever it was, even more than I did.

"Have you thought about what your father's treasure might be, Bree?" Michael was asking as I returned to the present from my reverie.

"Of course I have," she replied. "I've thought about it and him a lot."

"So?"

"I think he was telling us that whatever it is is very, very old. He chose Amairgen's chant after all. That makes it Celtic, that I'm sure of, or maybe something from the time of Amairgen."

"So when exactly is that?" Jennifer asked.

"Any time after about 20B.C.," Breeta replied. "It could be as late as the twelfth or even the fifteenth century, when the 'Song of Amairgen' was written down."

Jennifer's eyes widened. "But that could be almost anything. Illuminated manuscripts, gold, iron, bronze, anything."

"It could," Breeta replied.

"Surely you could narrow it down for us a little more than that," Michael sighed. "What about all those old maps and weapons of your Da's? I know he said he was giving them to Trinity College, but could it be another of those, an especially old or important one? Are those things worth anything?"

"Oh yes," I said, "they are."

"It could be," Breeta said. "But my father liked lots of things. He wasn't an educated man, you know. He said that all the education in the world wouldn't have made him a success, just hard work. He left school early to work with his father in the family business, before he ran away to sea. Despite what he said, though, I think he felt the lack of education keenly. That's why he wanted you to go back to school, Michael." Michael nodded.

"Da was exceptionally well read, though, self-taught. He'd been brought up on all the old stories, like the one Denny just told us, and he taught them to us, my sisters and me. In some ways, he believed the old stories. Oh, I don't mean he believed in magic or the Little People or anything, at least no more so than most Irishmen, but unlike some, he believed the ancient stories were, in fact, real stories about real events and real people, and when he wasn't at work, he was out trying to prove it. He found and read old manuscripts, studied old maps, located all the sites of the great epic battles. You can find them, too, if you look."

"I gather this isn't a point of view shared by everyone," Alex said.

"You're quite right about that," she laughed. "I remember studying the Leabhar Gabala, the Book of Invasions, at school. Amairgen's poem comes from that, incidentally, and the story Denny just told us. It's the story of the arrival of various people on Ireland's shores, starting with someone called Cessair. There were Partholanians, Nemedians, then the Tuatha de, and eventually the so-called Sons of Mil, the Celts. I'd learned it at my father's knee, as they say." Her voice caught a little as she spoke.

"Anyway, the school had got in a professor of archaeology to talk to us about it. He said that the Mythological Cycle, the part of the Leabhar Gabala containing these very old stories, was just a collection of old fables, stories that were supposed to tell us something about the human condition, but not in any way true, and that they had been written down by monks in the twelfth century, not by poets like Amair-gen at all. He even said there was no real archaeological evidence for all the invasions that the book tells us about. I was terribly disappointed, and I raced home to talk to Da about it. I can't have been more than ten years old at the time, and I still believed all the stories he'd told me to be absolutely true, like children believing in Santa Claus, I suppose.

"Da was absolutely furious. He said that for all his schooling, the professor was nothing but a bloody ijit. He said it was true that the stories had been written down by monks all right, but that these monks had worked hard to preserve the old stories and that the stories themselves were much, much older than that. He said maybe the old stories had been exaggerated a little over time, and given a lot of magic, but that once you stripped away these elements in the stories, you would have a record of real history remembered and passed down through the centuries as myths."

"Your father was what is sometimes called an annalist, I believe," Alex said. "Quite an honorable tradition in the study of ancient times, trying to prove an historical basis for the old myths."

"Yes, but my Da became obsessed with the idea of proving that professor wrong, partly I think, because of his lack of schooling-he was a little sensitive on that score-but also because he really did think the man was an ijit. My father believed there were successive invasions of various peoples, many of them probably different groups of Celts. And he set out to prove it, to track the evidence down."

"So how was he planning to do this?" I asked.

"Well for starters, he set out to find and identify the four great gifts of the gods," she said.

Michael just looked at her. "He was daft," he said.

"Maybe," she said. "But what about Lia Fail? It exists, doesn't it?"

"You are going to have to enlighten us a little," Alex said. "Who or what is Lia Fail? And what are the four great gifts of the gods?"

"The stories of the Tuatha de Danaan tell of four fabulous objects that were supposed to have been brought from the four cities from which the Tuatha de came," she replied. "From Falias, one of those cities, is supposed to have come the Stone of Fal. The Stone of Fal was at Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland. If someone was to be that High King, he had to touch the stone. If it roared, then he was the rightful king. There really is a stone called Lia Fail at Tara to this day-I mean you can go there and see it. But most people feel that it is not the original. The real one was sent over to Scotland for use in a kingship ceremony there, and was eventually taken to Scone.

"The Stone of Scone!" Alex exclaimed. "That's the so-called Coronation Stone, isn't it, the one just recently returned from Westminster to Scotland? The one that was in the base of the British throne?"

"Exactly," she replied. "It was said that whoever had the Stone would rule Scotland, or Scotic, actually, to use an earlier term, by which we mean the Scots/Irish Milesians. That's why it's so important that it be returned to Scotland. The Scots never did take too well to the idea that the King or Queen of England was sitting on it.

"Now there are a lot of tales about that stone. Some say that the Stone in Westminster is not the real Stone of Scone, or Lia Fail, if we go back to its origins, just a plain old stone, and that the real one is hidden somewhere in Scotland. Some say it never left Ireland. What Da would say is that there was a real stone that played an important part in the choice of the High King of Ireland. He wouldn't go so far as to say it roared when touched by the chariot wheel of the true king, but he did believe there was an important stone.

"And he'd say the same thing about the other gifts, one of which was a magic cauldron belonging to the Dagda, the father god, that came from the magic city of Murias. The Dagda's cauldron was supposedly never empty, no matter how many people came to eat. Now there is no question that there were Celtic cauldrons with ritual importance. There is one called the Gun-destrup Cauldron, for example, a silver and gilt cauldron from Gundestrup in Denmark, which is thought to date to the first or second centuries B.C. It shows a horned or antlered deity of some kind, possibly Cer-nunnos. So Da would say that there really was a cult or ritual cauldron to be found in Ireland that could have been believed in those days to be the Dagda's cauldron, without its magical properties, of course."

"That's why he collected those iron cauldrons!" I said. "And the other two magical objects?"

"The Spear of Lugh, who was the Tuatha de god referred to often as Lugh the Shining, or Lugh of the Long Arm. His spear was supposed to guarantee victory. Then there was the Sword of Nuada Argat-lam, Nuada Silver Hand in Denny's story, from which no one ever escaped."

"Ah," I said. "Your father's sword and spear collection!"

"Yes," she said. "He was looking for the cult or ritual spear and sword."

"Did he think he had found them?" Alex asked.

"No, he didn't. But he kept looking. It was his passion. There was one sword, the one on the desk, that he thought might be the one, the metal equivalent of the Stone of Scone. It dates to Iron Age Ireland, so who's to say?"

"So are you saying that the treasure might be one of these things? The cauldron or another sword or spear?"

"Maybe," she replied. "Or something else, of course. He studied the myths for clues all the time, read all the ancient documents he could lay his hands on. He was a little obsessed about it, there's no question, and sometimes as his daughter, I felt as if he was more interested in his search than in me. I found it intensely irritating after a while, to be called Banba, instead of Breeta."

"Who or what is Banba?" Jennifer asked.

"One-third of the triple goddess of the Tuatha de Danaan: Banba, Fotla, and Eriu. All three were names of Ireland at some point in time, but Eriu, through an agreement with Amairgen, actually, won out in the end. Erin is a form of Eriu."

"So you and your sisters were named-nicknames, of sorts-after three goddesses."

She nodded. "It was nice at first, to be named for a goddess, but after a while, I thought it was merely a mark of my father's obsession with these mythological creatures. And who wants to be named after a goddess associated with the pig, which Banba was, particularly when you're the size I am? Anyway," she said, looking at her watch. "That's enough ancient Irish history for one night. I have to catch the bus back into Killarney."

"Why don't you stay at Second Chance?" Michael said.

"No thanks," she replied. "I'm not comfortable there anymore."

Michael had a "my place?" look in his eyes, which Breeta was ignoring.

"Speaking of Second Chance," I said, "if I were you, I'd get the tortoise, Vigs, out of there."

Breeta looked alarmed.

"I don't think your mother likes him," I said. Now that was an understatement. I hoped we weren't already too late, and the family wasn't slurping turtle soup even as we spoke. "Michael!" she exclaimed. "Will you get Vigs out of there for me?"

"I will," he replied. "I'll take him to my place."

"Tonight!" she said.

"Yes, all right. Tonight," he agreed.

Alex and I walked them to the door. "Can I give you a lift?" I said.

"No, but thanks," she said.

"I'll walk you to the bus, Bree," Michael said.

She smiled at him. "Only if you promise me you'll go to the house and get Vigs afterwards," she said.

"I promise," he said. "I'll go tonight for certain. I'll creep in, so the family won't hear me, and spirit old Vigs away. I'm going to start looking for the treasure tomorrow," he called back. "First thing. It's my day off. Will you help us find it?"

I looked at Alex. He nodded. "Okay," I said. "Why not?"

"Do you promise?" Michael asked.

"Yes, I promise," I said.

He grinned. "Good. Let's get an early start. I'll be here at eight tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"Okay," Alex and I said in unison.

The street was slick with rain, but only a light drizzle was now falling. The air felt fresh and good after the heat and smoke of the pub. Several people were out on the street, their collars turned up against the damp. A few yards away, Fionuala was getting into her car, and idly, I wondered where her husband, soon to be ex, was. It was definitely, I decided, none of my business.

Alex and I stood watching Breeta and Michael until they were almost out of sight, he walking his bicycle with one hand, holding Breeta's hand with the other. It was the happiest I'd seen her, and him for that matter, and I couldn't bring myself to tell them that Amair- gen's clues led just about nowhere, that the second clue, retrieved with such drama, contained the same old chicken scratches the first one did. It could wait until tomorrow.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow," he called back again, just as they were about to round a corner. "I'll be at your door at eight."

As I watched them disappear around the corner, I had this flash of insight the way you sometimes do. It was hard to tell with that layer of insulation about her, but I was pretty sure I knew who the all of us that Michael had room for were. It was Michael, Breeta and her as yet unborn child. Breeta Byrne was pregnant.