The Celtic Riddle

The bar was packed, a haze of cigarette smoke, and very, very noisy. It was a friendly crowd, most of them, I could tell, out for a special Saturday night at their local pub. Young people crowded around the bar, and pints of beer, dark and creamy, were passed across to others in the room. Most were in couples, but there was a small group of women out for an evening together, and a crowd of young men on the other side of the room looking them over furtively. For a horrible moment, I thought I saw Rob and Maeve, which would entirely spoil the place for me, but when I looked in that direction again, I couldn't see them.

Over in one corner, two old women sat smiling, one toothlessly, at the crowd. They were of sturdy stock, both dressed in gray, one with her white hair held back from her face with a barrette, the other's hair covered by a small gray scarf. From time to time, the barman, a fellow with a hearty booming voice called across to them, "Ready for another round, dears?" and the two old woman would laugh and nod. The barman would then send a strapping youth to deliver the drinks to their table.

In another corner of the room, seated on a bench, behind a large low table on which were scattered dozens of drink glasses, some empty, some full, and several ashtrays heaped with butts, were four musicians: a raven-haired woman in a black sleeveless top and black pants playing a squeeze-box; a blonde woman, casually attired in sweatshirt and jeans, on the bodhran, the Celtic drum; another woman with short-cropped hair in jeans and sweater, the fiddler; and the leader of the group, a man in jeans and wool sweater, who played the flute. It was he who announced the tunes they were to play, or tried to at least, the din in the bar making it impossible for all except those closest to hear what he said, and marked out the beat with a thump of his heel on the wood floor.

Those patrons who wanted to hear the music crowded in a large semicircle several rows deep around the table, those in front sitting on low stools. I stood near the back of that group, cheered by the music, as the musicians began to play. The first piece was a ballad, sung by the raven-haired woman, a song that all but me seemed to know. Her voice was clear and sweet, the refrain wafting over the crowd, some of whom sang softly along with her.

After a few minutes, the musicians broke into a jig, I to a smattering of applause from the crowd, followed j by a reel, then another jig. Faster and faster the music ] went, the fiddler leaning now into her instrument, her j face a study in concentration, the bodhran thumping I out the beat hypnotically, the squeeze-box wailing, the I flute notes soaring, the crowd swaying, the man's knee j moving up and down like a piston marking the time.

Then, I felt something hard pressed against my back, and a hoarse voice whispered, "Come along with me now, or I'll shoot." I felt myself being pulled away from the crowd, pushed down a hall, then out a door that led into an alley. Before I had any idea what was happening, or could even turn my head, I felt a cloth being placed over my mouth and the world went black.

I awoke, or perhaps I should say became conscious, to find myself in a place with no light and no sound. Perhaps this is what death is, I thought, no clouds or wings or pearly gates, nor on the other hand, the fires and sulphurous fumes of damnation. Just eternal nothingness. I thought with regret of all the things I'd left undone, and unsaid, and wondered if it might be possible to be given another chance, a reprieve. Dimly, I wondered if Eamon Byrne was somewhere nearby, wishing, in his case, that there were thoughts he'd left unspoken.

Gradually, however, nothingness became a cold, hard surface, the smell of dampness, waves of nausea, a glimmer of night sky way above me, and the roar of the wind outside my prison. And then, in the darkness nearby, I heard a groan.

"Rob?" I exclaimed. "Rob, is that you?" Another groan. I pulled myself up on my hands and knees, and felt about in the direction of the sound. A few feet away from my own resting place, I found him. He was still not entirely conscious, but he was coming around. I found his hand and held it.

"Who's there?" he said hoarsely, coming to with a start.

"It's me, Rob," I said. "You're with me."

He said nothing for a minute or two, and I thought he'd lost consciousness again.

"Any idea where we are?" he said finally.

"Nope," I replied.