The Celtic Riddle

Michael came out to join us. "Don't mind her," he said, gesturing back toward the house. "She's missing him terrible no matter how it looks." Breeta appeared at the door, and he quickly changed the subject. "Right, we'd best be off. We're in for some weather again," he said, pointing to a new set of black clouds out to sea, and waving us back to the house.

"Is there another way in here?" I asked looking about me. "Another road?"

"No," Michael replied. "Although you could put a lane in from the main road up there," he said pointing toward something I couldn't see. "You'd have to do a bit of clearing though," he added gesturing toward brush and rocks. "Set you back a few punt, that's for certain.

"The easiest thing to do is to come in the way we did. Park your car out at the road near the gate to Second Chance and walk in. They can't stop you from crossing the property," he added. "There's a right of way."

But they could make it pretty miserable for us, I thought to myself. Michael watched my face. "I'd want to put a road in, too," he said, smiling slightly.

Inside, I collected up the glasses and went over to the sink to rinse them out, Alex right behind me with a towel, ready to dry. Michael turned his attention to dousing the fire. As we worked, I sensed rather than saw Breeta get out of her chair and go over to the table on the other side of the room. The three of us, coming to the same realization, all quietly turned to watch as she picked up a book, leafed through its pages, then with one arm, held it to her chest. With the other hand, oblivious to our glances, she reached slowly for the sweater on the back of the chair. After studying it for a few seconds she brought it up to her nose and breathed deeply, then held it against the side of her face, a large tear rolling down her cheek. It's her father's, I thought, her father's sweater. His smell would still be on it, would remind her of him. Missing him terrible, indeed.

She noticed us watching her at last. She looked directly at Alex. "I know the Will says the house and its contents," she said, her voice breaking, "but would it be all right, would you mind, if I kept the sweater?"

"Of course you may, my dear," Alex said softly.

"Keep the book too. Please take anything you like."

"Just the book, and the sweater," she said, holding both tight.

We were a subdued group as Michael locked up, handing Alex the key, and we began our trek back to the big house, each lost in our own thoughts. Breeta would not let go of the book and sweater, so Michael took Vigs and went on ahead. I rather pensively watched as the rays of the late afternoon sun caught drops of rain on the leaves and blossoms of the gorse and heather, transforming them to glittering amethysts and citrines. It was late afternoon by now, and gulls circled offshore looking for dinner, or bobbed on the surface of the waves, slashes of white against the dark water. "Take care," Michael, ahead of us, yelled. "It's really slippery here." It was indeed. The rain had made the path very slick and more than once I caught myself sliding down the incline. I made my way carefully along the edge of the cliffs, turning back from time to time to see how Alex and Breeta were faring.

Although I was trying not to look down, something below caught my eye and I stopped. "Alex," I called back to him, several yards away. "What was that clue of yours again?"

"I am the sea-swell," he called to me. "Why?" "Hang on a sec," I said. I was standing over a small cove at the foot of the cliffs. While on either side of me there was a sheer drop, in front of me there was a steep pathway, part grass, part mud, that lead down to the water. Gingerly, considering my choice of footwear, I began to pick my way down, slipping and sliding on the wet earth and grass. I was two-thirds of the way down when I lost first a shoe, then my footing, and rolled down the grassy slope, gathering momentum as I went. I heard the others shouting above me. For some reason, I wasn't afraid. I knew, somehow, I would stop in time, and was rather more worried by how undignified I must look, rolling ass-end over teakettle, than by the possibility I'd be dashed to smithereens on the rocks. And indeed, the ground soon levelled out a little on a sandy dune, and I rolled to a stop.

I was lying on sand, or rather pebbles, on a rocky beach at the foot of the cliffs, a few feet away from the water where a little rowboat, a skiff, was anchored, bobbing in the surf. The boat was white, where the paint hadn't peeled away, and the gunwales were blue. It had, as I had suspected from the top of the cliff, the name Ocean Crest painted on its prow.

Michael started down the path after me, slipping and sliding as I had, but so far still on his feet. "Stay there," he shouted. "I'll come down and help you back up."

"It's called Ocean Crest," I yelled up to him and the others. "Do you think it has anything to do with the clue?"