Chapter Fifteen

After such an intense and exciting preamble, the testing of the theory was almost a disappointing anticlimax.

The camera did exactly what it said on the label, and quickly resolved into an unmistakeable image of a three-dimensional object of the expected roughly triangular shape, measuring some fifteen inches on its long axis, and perhaps twelve or thirteen inches across at its widest point. Two of the three 'sides' appeared to be slightly bowed: the third, by contrast, was perfectly straight.

It only took Phil a few minutes to download a series of images from the camera to his laptop. The village 'committee' watched in appreciative silence as he went through the process he had performed almost every day of his working life on autopilot. At length he felt compelled to break the silence, which was starting to acquire a certain quasi-religious reverence.

"It's not rocket science, you know!" he protested as he saved the final image onto his hard drive. "All I'm doing is ………..!"
" …….. is something none of us have a clue about how it's done: don't belittle y'rself!" Hugh interrupted, but with such a gentle lilt to his voice it would have been impossible to take offence. Phil's shoulders had risen in involuntary defence, but he relaxed immediately and with genuine relief as soon as he realised that it wasn't going to be necessary. It was clear, everyone had decided to accept his professional skills as part and parcel of the intendant an Macdairmada, the person they had come to know and had accepted without question into their community. Another tiny but significant step had been taken along the path he had stumbled across, as if by accident, and had opted to follow as a matter of conscious choice. In truth he was no longer sure when the most significant decision had been made, the bones cast, the last opportunity to change direction now past, dwindling into a less important alternate pathway not taken ……..

"Father Tomàs, I need to ask you something."

The self-appointed Committee, by tacit consent, were sat on the grassy lawn just outside the last remaining line of stones marking the ancient Chapel's walls. Chilled Guinness bottles were being distributed and dispatched.

Fr. Tomàs looked at Phil, and raised his bottle silently to indicate that he should proceed.

"I'm … not exactly au fait with current Church customs," Phil said, choosing his words carefully as he went along " … but I wonder: is there some sort of … appropriate … re-consecration ceremony or something which ought to be carried out – or at least considered! – in the light of what we've established this morning?"

Fr. Tomàs gave the question due thought.

"I'd have to ask Bishop Delaney about that, I think!" he admitted: a shade reluctantly, Phil thought. He nodded as if he had reached a solution to some inner conflict. He was clearly about to explain himself more fully when Brendan called out.

"Phil, I don't see any … markings, or discoloration of any sort on the altar! What on earth make you think there was something concealed….just where you photographed, there in the middle of the altar? Because I can't see anything at all ……. !"

With an apologetic glance to the priest, Phil unfolded his lanky frame and ambled over to Brendan. He brushed his hand over the altar's surface, caressing the warm stonework.

"I admit, some of it was guesswork, but it was an informed 'guesstimate', in a way!" he admitted,

"For obvious reasons – and I think Fr. Tomàs will back me on this one! – the logical place to secrete a sacred object, a relic, a weapon or even a musical instrument would be in the altar stone itself, and the most likely place will always be front and centre – especially with an object which attracts a degree of reverence! Pilgrims and other visitors coming to pray, even looking for a miraculous cure, would make their pleas at the altar. That's why the altar is the natural place to conceal such objects."

"So why can't I see any signs of … plastering, or a different type of stone, or something?"
"Remember what Fr. Tomàs told us: the altar and the Chapel have always been in this corner of the building. So, the altar was already installed some considerable time before Turlough O'Carolan lived and worked here, barely four hundred years ago! And being stone, of course, it wouldn't have been significantly affected by any of the fires mentioned in the records."

Kate drifted over. There was a certain slightly-puzzled look on her face which Phil had seen from time to time: it warned him there was a question about to be asked.

"Phil, the size of this … this object? Roughly fifteen by twelve? Isn't it a bit … small for a harp? Would it be possible to 'get a tune' out of it?"

"Good point" Phil conceded, as he opened a window to the Google search engine on his laptop. "I know that we all have the image of a full size concert harp standing in the corner of a stage with nearly as many strings as a grand piano, but I've come across harps in other sizes – knee harps, and smaller lap harps – which travelling minstrels often used. In theory, at least, there's no reason why a smaller harp with these dimensions couldn't be used. I'm just grateful that I managed to get some real, physical evidence without having to take a sledgehammer to the altarstone!"

A thought suddenly occurred to Phil, and he turned back to Fr. Tomàs.

"When you said you'd have to talk to your bishop about …. you know …. ?"

"About re-dedicating the Chapel? I don't think there's going to be a problem, but it's a courtesy call to let him know what we're planning, and invite him to visit us if he's a mind to do so."
A swift glance passed between Hugh, Michael Ashe and Brendan, so swiftly that Phil was for a split-second unsure as to whether he'd actually seen/sensed it of if it was a figment of his imagination. He caught Hugh's eye and refused to look away: Hugh dropped his gaze first.

"What's the problem, Hugh?"

"Bishop Delaney's a good man … someday he'll be a saint, I'm sure of it! – but he's not a Carrick man, nor even from Roscommon: though he's been Bishop at Elphin for a number of years now. Still, he's a Kerryman, and he's never really had a sense of how we do things here in Roscommon ……… "
"What Hugh's trying to avoid saying" Brendan cut in, " …. is this! Bishop Tony Delaney has a tendency to talk to anyone about everything, and as soon as he finds out that something a little out of the ordinary has been going on here, he won't be able to stop himself telling the rest of the world about it! "

"And we've always had a nice, quiet life in these parts" Michael Ashe concluded, as Brendan paused for a moment   " … so we can do without the world's media turning up!"

"Publicity! Now that's something I never even thought about!" Phil said, with a grimace and a concerned edge to his voice. Quite unbidden, unwelcome visions of  attention crowded before him, destroying the tranquil pace of life in Kilronan and the other small communities around the shores of Loch Cé. Kate's hand tightened over his as similar nightmare scenes played themselves out in her imagination. She was conscious that she and Phil were somehow experiencing the same disturbing visions, and wondered if it was an unavoidable 'flip side' of their tendency in recent months to share more pleasant dreams …..

"I can't really leave bishop Tony in the dark, all the same!" muttered Fr. Tomàs " … but I think I can persuade him to keep it quiet for as long as possible, so we can finish what we're doing at the moment: it's only a question of a few more days before you two go back to Liverpool – for a while, at least!"

There was a hint of a question in the delivery of this last sentence: Phil looked at Kate, then nodded and chose to answer for them both.

"Give us a couple of months – three, tops! – to sell what we can and bin what we can't. We'll be back here before the end of the year, assuming the house sells quickly: last I heard, the market was getting better from the seller's viewpoint! And there's a bonus, too: we can keep the car, instead of flogging it at a loss and buying a left-hand drive job if we were moving somewhere other than Ireland!"

For a few lingering seconds, a calm silence settled over the unmoving tableau on the foreshore of Trinity Isle as the full importance of this statement of definite commitment sank in on each of them. Hugh O'Gara was first to stir himself, reaching out to offer Phil his hand in welcome.

"You'll allow an old man to be the first to welcome the new an Macdairmada, I hope! Welcome home, Sire: welcome home!"

Michael Ashe, Brendan O'Halloran and Father Tomàs were swift to add their sincere greetings, pumping Phil's hand enthusiastically and embracing Kate with varying degrees of bearhug.

As they concluded their exchange of greetings, a loud melodic whistle from the shoreline was a signal that Séan had returned, ready to ferry them back to the pub for lunch.

By the time Moira had served them with a hearty, satisfying warm meal, Michael had installed himself behind the bar and began pulling pints. Phil noticed that he was filling each glass to something over the three-quarter mark and leaving it to settle, a serving technique which was normally reserved for busy 'sessions' rather than a quiet-ish Monday midday such as this. He shrugged: if Michael Ashe had decided that there were good grounds to run off so many glasses, he must know best ….

By the time they'd finished eating, the pub was starting to fill nicely. Phil realized that the 'jungle drums' had been beating once more, almost inevitably due to Séan riding round the village on his bike telling all and sundry what he'd become privy to on the short drive back from the loch.

A constant stream of good wishes and congratulations were offered and accepted as the afternoon progressed, and once again the craic developed into a full-blown musical extravaganza before people started drifting home to prepare their individual evening meals. Michael Ashe insisted that Phil and Kate should stand either side of him and shake hands with each departing guest, a light and far from onerous task which made Phil feel almost as if he were already the Host, thanking each guest who left his house at the end of a very successful party. As the last customer left, Phil made to help with the collecting of the (relatively few) glasses left on the tables, but Michael Ashe would have none of it. Phil wanted to argue the point, but Moira came out of the kitchen and stopped him dead.

" Sure, an' 'tis Patsy Slattery on the phone wants to know if you can say what time she should expect you tomorrow? The Dublin bus is due at about ten-thirty if you can make it: she can get him to wait a few minutes if you'd struggle to be there?"

The harsh realities of the world outside Kilronan (including such inconveniences as bus timetables) intruded on the casual approach to the passage of time which had become their habit during the past fortnight. Reluctantly, Phil acknowledged that this would be perfectly possible provided that breakfast could be served at about eight o'clock. With this agreed, he insisted on paying Michael Ashe the final portion of their bill before exiting the same way as everybody else and crossing the yard to feed and brush Gerald while Kate went into the caravan and packed away everything they could possibly do without.

***

"Not so many in this evening, Michael."

Michael Ashe topped off Phil's fresh pint of Guinness with a shamrock design.

"We're not so fond of 'goodbyes' as you might think!" he replied, sliding the glass to a millimetre–perfect distance from Phil's hand where it rested on the counter. Absently Phil noted that, as usual, not the least drop spilled from the glass in the process.

"Especially when we know someone's going to be returning soon, we'd rather say 'slàn go fóill' : 'see you soon' is probably the nearest translation!"

Phil nodded.

"Like the French "au revoir", really! I guess the same way of avoiding saying "goodbye" probably exists in most languages!" he said, taking a philosophical pull at his glass while Michael Ashe topped off Kate's drink. Languages had always fascinated Phil, and he made yet another note to himself, this time to tackle basic Gaelic in the months prior to their intended return. Perhaps there would be evening classes at Liverpool Uni……?

Phil's eyes flicked to the full width of the bar mirror behind Michael as the sound of the front door opening and closing disturbed the silence. Heavy boots crossing the wooden floor announced the arrival of Brendan O'Halloran. A tacit glance from Phil resulted in a third glass being topped off and ready by the time Brendan reached the bar.

Kate crossed the room to join them so that Phil wouldn't have to leave Brendan in order to carry her drink over.

Brendan raised his glass in silent thanks, and waited for Phil to reciprocate before drinking from it.

"I'm glad to have caught you on your own: I need a private word afore y' leave!"

"What's on your mind, Brendan? You know I'm relying on people such as yourself for advice and suggestions…….."

 "It's just something you might not have considered, but all the same ……. it's probably just as well to bear this in mind!" he said.

Phil was vaguely aware of Kate's fingers closing around his as she snuggled against him.

"I think you can take it as certain that your decision to assume the …. the mantle, the responsibility of the an Macdairmada title has pleased everyone in the community."
"But one thing you might not be aware of, and particularly as you live in England at the moment!  Do you know of Heraldic House, in Dublin?"
Phil nodded. Heraldic House had been referred to several times in the research he'd been doing both before leaving Liverpool and again during the past fortnight.

"Particularly because the title has such a long, established history, with detailed written records, you'll find that you'll have to contact them sooner rather than later to clarify a couple of practical points."

"What do I need to contact them about? Is there anything specific I should be asking?"

"There's something I think you'll need to take into account, something peculiarly Irish in nature. Have you come across something called Brehon law?"

A vague chime rang in a dusty corner of Phil's memory, but he had to shake his head after thinking about it for a few seconds.

"I've heard the term, I think, but I can't recall any of the details. How's it going to affect me … or should that be us?"

"Brehon law goes a long way back: in fact, it probably starts from days when there was an oral rather than a written records system" Brendan answered " …. traditionally, if you want to know anything concerning ancient laws and customs, you refer to Heraldic House for information. In fact, I think you'll find that certain Brehon laws still apply: they've never been challenged, so nobody's ever thought to repeal them!"
"Anyway, I checked a couple of websites last night, and it seems that claims to this and a couple of other vacant titles must go through Heraldic House: I suppose that's logical, it must prevent a lot of potential disputes, if there were ever to be more than one person claiming a title at any time."
"At least it's one thing which can just as easily be done from  .. anywhere, once I'm back in Liverpool!"

"Yes, I almost said something else!" he admitted, with a grin " …  but I have to get used to the idea that I won't be calling Liverpool 'home' for very much longer!"

The amused gleam in Brendan's eye told Phil that his sense of what Brendan had been thinking was spot on. He continued:

"If I understand you correctly, there aren't any other claims on the title, are there?"

"Not to my knowledge: the website was updated a few days ago at the end of August."
"Can you tell me anything else? How does this ….  do these? … Brehon laws work?"

"A lot of them are still very much based on the 'oral tradition', Phil: you're going to need to check the details with the powers that be, through Heraldic House. On the other hand, it's something you can do once you're back in Liverpool. Inevitably it's going to take time: you wouldn't have been able to do more than start making inquiries even if you'd known about it from Day One of your holidays! In many ways, I suppose you could say that they reflect the 'feudal' nature of what society must have been like when Brehon law was effectively the only law that mattered."

Kate suddenly squeezed Phil's hand as a thought struck her.

"Then, that must mean that the 'Lord of the Manor' position of the Clan Chief at the time must have been ….. "
"One of real importance, Kate! Surely you would have realised that by now?"
Phil and Kate both shook their heads. Until Brendan put it into words, neither of them had really considered this.

"Brendan, do you think these people can advise me on what my responsibilities are going to be as an Macdairmada? I mean, it can't be a ceremonial role, a meaningless title?"

Brendan gave this serious thought for a moment.

"You know, the important thing is, you've been 'chosen' so to speak by "popular acclaim", and that's the crux of the matter. The job doesn’t automatically go to the first-born, you know! It's mostly hereditary as far as the family is concerned, but sometimes the best choice for the position has been found elsewhere, a close cousin or similar."

Phil thought of the amount of family reseach he'd been able to carry out. When he considered it, it had in fact been pretty thorough.

"I haven't come across any close relatives, and certainly none older than me" he said, slowly but confidently. A further thought struck him.

"How about female relatives? How 'feudal' are the rules?"

Brendan grinned.

"As far as Clan leadership's concerned, that's still a male-only bastion, and I don't think it likely to change in the foreseeable future! But let's not forget that the precedent was set by Turlough O'Carolan's patron, Mary McDermott, when she survived for so many years after the death of her husband."

"Brendan, I'm much obliged for your thoughts and the information you thought to pass on about contacting Heraldic House. I'll certainly do as you suggest, as soon as we're back in Liverpool: but for the moment, I think an early night for us would be a good idea, so we aren't rushing to get to Patsy Slattery's in time to meet the bus ……."

Neither Phil nor Kate were allowed to leave without shaking hands with everyone present, including a couple of familiar faces who arrived as they worked their way towards the door. Eventually they made their escape, to find Séan putting the finishing touches to a scrupulously thorough grooming of Gerald.

Kate's attention was caught by the caravan, which was half-concealed beyond the stable.

"Phil! Look at this!"

Phil had paused briefly to compliment Séan on his usual enthusiasm and eagerness to please. He looked up quickly at Kate's excited tone of voice.

Nosegays of fresh flowers had been left in small bunches all around the door and the harness rails. Many of them had notes attached which identified the donors: some were anonymous. They were all without exception hand made and beautifully composed.

"It was mostly the girls o' the village what left them" said Séan, with an expression on his face which left no room for doubt as to his opinion of the gesture.

"Well, you can tell them that I think it's a lovely gesture!" said Kate, firmly. "I won't disturb them by moving them inside, but I wish I could: I'm sure they'd make the bedroom smell lovely!"

"I'm sure they'll still be fresh enough to boast about when we get to Patsy Slattery's" she added, inhaling deeply from a luxurious spray of lavender and lilacs.

Phil took the opportunity to haul Séan off to one side and tell him in no uncertain terms just how insulted he'd feel if the self-appointed groom and gofer continued to refuse to accept financial reward for everything he'd done during the fortnight. After some discussion (and not a few protests about Phil's generosity) a sum which satisfied the consciences of both parts changed hands, and they were left to pack the final few possessions before retiring for the night.

Any hopes they might have had of being allowed to slip quietly away after an early breakfast the following morning were soon dashed. Gerald stood between the shafts when they were escorted to the door by Michael Ashe and Moira, harness gleaming from yet another polishing (courtesy of young Séan). A giggle of young girls, identically clothed in traditional Irish dance costume, stood in two neat lines either side of the caravan. As soon as Phil and Kate appeared at the door they burst into a well-rehearsed song, kept together by a flute (or possibly a whistle) played by a young lady half-hidden behind the singers whom Phil recognised as the teacher in charge of the church choir.

As they headed east out of Kilronan, every doorway had at least one adult standing, waving and smiling. The choir split into two columns and danced alongside the caravan as they trundled along the road, gradually falling behind and reforming into two close-dressed columns as they continued to dance, and the caravan was gradually allowed to pick up speed. Leaving Phil to take the reins and encourage Gerald to put best foot forward, Kate trotted through to the rear of the caravan and opened the rear window to continue to wave to their followers until the first bend in the road hid them from sight.

"He must know he's on his way home!" grinned Phil as Kate rejoined him on the driving bench " … just look at the way he's picking up his feet!"

"Hooves!" Kate corrected automatically

"Hooves? Or hoofs?" said Phil, with a childish 'tease' in his voice

"D'you know I'm not absolutely certain!" laughed Kate " … but on the other hand, I don't suppose it matters: I doubt Gerald ever bothered to learn spelling rules!"

Phil grinned as a Disneyesque scene of Gerald and an assortment of other animals sitting at cartoon-style school desks formed itself in his mind The class appeared to be (at least nominally) under the tutelage of a bespectacled owl: even without soundtrack, Phil just 'knew' somehow that the teacher would prove to be female, with an irritatingly fussy voice to match her attitude. Grabbing a stump of pencil and a sheet of paper he jotted a note to himself: perhaps it could become an amusing story when he got a moment to work on it …. He frowned. What on earth had made him even think about writing stories? He was a professional photographer, had been all his life ….. but there was a definite attraction about the idea of trying to write a story, especially one aimed at children …...

The miles seemed to flow by, seamlessly. The early morning was neither too warm nor too chill, and with warm drinks provided by Kate (after several heavy hints from Phil) it seemed as if Patsy Slattery's livery yard appeared out of nowhere long before they were mentally prepared to end the most eventful fortnight of their lives. There could be no doubt about it: Gerald was indeed pulling hard, straining every muscle in his eagerness to return to his own stable.

Patsy was waiting in the courtyard as they fairly rattled up the packed-dirt twin rutted lane which led from the B road and onto the farm. It crossed Phil's mind – fleetingly – to wonder how she could have known to anticipate their arrival so closely, but then he assumed that she had heard them trundling up the track (they certainly hadn't been trying to conceal their arrival, after all).

"Sure and welcome back, the pair of youse! Have you had a good time, then? And did that rascal Michael Ashe look afer youse properly? I meant what I said about putting a hex on his beer if he didn't, you know ….!"

The non-stop, breathless questions continued as she unhitched Gerald and threw a blanket over his back before leading him into the stables and starting to rub him down. The steam from his recent exertions rose, a visible, palpable miasma shimmering in the air. A young girl entered from the far end of the stable, carrying a stainless steel bucket of something which (even to Phil) smelt as if it was something a horse would find irresistible.

"Patricia will carry on with Gerald: you've almost an hour before the bus is due, and I've made some tay ………"

This time (and with at least one eye on the clock, most of the time) there was no opportunity for the grand scale "tay" they'd been served by Patsy on arrival, but there was more than enough to keep them happy and Phil was pleasantly surprised to discover that travelling a relatively short distance in a caravan was excuse enough to work up an appetite, even though it hadn't been a physically demanding journey.

"Let me take our luggage, and put it in the back of the Land Rover" Phil said, as he drained his cup and glanced at the clock on the dining room wall.

"And I can help you take out the dishes" Kate insisted, in a manner Phil had come to recognise as her "take no prisoners" voice. Without giving Patsy a chance to protest, she stood and began collecting crockery together.

Phil asked Patsy for the car keys, and headed for the courtyard to complete his task.

Kate placed the first lot of plates and saucers in the sink and turned swiftly to collect more, brushing lightly against Patsy as she turned. Patsy stiffened, and laid a hand on Kate's upper arm.

"Have you told Phil yet?"
Kate wrinkled her nose and looked blankly at Patsy.

"Told him …. what?"

With the lightest suggestion of pressure, Patsy turned Kate sideways and placed her free hand across Kate's stomach.

Although it was far too early to be anything other than wild coincidence, Kate felt what she could only describe as a curious shift in the pit of her stomach.

Kate looked intently into Patsy's deep green eyes.

"You mean…….?"

Patsy nodded.

"And there's no danger in telling, either. He'll be a perfect child, in every possible way, Kate. In fact, considering how long you've both been trying, I think you should tell Phil as soon as possible …….."

Patsy saw them safely on board the bus, which was perhaps half-filled with a cross-section of humanity who had reasons of one sort or another for travelling towards Dublin that day. The general hubbub and chatter didn't seem appropriate, somehow, for the news Kate had to impart, so it was a couple of hours later, in a secluded corner of Dublin Airport, when she had her first opportunity to discuss news of such an intimate nature.

Somewhat to Kate's surprise, the normally sceptical, practical Phil had no hesitation in accepting Patsy Slattery's unsubstantiated prophesy regarding Kate's revelation.

"I don't feel any different: I can't possibly look any different! And while I'm sure she's right, I'm still amazed you – of all people! – are prepared to accept it without …. "
"Some proof? Kate, sweetheart, after all the other things we've seen, heard, and lived through this past fortnight, why should I be surprised to learn something far more natural has occurred during the same period? It's as if everything else we could possibly have wanted – even without knowing that we actually wanted them! – has turned out in our favour during this holiday: one more thing shouldn't be any great surprise, and you know we've both wanted this for … oh, I don't know…!"
"For 'yonks', maybe?" teased Kate, reminding Phi of the somewhat passé slang term which had fallen from his lips when they were planning the trip. Phil snorted with amusement, narrowly avoiding inhaling his Jameson's rather than sipping at it. Before he could think of a fitting riposte, their flight was called and they made their way toward the check-in gate.

*****

Sitting at a window seat as the plane eased its way up towards the thin cloud layers and the designated flight path for the short hop to John Lennon Airport, Kate turned her head to look back at the green and pleasant land they were leaving behind, if only for a short while. She stared backwards until they entered the clouds and the last vestigial traces of Ireland disappeared. Sighing, she relaxed into Phil's arms. She'd always thought of herself as pretty much of a 'home bird' and felt most comfortable in the town in which she'd been born and lived all her life. Now, suddenly, it seemed a large, clumsy, dirty and most unwelcoming prospect to be returning to. For no real reason, she shuddered. Phil felt it and looked at her gravely.

"Catching a cold, love?"

"No, not that: I just felt a bit …. so-so about going back to Liverpool, even for such a short while! And, get this! Remember, it's your wife, Kate, saying this! But I don't think I can ever think of Liverpool as "home", ever again! Does that make sense – can you even believe you've just heard me – me! – saying it?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I do! And that's a fact!"

Phil gently placed his free hand behind Kate's neck and pulled her slowly towards him to place a long, lingering kiss upon her lips, scandalising a number of elderly ladies returning from pilgrimage to Knock.

At exactly that moment, had they but known, the same action was mirrored between the shades of Tomàs Laidìr Costello and Una Bhan for a non-judgemental audience of two squirrels on the grassy knoll before the ruined Chapel of Her Dreams, on Trinity Island.

Paul McDermott 
May 2006