The Celtic Riddle

The route up was relatively easy at first, an overgrown lane. Near the top of it, though, I had to climb up some old cement stairs and over a wire fence into an open field, which sloped gently upward to a small plateau. I felt terribly exposed there, feeling the killer's eyes on me at every step. The ground was wet and very, very muddy, and the climb was an effort, my feet making a sucking sound in the mud after every step. My pant legs were coated in mud.

A few hundred yards later on, I came upon a large cleared area. The rain stopped for a few moments, and the sky cleared, and I found myself on a small hill surrounded by a ring of mountains off in the distance.

With the exception of the view to the west, which was hidden by trees, I felt I could see forever. It was a very large space, and I had a feeling finding the treasure would be almost impossible, but then I remembered the Stone, Aill na Mireann, the Stone of Divisions, the large stone on the slopes of Uisnech that is supposed to represent Ireland. I wondered where that might be.

I went on a little farther to a standing stone surrounded by a ring of smaller stones. Seated off to one side of the ring sat Charles McCafferty. He was wearing rain gear, including rubber boots, and an umbrella. At his feet was a bundle, maybe a foot or two long, well wrapped in plastic and twine. And he was pointing a gun at me.

"I have been expecting you," he said.

"And I, you," I replied.

"Is it this you came for?" he said pointing at the bundle at his feet.

"No," I replied.

"No," he agreed. "You came looking for that young woman, what is her name?"

"Jennifer," I said. "Where is she?"

"Gone," he said. My heart leapt into my mouth. What did gone mean?

"Gone," he repeated, seeing my dismay. "She left with that man of hers. They had a bit of a disagreement. I believe he had a somewhat closer relationship in mind, a reward, perhaps for bringing her here. She didn't see it that way. She wasn't ready, apparently." He smiled. "Then he confessed he still loved someone else. All rather sweet, I thought. Quite right, too. He was entirely unsuitable for her. They didn't find this," he said, pointing once again to the bundle, "because I already had it. Nor did they see me, so I let them leave.

I am not entirely unprincipled. I see you are relieved. She's not your daughter, is she?"

"No," I said. "She's the daughter of a friend of mine. I care about her very much."

He nodded, and for a moment I thought he would cry. "That is as it should be. But it is not always so."

"The lost child," I said.

"Yes," he said. "The lost child. It sounds poetic, doesn't it? William Butler Yeats wrote a poem called 'The Stolen Child,' did you know that? It's a story about a child being enticed away from this vale of tears to a wonderful place by the fairies. Lovely."

I said nothing. He was going to say whatever he was going to say. I could only hope he would get distracted and I could get away, as difficult as that might be in the mud.

"But not so lovely when it's you who's lost, is it?" he went on. "Not nearly so lovely and poetic. Prosaic, perhaps, when compared to the gut-wrenching, heartbreaking stories of abuse so prevalent these days, some of them genuine, some of them not. Prosaic, yes, even perhaps, banal. But not when you're living it. Not when it's you. I was bundled off to an orphanage. Awful things, orphanages, but not nearly so bad as the home I was eventually sent to. I won't bore you with the details, just the highlights. Drunken, abusive father, feeble put-upon mother. Boy goes to bed hungry, gets up cold and even more hungry; beaten regularly; dirty, worn clothes, bad teeth, poor grades, scorn of classmates. Father beats mother almost to death; lost child beats father, leaves home never to return. Boy hears his mother is dead, finally, by his father's hand. Determined to be a success. Through hard work, desperately hard work, becomes a solicitor. Uses his new skills and knowledge to find his real family. That's it."

"And vows revenge," I said. "You forgot that part."

"Revenge," he agreed. "Beautiful, unadulterated revenge. I see it as a bright, white light of some kind, purifying, taking the blackened parts of my soul, and healing them."

Mad as a hatter, I thought.

"You think me mad," he said, as if reading my thoughts. "I prefer to think of it as focused, or even, perhaps obsessed. But you may be right. If I am, I was driven to it. These people, rich, so careless of others, they deserve everything that has happened, and will happen, to them.