The Legends (12 page)

Her wrinkled eyes smiled as she looked down across the fields toward the River Boyne, twinkling in the sunshine far below. In her mind she remembered standing in this very spot sixty years earlier, a young bride in the arms of her Brendan, tall and strong. She could not have imagine having lived a happier life, but her husband was now passed on these ten long years and her children were off to Australia and the United States pursuing their own happiness.

Margaret loved the peace and quiet of her little cottage particularly on sunny days when the whole valley came to life, but in her own way she looked forward to the day when she would be reunited with Brendan. Of course there were neighbors and friends who frequently called, because that is what people in rural Ireland did in the early 1990s before the economic boom created the Celtic Tiger. Margaret always looked forward to those visits but without her family to mind, something was missing and she believed that she would find it only when she entered into the next life.

Laughing out loud, Margaret scolded herself, “Don’t be so morbid…what are you like?” She straightened her back raising her face to the warmth of the sun and looked, once again, down toward the Boyne. “Well old girl,” she said continuing her conversation with herself, “at least there’s nothing wrong with your eyes—in the distance anyway.”

Far below a couple was walking through the fields in the company of a massive dog who romped free, chasing birds, butterflies and whatever took his fancy with little or no chance of ever catching anything. That would be the O’Sullivans, she thought, out on one of their regular strolls through the Boyne Valley. They were a strangely matched couple, he was tall and lean, a quiet scholarly man, while she was short, broad and full of chat. Cathal and Evelyn lived about a mile away in an old farm cottage, not unlike her own, and for the most part they were content with each other’s company.

The O’Sullivans took pleasure in their walks and would call on Margaret whenever their path crossed her gate. They were a pleasant couple and Margaret enjoyed their brief visits, particularly because that massive Irish wolfhound called Molly would accompany them. Margaret was well accustomed to dogs but she held a special place in her heart for Molly. As playful as she was in the field, Molly became a perfect lady when she entered Margaret’s property. She would greet her host, her great head nearly chest high on the old woman. Margaret would pat the dog’s head and scratch her behind the ears assuring Molly that she was a fine dog. Molly would then follow her host into the kitchen where there would invariably be a bone that Margaret kept stored in the refrigerator for just such an occasion. If the day was fine and the visit took place outside, Molly would sit next to Margaret, otherwise the dog’s spot was under the kitchen table. While the human beings visited, Molly enjoyed her treat.

Margaret had discovered that Cathal was a professor of Celtic Studies at University College Dublin, while Evelyn was an artist, designing and manufacturing silver jewelry. On one occasion Evelyn showed Margaret some of her work and it was easy to see why her neighbor was developing such an excellent reputation. The jewelry was normally silver, intricately worked into traditional Celtic designs. As recently as ten years ago some Irish people might have thought her jewelry was old fashioned or better suited for the tourist market, but it seemed that traditional was back in style.

Her neighbors explained that their walks, and indeed living as they did in the shadow of River Boyne, were important to the couple because few places were so steeped in history as the Boyne Valley. They told her that each walk provided Cathal with another insight into his academic specialty and Evelyn drew inspiration for her Celtic designs from ancient rock carvings and structures that lay strewn about the valley. Molly, on the other hand, enjoyed the great open spaces and the freedom to run, chasing and exploring whatever required her attention.

Looking down on the trio, Margaret envied them their freedom and health. Unfortunately they had not been blessed with children which, she had been told was not an intentional choice. They were older but, God willing, their day might yet come. In the meanwhile, they strolled through the fields, Cathal slightly stooped with his hands behind his back while Evelyn, obviously carrying the conversation, speaking as much with her hands as she did with her mouth. “God bless and keep them,” Margaret said aloud as she turned to return her broom to its spot behind the door.

In the field below, Evelyn was indeed advancing a spirited argument for the return of Brehon Laws, which, she insisted, provided far greater equality between men and women. This was not an issue of grave and immediate importance to Cathal and he was attempting to direct the conversation to the beauty of the day.

“All these years,” Evelyn sighed, “and I didn’t realize I was married to such a chauvinist.”

“Now that’s a bit harsh,” Cathal replied with an affectionate smile. “I was only enjoying the peace and quiet of a beautiful afternoon in the company of my wonderful, beautiful and, of course, equal partner.”

Evelyn reach over a put her stout arm around her husband’s thin waist, “Since you put it that way,” she replied, “it is a beautiful day.”

The two walked on in companionable silence. Cathal was dressed in the outfit of a country gentleman; brown woolen trousers tucked into his Wellington boots, an argyle sweater vest, tweed jacket with corduroy patches on the sleeves and a flat hat to keep the sun from his eyes. Evelyn also wore corduroy trousers tucked into her wellies with a grey oversized Aranknit jumper stretching well down her thighs. Her amazing mop of tightly curled redblonde hair defied any attempt to contain it in headgear so it danced naturally in the breeze. Evelyn linked her arm with her husband’s and nearly skipped along in stark contrast to his leisurely pace.

The couple continued on, commenting on the beauty of the flora they encountered and laughing at the antics of Molly the wolfhound who, at the time, was being tormented by a magpie. Cathal whistled and Molly obediently deserted the bird and returned to his master’s side. “That’s a battle you’ll not win girl,” he told the dog as he rubbed her ear. The magpie flew off and Cathal released to dog who loped off in search of new discoveries.

As Molly neared a copse of hawthorn bushes, she suddenly froze in her tracks, and then glanced back at the O’Sullivans who were by then at least fifty yards behind and further down the hill. They were accustomed to the dog’s habit of keeping an eye on them ensuring, they supposed, that as the couple was in Molly’s care she would not want them to wander off. As a result, they paid her little attention and continued on their way. Molly, however, did not move. Rather, she lowered herself onto her forearms and hocks and rested her nose against her find.

It was several minutes before the O’Sullivans noticed that Molly had disappeared from view. This was of no major concern to the couple because the field was vast and Molly was well trained. She could easily be hidden in a deep dip in the terrain or behind a fence or hedgerow. In fact she was only several yards from them but higher up on the hill and sitting on her haunches in the hawthorn grove. Cathal and Evelyn slowed their pace and looked around waiting for the dog to reappear but when she failed to emerge, Cathal whistled confident that the dog would take his position at his master’s side. Another few moments passed but still the dog did not appear.

Puzzled now, more than concerned, the two slowly retraced their steps trying to determine the last place she had been seen. As they reached the place just below where Molly crouched they heard a strange whine, not a whine of pain or fear but a sound that had never before been part of Molly’s communication skills. Turning toward its source, they began their climb up the hill until the dog came into view.

“What is it girl?” Evelyn asked as Molly inclined his head toward her voice. “What have you found?”

As the couple reached the hawthorn bushes they stopped in shocked silence. There in hollowed out granite stone lined with a small mattress was an infant boy who was certainly not more than several weeks old. The child, who was dressed in a simple gown fashioned from wool, smiled brightly as his right hand touched the big dog’s nose. Molly was obviously delighted, so she licked his tiny hand.

Evelyn stood in shock with her hands covering her mouth and repeated over and over again, “Oh my God…Oh my God…how…who could have done this?”

Cathal looked around half expecting to see someone fleeing from the scene. However, just as was the case when he was looking for Molly, not a person or animal was visible for as far as he could see.

Evelyn soon recovered from her shock and reaching down she picked the child up and cradled him in her arms. He responded with continued smiles and a bit of a gurgle and soon Evelyn was carrying on a perfectly nonsensical discussion with the infant. Molly meanwhile was justifiably proud of her role in the discovery and insisted that her nose remain in constant range of the infant’s hand.

Cathal stood aside stroking his chin, watching his wife’s antics. He quickly accepted the fact of the discovery and now he was trying to sort out how it was possible that the child would be left in the middle of a field many hundred yards from any possibility of discovery. Since babies did not just drop out of the sky, someone must have put him in the field. And if someone did leave the baby they must have know that there was only the most remote chance that someone, like the O’Sullivans, would happen upon the spot. Abandoning an infant in the middle of such a field was tantamount to killing the child. This was undoubtedly a mystery worthy of his favorite author, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Cathal began a clinical evaluation of the matter.

Obviously the child was well fed and clothed and as he was at least a month old, someone must have taken good care of the baby since birth. There was little question but that the child had recently been placed in the bushes because although he wore no diaper, the baby’s garment was not soiled. In addition, although it was a bright sunny day, the child’s face was pale white with no blush from the warm sunshine. And yet, Cathal and Evelyn had been leisurely walking these hills, in clear sight of the hawthorn copse, stopping occasionally to examine oddities, for at least an hour and they saw no one. Cathal looked around for some sign that someone beside his wife and himself had broken the knee-high grasses and weeds leading to the site, but he could see nothing. He could plainly see broken damp grasses showing their own path but it definitely appeared that no one else had walked these fields for at least several hours.

And then there was the most peculiar crib in which the child had been found. Cathal reached down to examine the rock and the mattress that lined its indentation. It was quite clear to him that hollowed section was man-made and the rock had been carved out for a specific use, perhaps as a large washbasin. On the other hand, it could just as easily have been fashioned for use as a crib because the mattress, which seemed to be made of rough cloth stuffed with feathers, was obviously custom made for the stone. The child had been secure and comfortable in his bed. Cathal tested the stone’s weight and immediately realized that it would take at least two very strong men to even lift the granite stone. To transport it onto the hillside would have required a wheelbarrow or handcart. Whatever about the lack of broken grasses caused by an individual, there was no visible indication that a wheeled vehicle had crossed the field.

While Evelyn continued to rock the baby and delight in his happy reaction to her attention, Cathal began to search the bushes for anything that may help to identify the baby or his parents. His scientific mind could make no sense of the situation but perhaps someone left something behind, a letter of regrets for example, to explain the child’s presence. His preliminary search found nothing but then, he spotted what appeared to be an old woolen blanket on the hill beneath the hawthorn bushes. Cathal missed it at first glance because it was a brownish green that blended with the bushes, but now he climbed up to take a closer look. There were, in fact, two blankets that were bundled around something and tied at the top with rough twine.

Cathal opened the first of the bundles and when the contents spilled out, he stood in shocked amazement. What he saw was to him even more surprising than the sudden discovery of a newborn infant in the middle of a field.

Wrapped in the rough blanket was an assortment of the most amazing Celtic design artifacts that he had ever encountered. The collection included bracelets, broaches, disks, torques, rings and two goblets. The specimens were predominately gold or bronze plated in gold and each was in pristine condition. As a professor of Celtic studies, Cathal had vast experience in studying Celtic treasures that occasionally turned up in Irish bog lands but as incredible as those finds were, they could not hold a candle to what laid in the blanket.

Cathal quickly unwrapped the second bundle disclosing only one additional item, a long sword and leather scabbard, again in pristine condition. From the markings on the handle and scabbard, Cathal knew that the sword was also decorated in a Celtic style and, if authentic, would have dated from a time well before the birth of Christ. Cathal slowly bent and plunked himself on a flat rock, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Darling,” he finally said to his wife. “If you have a moment to spare from Molly’s baby, perhaps you could have a look at this.”

Evelyn turned and made the short climb to where Cathal sat and stared at the collection laying on the ground.

“Oh my,” Evelyn explained not nearly as taken aback as had been her husband. “What a remarkable collection. There must be a fortune in gold or gold leaf on that blanket. I wonder who crafted them.”

Cathal replied, “I thought that maybe you might have some idea. You would know nearly everyone in the country who works with gold.”

Evelyn agreed, picking up an intricately patterned disk about a foot in diameter. “…At least everyone who appears at markets and shows. Although, I have never seen anything like this. The detail and designs are perfect replicas of the authentic article. They couldn’t be real, could they?”