| |
––––––––
They parked in a secluded area and made their way on foot to the harbor. The place was deserted save for an old man with gnarled hands and leathery skin. Very few boats made the risky journey to the Skellig Islands and none went at this time of night. Fortunately, Doyle knew of an old fisherman with a leaky boat and a drinking problem whose services could be bought any time of night. Sobriety, the Garda warned, was not guaranteed, but the man could be counted on.
The fisherman introduced himself as Conway. His breath reeked of whisky, but his handshake was firm and his eyes clear.
“You know the Skelligs are off-limits this time of year,” Conway said. “It’s dangerous.”
“As I said, it’s Gardai business.” Doyle took out his wallet, counted out a hundred euros, and handed them to the old sailor. The notes disappeared into an inside pocket of Conway’s stained overcoat.
“Let’s get on with it,” Conway said. “Still can’t believe you’re fool enough to go to the Skelligs.”
The Skellig Islands were rocky, deserted islands off Ireland’s southwest coast near the tiny fishing village of Portmagee. They drew their name in part from the Irish word sceilig, meaning “a splinter of stone.” Greater Skellig, known as Ireland’s Machu Picchu, was home to the ruins of a sixth-century Gaelic monastery and other spots of historical and archaeological interest. Grey seals and several species of seabird made their home on Greater Skellig and the nearby Lesser Skellig, an island so small and forbidding that boats did not try to land there.
As they rode through the choppy sea, they discussed the clue that had brought them to the islands.
“Explain to me again what a ley line is,” Doyle said.
“A ley line is a straight line on a map that connects sites of historical significance,” Bones said. “Some people believe that certain ley lines mark anomalies in the earth’s magnetic field.”
“I thought they were connected to UFOs.”
“Some people have made that claim,” Bones said.
“Do you believe in all that nonsense? Metaphysics, the supernatural?” Doyle said.
“I’m open to evidence and new insights,” Bones said. “But if you’re honest with yourself, you believe in the supernatural, too.”
“The hell I do.”
“Do you believe in miracles? Answered prayer? Angels?”
“Point taken.” Doyle scratched his chin, nodded thoughtfully. “And what’s the connection to Great Skellig?”
“Saint Michael’s Sword is the name given to a ley line that runs from Israel to Ireland and is perfectly aligned with the sunset on the day of the summer solstice,” Bones explained. “If you draw a straight line from its starting to ending points, the line covers monasteries and shrines across the Middle East and Europe, every one of them dedicated to the archangel Michael.”
Maddock expected Doyle to scoff, but the Garda listened intently. He appeared troubled. He turned and gazed out at the horizon. The dark outline of Skellig Michael was just visible in the distance. Doyle mumbled something, shook his head. Finally, he shrugged, turned back to face Maddock and Bones again.
“There is something I ought to tell you. It’s probably nonsense, but it’s what the Servati believe, so it might be important.”
“Go on,” Maddock said.
“Saint Patrick didn’t drive any snakes out of Ireland.”
“We know,” Maddock said. “Because of the Ice Age, Ireland’s distance from the mainland, the climate...”
Doyle made a swiping gesture. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” He took a deep breath. “I feel foolish talking about it.”
“Try us,” Bones said. “We might surprise you.”
“Most people believe that the snakes are a metaphor for the pagans who inhabited Ireland. According to the Servati, the snakes were actual dragons.”
“We’re listening,” Maddock said.
“The Servati claim these dragons are essentially demons. They come from the depths of Hell itself and pass through gateways into our world.”
Maddock nodded. He had faced a dragon before and had helped send the creature back where it came from. Hell had never been mentioned.
“I’m not sure I believe it myself, but the Servati not only insist it is true, but one of the organization’s secret duties is to battle these dragons. There is a famous work of art that depicts Saint Servatius crushing a dragon. Some claim it’s based on a true story.”
“Would you think I’m crazy if I told you I’ve seen and fought a dragon from another plane of existence?” Maddock asked.
“Are you winding me up?” the Garda asked.
“Not at all. The world is filled with phenomena science can’t yet explain, but that doesn’t make it any less real.”
“Did you hear that?” Bones said. “Maddock is finally coming around.”
“My granddad used to say a dragon lived under the island,” the fisherman piped up.
“Seriously?” Bones asked.
The old fisherman gazed out across the water as he began his tale.
“Saint Patrick faced his greatest adversaries when he battled the minions of the dragon gods, the Tuatha de Danann.”
“Dragon gods?” Maddock said.
“I always heard that they were magical beings like elves,” Bones said.
“That is the familiar legend, but my grandfather and those who keep to the old ways, know they were much more. The greatest of their dragons was a fearsome beast. Inside her dwelled an evil spirit called Cailleach, but the Romans knew her as Cybele, Mother of the Gods.
Cailleach and Saint Patrick eventually met at Great Skellig, where Patrick imprisoned her beneath the earth.”
Maddock nodded. At least one medieval historian had identified Great Skellig as the site of Saint Patrick’s legendary final battle against the serpents that plagued Ireland.
“How did Patrick defeat the dragon?” Doyle asked.
“The Christians say it was by the power of their God. The Pagans claim Patrick turned the Tuatha’s magic against them.” Conway grinned. “But my Granddad said it was both.”
“Does the term Emerald Dragon mean anything to you?” Maddock asked.
“Cailleach was known as the Beast of the Emerald Isle.”
“Any idea what would happen if Cailleach got loose again?” Bones asked.
The fisherman looked up at the cloudy sky and frowned. “Bad things.”
“That’s helpful,” Bones muttered.
“Suppose someone wanted to release this dragon,” Maddock said. “Does the legend tell how they would go about it?”
The old man scratched the heavy stubble on his chin. “All I know is you need a special key.”
“Which we don’t have,” Bones said.
“Walsh or Eden must have one,” Maddock said, “if they believe they can raise the dragon.”
“Despite what my church brethren have told me, I am struggling to believe we are talking about a literal dragon,” Doyle said.
“If I were you, I would open my mind, and fast,” Bones said.
“What if I prefer to retain a healthy dose of skepticism?” Doyle said.
“Do whatever you want,” Maddock said, “but try not to let the shock paralyze you when find yourself questioning everything you thought you knew.”
