Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1) (15 page)

The remainder of the trip was conducted in silence.

***

Julian stopped the Land Rover at the crest of the goat path and got out. His fingers were stiff from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Sean slithered from the backseat grateful to be on firm ground. Moira Hagan sat in the vehicle. When she didn’t appear both men turned and were horror stuck.

Although outwardly tranquil, the Hagan communicated a wordless message that could not be more clearly understood. It seemed to say, “If one of you eejits doesn’t get over here and open my door and hand me out of the vehicle NOW, I will make you both wish your mothers had become nuns!”

The flurry of activity as each man trotted to the passenger side of the Land Rover was remarkable for its comic clumsiness. Maher wrenched open the door with nearly enough force to tear it off the hinges. Julian extended his hand and took the Hagan by the elbow with the other hand to ease her to the ground. After smoothing her long dark skirt, Moira Hagan reached up and patted Julian on the cheek. As she stepped around the door, she touched Sean’s hand and smiled at him. Julian and Sean shivered.

“That was very nicely done boys. It is good to know your mothers taught you well. Now shall we go?”

She led them to the very edge of the outcrop. The Hagan sat down on a comfortable rock and pointed into the valley. “What do you see?”

Julian was stunned. “Mounds – lots of them. I didn’t realize there were so many.”

“I suppose this is why you are a policeman and I a mere woman citizen of our little village,” she said and sarcasm dripped from her voice. “Of course there are lots of mounds ya eejit.

“You! Maher. I don’t suppose you will do much better, but you have lived here all your life so I am expecting something from you, boyo. Tell friend Blessing what he is looking at.”

“They’re burial mounds lined up between here and the coast, Oi think.”

“Well, you think correctly or nearly correctly. Let’s begin with what we know of their beginning.” Moira Hagan settled herself, closed and then with heavy lids opened her eyes again. Her shoulders relaxed and she began.

“Although nothing of Ireland exists that can be dated before the sixth century, burial sites are an altogether different matter.

“Four thousand years ago, give or take, the people of this area of Ireland constructed these earthworks. Although known as burial mounds very few of them were. Some of the earthen mounds were hollow inside with the resulting chambers being decorated with carvings and paintings.

“There are 300 so called passage-tombs here in Ireland with the largest being at Knowth, Newgrange and Dowth. These mounds are huge and are surrounded by a dozen or more smaller ones. Those smaller mounds are much more like the ones you see below in the valley.

“Still, in spite of the similarity of size, ours are somewhat different. Rather than surrounding a larger structure as in those other places, ours run in a perfectly straight line. No one living today knows why. They start at the base of the mountain where we are and run east for some way before they reach the sea. Still they do not terminate at a larger mound, as one would expect. Are you two paying attention?” Moira snapped and then continued.

“A number of the mounds were found to have served as burial chambers or tombs for Celtic nobility, others acted as storehouses, some were just mounds and as such solid through and through with no seeming purpose a’tall,” she said.

“They are all protected these days by the government, but there was a time when they were freely plundered by the visitors sent to conquer us – that would be our English friends.

“Little good it did them as no real wealth was ever found. Ours is a poor country rich only in culture, history and heritage – nothing that would interest the English,” she said.

“Since then the farmers of this valley have simply worked around the mounds. They are not trees to be cut down or boulders to be moved. They are a past to be honored because it is an Irish past.”

“So, is it possible someone is still trying to plunder them?” Julian asked. “Is it possible someone came into possession of information that one of the mounds contained something valuable?”

“Possibly, but farfetched and frankly a lot of work for little profit,” the Hagan answered. “It is the proverbial needle in a haystack even with access to information. Even if it’s true, it is pretty certain whoever is digging doesn’t have an exact location.”

“Maybe the digging is experimental. You know, testing to see if a given mound is of one type or another,” Sean said while Julian scanned the row of mounds through the field glasses.

“That is possible also,” the Hagan answered. “It is thought a palisade of plank boards or wooden stakes originally surrounded the mounds. Years of erosion would have washed down over that and your diggers may be looking for that sort of evidence.

“Still, even if such portions of a palisade did still exist it would prove nothing. Farmers built their houses along the same lines using the same tools, methods and architecture,” she said thoughtfully.

“Hello,” Julian said.

“What is it?” Sean asked and reached for the binoculars.

“Count out eleven mounds and tell me what you see.”

“Seven, eight, nine, ten... Shite, oh, sorry. It’s the white truck! A man has got out and is walking around the mound. Damn, we are too far away to make out any detail. A driver and at least one passenger – that’s all Oi can see,” Sean said through teeth clenched in frustration.

Both men turned and found the Hagan seated on her rock with her eyes closed and her face gray as ash. They rushed to her and as they each took an arm, she seemed to come to herself.

“You have seen what you’ve come to see and I have seen more than I want. We must be off. I need to go home.” Julian was horrified. He helped her up and she felt small and frail. His sense was that her strength was fast leaving her.

“Sean!” he called out.

“No!” the woman’s bark was short, sharp and emphatic. “That lummox will not lay hands on Moira Hagan this day or any other. Understand me, boyo!” Julian nodded his head and waved Sean away.

After the truck had gone, Brendan stretched out his hand and began to stroke his dog’s silken cheek under her eye. Soon her eyes closed and she began her slow rhythmic breathing again. Brendan watched the branches move effortlessly in the breeze and saw the clouds streak overhead.

“Dunla?” Brendan whispered. The dog sat at attention looking into the boy’s face. He smiled, stroked the dog’s ear and continued in Gaelic, “Time to go home and clean up for supper.” The dog’s tail wagged in understanding that she and he would be off on another adventure. Being with her master was always a series of adventures and a source of endless pleasure.

As they entered the village Brendan and Dunla were passed by the Squire’s old Range Rover carrying Julian and Brendan’s father. Waves were exchanged and Dunla barked at the passing car.

Trouble stepped into Brendan Maher’s path and Dunla was the first to sense it. Bobby McMaster appeared in the road, a bundle of belligerence.

“Why do you think you’re an eejit, Maher?”

Fully a head shorter than Brendan, Bobby McMaster imagined himself larger than he was, as only a true bully can do. Had it stopped there, Liam McMaster’s son would have been merely an annoyance. But the boy had a vicious streak – not just cruel in the way children can sometimes be – he was ferociously sadistic and more than anything, he relished the feeling he got from inflicting pain on others.

His father was prosperous and had always been able to buy his son’s way out of one scrape or another. But the torments Bobby McMaster visited on others were escalating.

Dunla locked her eyes on the malignancy before her and began a low, rumbling growl.

“Oi asked you a question Maher. Why are you an eejit?”

Brendan’s eyes narrowed and he set his mouth. Dunla sensed more than felt the imperceptible shift in her master’s weight. She stepped forward and displayed a row of teeth that bore nothing but ill will.

“Do you think that cur frightens me? That thing is hardly worth killing. It looks as stupid as you.” Dunla moved forward another step and set her weight into her hind legs bracing for the attack.

“No Dunla.”

“Oi think you’re an eejit because your Da is an eejit. What do you say to that?” McMaster snarled.

“Let’s g-g-go, Dunla,” Brendan said.

Normally quick to respond, Dunla held her ground.

Brendan stepped past Bobby McMaster, but close enough to let him know this had nothing to do with fear. Still Dunla held fast.

McMaster pushed Brendan away and faster than the speed of human thought, Dunla launched herself and was firmly attached to McMaster’s pant leg and was pulling him off his feet. Brendan assisted this by grabbing the shorter boy’s shirt and forcing him backwards. Once McMaster was firmly on his back Dunla was called to heel and she obeyed immediately, but without ever losing sight of Bobby McMaster.

“I’ll have you for that Maher ya feekin’ eejit and that vicious mongrel too! I’ll tell me Da and he’ll sort you out!” Bobby McMaster screamed at Brendan’s back.

A dirt clod broke on the ground at Brendan’s heel. He stopped and turned around to see McMaster, another clod in his hand, standing in the road, impotent rage etching his face.

“Home, Dunla,” Brendan said and both dog and boy turned as the second dirt clod broke harmlessly on the ground behind them.

“Good girl,” Brendan said and Dunla knew he was right.

***

In a cottage beside St. Michael’s school, Julian Blessing and Sean Maher took tea with Sister Eugenia and her assistant, Sister Gertrude.

“Sisters, which of the children is the best artist in school? There is something I need drawn. It isn’t anything complex, but I want it to be as realistic as possible.”

“Always happy to be of assistance, gentlemen,“ said Sister Eugenia. “That would be Grace, don’t you think Sister Gertrude?” The nuns agreed Grace was the most accomplished artist and Sister Gertrude went to get her.

The delicate teacup looked like a thimble in Sean’s enormous gnarled hands. The cup clattered in its saucer. Sean was afraid of very few things in life; the devil, witches and nuns and not always in that order. Determining which was worse boiled down to which was in front of him at the time. Sisters Eugenia and Gertrude, a plague of nuns, was really more than a good, strong, God fearing man should have to endure.

“Will you have more tea, Mr. Maher?” Sister Eugenia’s question nearly made the big man jump out of his skin. It was a civil enough question, but after long and painful experience, Sean knew nuns would exercise civility only as a set up to hoisting one’s vitals on a stick.

“Thank ye, Sister, no more for me.”

The nun said with a smile, “Mr. Blessing, while we wait for our little artist to arrive would you be so kind as to indulge an old woman’s curiosity?

Julian found himself bracing for a blow from a ruler of the thin, regal woman of undetermined age seated across from him. After long experience in school, he knew you had to watch out for the wiry ones, they were the fastest with a ruler.

“It is perhaps a personal question. Do you mind?”

“Not at all, Sister. If I can, I’ll answer any questions you have,” Julian answered. Sean issued a high-pitched whimpering sound and the nun shot him a glance through narrowed eyes.

She turned her attention back to Julian. “The other day, I was conducting some business in Mr. Brady’s establishment when you walked in. You saw me and developed that ‘Oh-sweet-Jaysus-a-NUN’ look. That look is, in my experience, unique to some of those of the worst sort who have been educated in Catholic schools. For some reason you would like me not to know that. I wonder why that would be, but we can discuss that another time.”

The smile was frozen on Julian’s face and Sean’s whimpering grew strangled.

With the expression of someone who was inquiring about the weather, Sister Eugenia asked, “How horrid a little creature were you at school?”

As best he could, Julian tried to transform his smile to a look of sincere innocence before he said, “I was an altar boy, Sister.”

“Oh my,” the nun said, the calm smile still lighting her face. “I somehow should have known. In my experience, it is a testimony to the fortitude of Holy Mother Church that she has survived altar boys these many years. Do you not agree Mr. Blessing?”

“Well, Sister, I can not speak to that, but I was quite good. I never got into trouble.” Julian gave her his best innocent, yet modestly pathetic, look.

“Good, you say? Really? Never got into trouble? Would you not say a more accurate statement is that you were seldom caught?” The nun smiled and inclined her head slightly, her eyes bright with innocence. It was the innocence available only to those who have spent a lifetime dealing from a position of moral superiority and spiritually hellacious firepower.

Julian suddenly recalled being in grade school, kneeling in the corner, the corduroy of his uniform pants feeling like razor blades under his knees. He tried to perfect his pitiable look but said nothing.

The nun’s eyes narrowed slightly and she fixed them on Julian like an entomologist would pin a bug to a corkboard. Julian Blessing, man of the world, a man of affairs, a man of rare importance and wealth swallowed hard and felt remarkably bug-like.

“Tell me honestly Mr. Blessing, how many times do you suspect you and your fellow altar boys got into the altar wine? How many unconsecrated hosts did you and your gluttonous compatriots consume?”

“Sister Eugenia...” Julian was about to lie his protest.

“Ah, Sister Gertrude, you are back just in time. Our Mr. Blessing was preparing to be exceedingly untruthful? Mr. Blessing, would it not be a shame if a large black lie were to sit on your soul and corrupt your spirit?” Sister Eugenia said and looked horrifyingly angelic.

“Mr. Maher, you seem to be unwell. No? You will understand my concern. With the teacup rattling in your hands it has become difficult to hear. But it is those odd mewing sounds coming from you that have me most concerned.”

“No, Sister, Oi’m fine,” Sean mewed.

“That is so good to hear. In any case, Mr. Blessing, I am following my line of inquiry in order to, as I said, satisfy the curiosity of an old woman. You see, your companion Mr. Maher is, of course, well known to me. Isn’t that true, Sean Maher?” she said and withered Sean with a frosty glance.

She continued. “Well, that leaves only you Mr. Blessing. So you will understand my curiosity is simply to gauge the level of mischief I can expect from you.

“Ah here is our little Grace. Sister Gertrude and I have things to which we must attend. Grace, please assist these gentlemen.”

Sean hung his head after the nuns had gone. Soft moaning sounds could be heard from him as he sat in shame and rocked gently back and forth.

Julian held a plastic smile on his face as he said softly, “Jesus! That woman is truly frightening.”

Twelve year-old Grace looked at the two grown men and pitied them. They didn’t know the half of it.

***

Grace, a reedy girl with glasses, drew a very real likeness of the white pickup truck. Julian supplied the description and it all appeared under the single word WANTED. Sean had his fill of nuns for one day so was glad he and Julian could escape.

After making copies on the school’s ancient spirit duplicator, the men papered every flat public surface with posters. They made plans for a door-to-door campaign throughout the valley looking for information on the vehicle, its owner or any sightings.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. After being on the defensive for so long over all the digging, not much was just enough. To Julian, taking the initiative seemed the most important work of his life.

***

Julian’s daily routine was forming itself around demanding, self-directed study and occasional intense discussions with Moira Hagan. This he would follow by breakfast and forays into the valley to call on the local farms. In the evening he would return tired from his day’s efforts, have supper and, when the village was dark and still, he would walk the main street visiting with those he met.

He would end his night in his rocking chair either on the stoop or before the fire if the weather was chilly. He contented himself with the fact that no further assaults had taken place recently, but the digging continued and the feeling in the valley had turned dark.

The lessons with Moira Hagan had sharpened Julian’s senses. Even without her daily assistance, his universe was expanding by the moment. His sense of the real and the counterfeit was also becoming more clearly defined. He was more attuned to things around him, things that had gone unnoticed in his past.

Julian had been sensing things before he saw or heard them since his arrival, but his ability was now more accurate and detailed. He constantly surprised himself with this new talent and found it served him in many ways.

There was a game the village children played with him, which he felt was a good practice exercise. The youngsters tried to sneak up and catch him unaware. At first, his batting average was poor and they were able to get the drop on him easily but as time went on this changed. He found he could feel their innocence hiding in the bushes along a road. He could sense their unrestrained mischievousness concealed in a tree.

Over time, he could sense individual children before they appeared and would call them by name. This pleased him and sent them into fits of laughter at having been caught out.

Adults were even easier to sense. Julian knew before he saw him that the Mayor was approaching and could judge the degree of strong drink the man had onboard.

Sean Maher was an open book. He could sense Sean’s big and childlike presence before the man appeared. Julian sometimes delighted in making the large man uncomfortable by identifying his mood before a word was spoken.

“Thirsty, Sean? Let’s have a pint,” Julian would say in the middle of the day. This, at first was disconcerting to Maher. He felt as though Julian was inside his head. Recently Sean Maher had taken to crossing himself whenever Julian’s senses were too sharp.

Julian made a special study of Ailís Dwyer. He could tell if she was inside a building as he passed by outside. After some practice, he had been able to read her moods and occasionally he felt he was reading her thoughts. This last bit of information he tried to blot out of his mind. He was comfortable with Ailís and didn’t want to risk spoiling that after their rocky beginning.

Easiest of all had been Moira Hagan, but his awareness of her had changed as she weakened. In the beginning, he would sense her presence but this sense was becoming weaker in ways that he did not understand. Sometimes she felt very near, but other times even when talking with her he felt she was somehow ephemeral and not really with him at all.

She would smile knowingly when she sensed his confusion, but never explained what was happening.

***

One evening when he was snug in front of the peat fire of the station house Julian looked to the door and called out, “Come in Moira.”

She entered and he felt what she was thinking. The sense was weak and distant, but it was there. “
You really have become very proficient at that
.” Julian smiled. It wasn’t so long ago that voices in his head made him question his sanity.

His teacher continued with a pleasant voice, “In some ways your talent surprises me; in other ways it does not,” she said as she crossed the threshold of the station. Julian rose, indicated the second rocking chair. Moira said she would rather sit near the fire and took her place on a long wooden bench that ran perpendicular to the hearth.

“Why does it surprise you? Do you think I’m too thick for such things?” Julian asked. “Plodding and soulless creatures like me can’t attain any sort of wisdom?” he asked and smiled broadly even though he remembered clearly the source of those words, the letter from his ex-wife.

“Plodding? No, I don’t see you as that. You may wander about without much sense of direction from time to time, but I wouldn’t call that plodding. You have discovered bits and pieces of yourself and your abilities, so that doesn’t apply.