The Celtic Riddle

"Of course it means something," I said, abandoning my attempt to ferret out Gilhooly. "The clues are in some order. Eamon Byrne was, I surmise from his comments on the video, occasionally nasty as they may have been, a reasonably astute judge of character." I hesitated for a moment before going on, realizing that he had judged Breeta too. She gave no indication that she was paying attention at all, though, just went on stroking the head of the tortoise in a monotonous way.

"Knowing you both, he assumed you'd give your clue first, Alex, and that you, Michael, would be next."

"But what's it mean?" Michael said.

We, and by we I refer to the three of us, Breeta continuing to pretend we weren't there, went on for a few minutes, speculating about what it might mean. It was pleasant enough with the flames licking around the turf, the rain pattering against the windows, the Bushmills sliding down quite nicely, and entertaining, in a kind of mindless way, to try to guess what this was all about: a game of twenty questions with the person who knew the answer gone from this world.

Michael was particularly enthusiastic. "Maybe it's about a shipwreck, some old ship off the coast here loaded with gold bullion," he said.

"Could be," Alex agreed.

"But it's the sea-swell and furious wave, both on top, and not under the ocean. I wonder if we have to take it literally. Perhaps its an anagram, a cryptic clue of some sort."

Breeta sighed loudly. "It's a poem," she said, looking at the three of us as if we were members of a subhuman species, several notches below that of the pet she still held in her arms.

We all looked at her. "Ah, come now, Bree," Michael said in an exasperated tone. "Don't just say 'it's a poem' and leave it at that. What poem? What's the rest of it?"

Still Breeta said nothing. I felt like shaking her until her eyes bugged out, but resolved not to get emotionally involved in all this. Alex had his lovely little cottage, I told him, he'd done his part in giving the rest of them his clue, and now we should get back to having a holiday and ignore this horrid family.

" 'Song of Amairgen,' " she said finally.

"What?" we all said.

" 'Song of Amairgen.' Pronounced Av-ar-hin, spelled A-m-a-i-r-g-e-n, or sometimes A-m-h-a-i-r-g-h-i-n. It's very old. Amairgen was supposed to be a file, that is a poet, of the Milesians, the first Celt to set foot on Irish soil. He's claimed to have chanted this poem when he first stepped off the boat in Ireland. It's all bullshit, of course."

"Who are, or were, the Milesians?"

"Don't you know anything?" Breeta replied. My, she was an annoying young woman. I told myself to be sure to tell Rob how lucky he is to have a daughter like Jennifer, who was not all that much younger than Breeta, as difficult as he may occasionally find her. "It's in the Leabhar Gabala," she said, "if you want to find out."

The Leabhar Gabala. Now that was helpful, almost as useful as the reply to the question about Padraig Gilhooly. This might be a good moment to remind myself how glad I was I'd never had children. Being, like many of my women friends, most of them in business like me, a little ambivalent in that regard, it was good I had such opportunities to clarify my thoughts on the subject from time to time.

"Well, if you're so smart," Michael said, sounding as irritated as I felt, "what's the next line?"

"The roar of the sea," she said smugly.

"Sure must have something to do with water," Michael said.

"The next line is about a stag," Breeta said acidly. At least she was talking.

"But we don't know that Eamon was using the whole poem, now do we?" Alex said. "We'd need to see more clues for that."

"Breeta has a clue. Mr. McCafferty-or was it Mr. McGlynn?-put it in the safe in your father's study, Bree," Michael said. Breeta continued to look bored.

"Come on, Bree," Michael said, shyly leaning over and touching her hand. She pulled her arm away. Undeterred, he carried on. "Let's go and get your envelope. It might be kind of fun to look for this thing, whatever it is. And if it really is worth something, like your Da says, and you find it, then everything will be all right. You'll be set, you know, maybe for life." But Breeta ignored us.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped and the sun came out. Alex and I went outside to look about. Behind the house, inland, clouds still hovered over black mountains, but where we were was a world of bright, lush colors, greens predominantly, but also yellow and purple, and the intensely dark blue of the sea.

"I could get used to this place," Alex said, looking about him. "It wasn't what I expected, with a name like Rose Cottage. I was thinking of something more like an English country garden, or something. But this suits me better, I think."

"I'm pleased for you Alex," I said. "We can make it really nice."

He smiled. "I think I like it just as it is."