The Celtic Riddle

"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."