CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Michael awakened to the subdued sounds of guests conversing. B&Bs were a new experience for him; it was a like a home away from home.
He noticed the lace tablecloths that were covered with clear plastic. The huge breakfast was a social gathering; couples shared experiences with fellow travelers. And there was tea—lots of tea. He sat with the couple he had met the night before.
He quizzed Mrs. Ryan about Trinity College. There was an air of pride in her voice as she spoke. “Did you view the Book of Kells, Mr. Evans?”
“I visited Trinity yesterday. The book is a laborious work of art; do you know the details on the manuscript’s early years?”
“Not really. I know it was written by some monks hundreds of years ago, and I think some pages are missing. The detailed artwork and colors are its claim to fame.”
Michael nodded and agreed. How little she knew, he mused. At this point he felt he could give a lecture on the book. In actuality, he had barely scratched the surface of the book’s history. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than arriving in Slane and beginning the search. Could it still be there, if it ever had been?
The bus headed for Slane left at two in the afternoon. Slane, at last!
CHAPTER THIRTY
The ride to Slane was a kick in itself; there was always a friendly soul to share a story. The trip was quick, and the B&B was within walking distance of the bus stop. This guesthouse was a little different, as he had his own bathroom. Mrs. O’Hagan was a jolly widow and ran the place with her son.
Michael explained he was on vacation, wishing to take pictures of farm sites and dilapidated stone barns. “I’m not sure how long I will stay, Mrs. O Hagan. I would like to take pictures in different weather conditions.”
“Oh, dearie, that’ll be fine with us. The single room is not often booked; it’s vacant for at least the coming month.”
“I promise to give you a day or two notice.”
“We can work it out, to be sure.”
“This is a beautiful part of the country with loads of old farmhouses. I’ll do some sightseeing for the rest of today. I also want to do some hiking, perhaps rent a car for a day or so. Do they have bicycles for rent?”
Mrs. O’Hagan was quick to respond. “Go on with ya! You can use Danny’s bike. He hasn’t used it since he bought his scooter.”
“That’s great. I’ve noticed many stone walls marking the properties. Do the land owners mind if I hike in the fields? By the way, why did they use stones for their fences and barns? That seems like a lot of work.”
“This area was originally full of stones. T’was impossible to till the land. When they removed the stones, it made good sense to use them for their homes and fencing. It helps keep the sheep from awanderin’.”
“It’s amazing how these fences have stood the test of time.”
“Aye, there’s no cement to keep them upright, just excellent stonemasonry.”
“I see a lot of black and white herding dogs.”
“’Tis the Border Collie; they are the best for our needs. They are a true working dog, the best sheepherders in the world. Our Molly has been with us for years. She’s part of our family. She would probably love to join you on a hike, if you don’t mind her nippin’ at your heels; she’ll think you’re one of her sheep.”
“That would be great fun for me.” He thought the bike and dog would render him less of an outsider.
The small talk seemed endless, but necessary. He needed to find out any and all tidbits about this vicinity. His stomach was churning, as he was anxious to see the area. Maybe the dog would be a good idea. If someone surprised him while he was digging, perhaps he could blame the dog.
At last, he was set free from the rambling conversation. He strolled out, camera and backpack in hand. His mission was to become familiar with the lay of the land. He wanted the locals to think of him as a familiar sight, wandering around with his camera and a dog.
He walked along the street, making obvious use of his elaborate secondhand camera, which had been purchased in Dublin.
It was a grey afternoon, and a faint drizzle was spritzing his cheeks. The crisp air was cleansing, and he felt relaxed. The countryside was literally overrun with sheep. The farmers used the roads to transport them from one grazing area to another. Most of the homes were modest and mundane in appearance.
He had dinner at a local hotel. The mussels from the cold Atlantic waters were the best he’d ever tasted, and a little white wine helped reduce his recurring jitters. He wiped his mind clear of his mission and indulged in a pleasant conversation with a professor from Scotland. The conversation was light; neither man wished to share anything other than the weather and the news of the day.
The evening ended early; Michael had no firm plans for the following day. He wanted to continue familiarizing himself with the area. In such a small town, he imagined he would stick out like a sore thumb for a few days. If he did retrieve the cover, would he bolt? Yes, he would probably head out pretty fast. The more he watched the locals driving on the left side of the road, the more he realized he would be a fish out of water. He had nearly been hit just crossing the street as he looked to the wrong side when stepping off the curb.
His sleep was fitful, but morning offered up another delightful breakfast. He unwound somewhat due to the lively conversation of the other visitors at his table. As long as he had some intellectual encounter during the day, he enjoyed the intermittent solitary time to collect his thoughts.
One more day of sightseeing would be good. He joined a local bus tour of the area. The driver was well-informed, and the trip gave him an overall view of the Boyne Valley. He was able to ride in the front single seat across from the driver, which provided a bird’s eye view of the surrounding farms. The relics of older farms dotted the landscape.
They stopped at the tombs of Newgrange. He was shocked to learn the carbon-dated age of the dome-like structure. It was about thirty-two hundred years before Christ, four hundred years before the Pyramids, and one hundred years older than Stonehenge! Sara had mentioned these comparisons. He was puzzled that he had not heard of this area, as Stonehenge was well-publicized.
The passage into the tomb branched off in three directions. It appeared to be a crematorium for both humans and animals. On the initial day of winter solstice, a beam of light shone down into the heart of the chamber for a few minutes. Were people capable of building such a sophisticated structure in the era prior to the Egyptian pyramids? Well, the answer was yes.
They viewed the site of the Battle of the Boyne. It looked so peaceful; now a mere open grassy green area. It was hard to imagine the blood that was shed in this pastoral meadow. The land had survived, but not two thousand of King James’ warriors.
Monasterboice was next. It was founded in the late four hundreds and was an important center of religion in this era. The crosses were enormous.
One more day, he thought. Perhaps he would rent a car tomorrow, so he would have control over where he stopped. He knew a bicycle would be better, but rain was predicted. He would bite the bullet and rent a car; at this point, he was more familiar with the road. He would prefer a car if he found the treasure. At breakfast, an American had suggested that Michael wear his watch on his right wrist and make sure that same wrist was closest to the center of the road. He hoped it would be enough to keep him from getting into an accident.
After dinner, he emailed Sara, stating he was in Slane and enjoying the history. He ended with “More later.” He wondered what that “more” would be—with any luck, it would be good news. He turned in early.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Michael lingered over breakfast, hoping the weather would improve, but to no avail. He decided he would rent a car for the day, and he was hoping he could get an automatic because the stick shift was to the left of the driver. There were no real highways in this area. No one drove fast, and it was not uncommon to have to stop while
fifty to one hundred sheep crossed the road.
After breakfast, Michael walked over to the car rental place. “Good morning, sir. I would like a car for the day.”
“Aye, and a good morning to you. I’ve two vehicles left for today—or is it two days?”
“I’m not sure; are either of them available for an extra day if needed?”
“Aye, the Vauxhall is available, but it’s not an automatic.”
Michael smiled and joked with the man about his concerns. The man assured him that he would get used to the whole idea “quick as a wink.” Although he had his doubts, two days might be necessary to locate the exact area. Hell, he’d be lucky if it was only two days! They settled their arrangement, and he was on his way. He spent the morning wandering from one little town to the next, stopping at a local pub for lunch.
He found himself on the wrong side of the road twice. It was such a bizarre feeling, also, reaching down for the gearshift and instead, hitting the armrest of the door! At last he was ready to scout around for the exact location of the farmhouse. At lunch he found a secluded alcove and compared the current map with the photocopy of Sister Abreanne’s map. Things didn’t quite jibe with the maps. He hoped it would become clearer once he was driving.
After lunch, he hopped back in the car and headed for Duleek. The Abbey Tower was the starting point on Sister Abbey’s map. He found the tower, which was hidden by trees; it was in the heart of town. So far, so good. His next step was to head one mile west, then head north out of town for five miles, until he came to a small bridge. Soon after the bridge, there would be a small stone farmhouse on the right and a rundown barn with no roof and a crumbling east wall. There was supposed to be half of a chimney still standing. He was prepared for more deterioration at this point in time.
He had imagined high stone walls; instead, these structures were only about two or three feet high. The directions indicated there would be no gate, just a wide section of open wall. The next few miles passed as if he were wading through knee-high mud. His adrenaline was on high octane. What would he do if he found the place? Would he stop now, or just drive by? He decided on the latter. He wanted to scope out the area before diving into the anticipated task.
The car droned on. He tried to remain calm; after all, it could take weeks just to find the place. He passed over a bridge. Was this the bridge on the map? He drove over a small hillock, and his vision suddenly became blurred. He sensed he was about to see the actual farmhouse! This episode had happened to him before; it was not that he couldn’t see, but very little of the scene registered in his brain. It was as if he were in a heavy fog. Somehow, the humming of the car engine became his main focus. He wanted to pull over, but would he attract attention? In any case, the roads were narrow, so pulling over was not a great option. He was not ready for whatever he would see next. He needed to slow things down—take a deep breath.
As fate would have it, a tour bus in front of him slowed down for some reason. He was relieved; he could crawl along behind the bus as he collected his wits. He followed about one hundred feet behind the bus. This enabled him to see if anything came up on the right. All of a sudden, he saw pretty much exactly what the sister had described. There was a small cottage in disrepair with overgrown ivy and a disheveled yard. The ruins of the original barn were in shambles, but there was part of the stone perimeter and a dilapidated chimney still standing. Was this it? This was the correct mileage from the tower. Maybe he had found the place. It couldn’t be that easy! Surely, there were many similar homes. He had passed the bridge and the distance was correct. As he passed, he could not believe his eyes—there was a “For Sale” sign with a phone number.
He collected himself just as the tour bus came to a stop. Apparently there was an overturned tractor blocking the entire road. He stopped behind the bus, relieved to be at a standstill. He walked up to the bus. He could see the upset farmer with some other men, trying to upright the tractor.
“There’ll be a wee bit of a hold up,” grumbled the bus driver.
“Is there another road we can take?”
“Nay lad, there is no way down this road until we get that tractor righted up.”
Michael couldn’t believe his good fortune. He returned to the car and backed up a little. Was this divine intervention? Although he knew his assumption was extreme, for some reason, this thought gave him courage; he felt Sister Abbey was guiding him. Silly or not, the thought invigorated him. His plan was to turn around close to the sign and write down the phone number. Then he would drive back to town and devise a plan. As he neared the weathered sign, it was obvious the place had been for sale for a while. It was easy to remember Sean Flannery. He wrote the number on the back of his hand as he drove along. Why was it for sale? He understood that the nanny had set up some way to pay the taxes years in advance. Maybe it was way beyond that time frame.
Here was a new twist, but perhaps it would work in his favor. He reminded himself how he depended on Sara as a sounding board. He would email her tonight. Murphy’s Law—expect the unexpected. The past thirty minutes was proof of that.
He headed back to town, driving past the realtor’s address. The realtor had no competition that Michael could see. The office did have the customary exceptional entryway. He had noticed Ireland was full of doors painted in bright colors with elaborate hardware. This door was a bright, glossy yellow with attractive brass hardware. The proprietor was also an insurance agent and a notary public. It appeared that Flannery was (more or less) a jack-of-all-trades. Michael figured it would be pretty tough to make a living in such a small town.
He decided to call Sara instead of sending an email; he would wait until ten a.m. in New York. That would be around four p.m. in Slane.
The hours passed in slow motion. He found himself filled with excitement. He sat in the car for privacy and placed the call.
“Sara?”
“Michael! How good to hear your voice! Where are you?”
“I’m in Slane, doing some photography. I have found one property with a relic of a barn. It is very much like the picture we saw in your sister’s album.”
“Really!”
“I’ll return tomorrow to take some photos. The property is for sale. I guess it will be okay to poke around.”
“For sale?”
“Uh huh. I haven’t walked around it yet. It looks interesting. ”
“Do keep me posted.” There was a long pause, “How is everything?”
“Great. The people are beyond friendly, but I do miss all of you.”
“Dad and I miss you too.”
“Everyone else okay?”
“Yes, Joey is doing fine. Father is working hard to have his case heard by a sympathetic judge rather than a jury. It’ll probably be heard in a few months. He is out on bail.”
“And your Dad?”
“Working hard as usual; Manny is filling your role.”
“Good. Well, I’ll be in touch soon. Say hello to everyone for me.”
“I will. Bye for now.”
Michael hung up the phone, trying to keep his excitement in check. The next couple of days would be endless. This was the crux of the whole mission—the bottom line!
He spent the rest of the evening planning his next move. He concluded there was nothing wrong with going back tomorrow and sniffing around. He would take his camera and maybe the dog. The weather report was good, but the car might be a better idea. The rain often arrived unannounced. He had dinner in a local pub. After a couple of drinks and some conversation, he headed back to his room and turned in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Breakfast was served—yet another gargantuan meal. He ate at a leisurely pace, and then headed out with his poncho in his backpack. The weather was so-so, with some threat of rain. At the last minute, he decided to load the bike in the trunk. A Dublin waitress had commented with humor that he might experience four seasons in twenty-four hours. He came to the conclusion she wa
s not joking.
He stopped at a hardware store in a nearby town and bought a trowel and a hunting knife. He was calm today, even though he was stepping closer to the possibility of an incredible find. Confidence and familiarity were paramount, as he was not searching in his own backyard. He wanted to be able to make spur-of-the-moment decisions with ease.
As he got close to the area, he pulled over and left the car, deciding to continue on with the bike. He was sure he would appear less threatening to any casual observer if he were riding a bike. He had decided against the dog—the camera would establish his intent.
He made it to the little property in short time. It was now misting; he put on his poncho over the top of the backpack. He felt like a tiger tracking its prey. He circled, faking interest in his photos, but in reality, his only concern was the bottom fifth stone from the northeast corner.
He continued to set the stage. The odds of someone watching him were slim; the nearest farm was a distance away. In a casual fashion, he walked over to the stone remnants of the original barn. If the pit of his stomach was the gauge for his anxiety, it was registering fifteen on a scale of one to ten. He had waded through the foot-tall, damp grass. Entering the dilapidated stone structure, his stomach turned to a knotted mass. Counting off the stones that made up the partially visible bottom row, he held his breath. One, two, three, four, five; he did not bend over, but tapped the fifth stone.