THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                               Chapter Eleven

                                                         Secrets of the cottage

 

“Inspector,” David called out, “just come and take a look at this.” He had been poking around by the side of the fireplace in the lounge, and had inadvertently tripped on a rug. This had caused the rug to slide on the polished floor boards, and while replacing the rug he had noticed some very slight marks on the polished floor boards. To the right of the fire place was an area of four painted wooden panels, each about three feet square and three panels high. Further to the right, was a double cupboard in similar painted panelling, each door being about four feet wide, from floor to ceiling.

         Altogether it was a very dominant feature and the pictures depicted a varied amount of subjects, mostly weird and garish.  It was not David concluded, a particularly attractive collection of artwork. 'Probably an original fitting when the house was built' he thought 'when tastes were different'. The only other adornment was on the two very tall cupboard doors where a pair of large round pot knobs by which to open them were fitted. He was surprised to notice that the broad skirting board was part of the cupboard doors and opened with them, thus revealing a deep space with about five shelves, on which all manner of things were stored.  Ornaments, some kitchen equipment, boxes and packets, and lots of general household items. There were even some walking boots, two pairs of Wellington's, and a couple of umbrellas. Also in the bottom section David found some garden tools, a spade and a fork and a rake. Also a folding steps ladder, tall enough to enable him to reach the contents of the top shelf.

          However it was the marks on the floor in front of the left cupboard that gained David’s curiosity. They were very light and only noticeable from certain angles but once seen could not be unseen. One was six seven or seven inches long, a light scrape and though only just discernible, it was quite clearly part of an arc.  Opening the cupboard door soon confirmed that the mark was made by it, for it perfectly matched the marks on the floor. David’s curiosity was satisfied. However he could not quite let it go. He had noticed that beyond the natural swing of the cupboard was another longer mark which did not fit the arc of the heavy doors movement. So while one of the marks was made by the cupboard door, the other was not not. And if it was not the cupboard door, what then?.

          Examining the fixed panels between the fireplace and the cupboard at first revealed nothing, but David felt convinced that there was something odd about it. Tapping on the wooden panels produced a slightly hollow sound, but it told him little. Panelling would sound like that whatever kind of wall lay behind it. Pushing it and pressing was no more rewarding, and gradually David’s conviction began to wane. 

          But something had caused that mark on the floor. There had to be a reason. What if, he wondered, it was to do with the 'fixed' panels. A secret door perhaps? The mark would certainly to line up if the panel was hinged on its right side. There was no sign of such a hinge, but still intrigued David took another look inside the large cupboard, moving everything from the left side of the shelves, as far to the right as possible, so he could see if there was anything which might act as an opening device. The only thing he could see were three hooks screwed into the wooden sides about shoulder height. These were matched by three more on the opposite side, but what was their purpose. Hanging cups perhaps, though they were rather large for that, and in any case, why would they be kept in this cupboard when all the other crockery was kept in the kitchen. A cord across might allow for drying small items of clothes, but somehow that seemed unlikely. At the moment they provided a home for an old hat and a small rucksack, and what looked like a bag of overripe and slightly smelly apples. Perhaps they provided no other function than to hang bags on, but David would not leave it until he was sure.

          After removing those items he pulled at the hooks, tried to twist them, pushed them up, pulled them down, but they did not move, and neither did anything else.  He tried every way he could to move them, but they remained stubbornly unmoved. Then he noticed that the wooden sides on both sides of the cupboard were made of similar width horizontal slats, except for the section on the left were the hooks were.  All three hook were attached to the wider, single panel.

          The fingers on his left hand would stretch open just wide enough to touch the nearest two hooks, and with his right hand on the far one he pressed upwards.  Nothing positive happened, but David, though awkwardly placed, sensed an almost imperceptible feeling of movement and the quietest, barely audible sound of something ‘giving’. It was a tiny movement; but it was enough to encourage further experiment.

            He looked around for something to use as a lever.  By the fireside was a basket for logs, but it contained only one; too short and too fat. What else?  In the kitchen he found a drawer containing cutlery. Would it be wide enough?  Quickly tipping its contents on the work top, he returned to the lounge, and to the task in hand. He had judged the hooks to be about seven or eight inches apart, and the cutlery box about fifteen inches wide. It might just do. David was pleased when he positioned the box under the three hooks and found that it was just wide enough to apply pressure to them all equally, if still a little awkward. Feeling that this might be his last gasp, he wasn’t going to be half hearted, and he gave a mighty shove, pushing upwards as hard as his rather unwieldy tool would allow

.         At first there was nothing, but then, suddenly, as if the inertia of a long time with little use had been overcome, it shot up with a thud, the whole panel moving about two inches, and at the same time David heard, somewhere to his left, the satisfying sound of a clunk, as some kind of lock was released.  Removing himself from the cupboard, his body tingling with anticipation, he returned his attention to the panelled section between the cupboard and the fireplace.

          If he had made any progress it was now he would know, so he was elated to see that his suspicions confirmed. A narrow space all the way from ceiling to floor had appeared slightly separating  the two left hand panels from the two on the right.

          “So it is a door,” David muttered; “a secret door; possibly two doors. But where too?”

          With growing excitement he managed to get the tips of his fingers into the little crack and slowly but firmly eased one side open. He had to move a chair and push back the rug to allow the door to swing all the way open until it obscured part of the cupboard, and he was quietly pleased to notice that at one point, exactly where the marks were, it lightly scraped the floor.  This was quickly followed by opening the other side.

          Now both doors were wide open, and David stared in amazement, for he had revealed not a passage or steps to an unknown basement but a space about half the depth of the adjacent cupboard. The back wall of which had similar depictions of hellish activities as those which were on display on the outside of these newly discovered doors which were lined with book shelves containing  about twenty hardback books on each side. The panel facing him was also adorned devilish paintings four in all. With more than a little curiosity he moved in closer to inspect his find, and at first he was a little disappointed, for despite the heavily decorated back of the door, he seemed to have discovered little more than a bookcase. But closer inspection revealed that it was a bookcase with a difference. Filled to capacity it would easily accommodate two hundred books, yet in fact there were less than thirty. However, some of the shelf space was occupied by boxes; some wooden, some cardboard in varying sizes. The largest was a fine polished box of rich dark oak, about fifteen inches long by eight inches wide and ten inches high. It was decorated with an intricate inlaid pattern in a lighter wood around to top, and the four sides. It was furnished with elaborate bronze fittings, including a lavishly carved handle, and a lock complete with key.

          Lifting this, and the other boxes down to the floor allowed David to inspect more carefully. The most obvious thing was that this cavity was only half the depth of the cupboard to which it was attached, prompting David to consider the possibility of further discoveries  He removed all of the books, placing them in little piles on the dining table, and then began to repeat the process around and about the hidden bookshelf convinced that he had not yet uncovered all its secrets. This time it was easier. Firstly he found that all the shelves on the back panel were fixed and solid, and that getting hold of one of them and pulling firmly caused some movement. There had been no levers or catches to find, no springs or hidden knobs.  Just a firm pull and the whole of the bookcase came smoothly forward as though it were on wheels. Silently it slid forward until it seemed that it would come right out, but before it reached the front it somehow engaged some kind of a hinge device on the left, causing it to turn until the whole panel had shifted through ninety degrees, before it completed its outward movement. As it did so it revealed an astonishing centrepiece flanked by two stunning wings.

.         David stood in amazement and could hardly believe his eyes. He had discovered what looked like an ancient shrine.

          “Inspector,” David called, more urgently this time, for Bryndle had not responded to his last call, “you really must come and take a look at this.”

          Together they stared at the ‘shrine’. With both sides fully opened they could see that the walls behind the bookshelves were decorated in similar style to the back of the secret door, and now they could see its full extent, its indisputable, if slightly sinister, splendour. The back space was mainly occupied with one central figure surrounded by smaller panels each depicting a god-like figure. But the outer panels were as nothing compared to what now was revealed. They provided spectacular support to stunning centrepiece. Behind the moveable book panel was a hidden gloriously painted panel, depicting at its centre, almost life size, a woman of dazzling beauty, loosely attired in a shift, a veil like garment of red gossamer silk, carefully draped to hide, and amazingly at the same time to tantalisingly reveal, her femininity. And by doing so, it was emphasising her strength, for in her face, despite her undoubted beauty and femaleness was another quality; another characteristic which left the two men strangely scared. They saw in her gaze, a gaze that fixed upon them, a gaze from which it was impossible to escape, something of inhumanity and tyranny. It was a look that froze the blood.

          Beneath this picture was the perfectly inscribed legend, Morrigan; a name that was unfamiliar to the two men looking at her at this moment.  Neither of whom had anything to say; both for the moment speechless. All around the central figure were paintings of other figures, smaller paintings of men and women, mostly draped in a similar way, some not draped at all, and each one gazing with apparent adoration at that thing of beauty at their centre. All of the pictures were bordered by an intricate pattern of intertwined lines, like a never ending repeating symbol.

          Each painting was named just like the large one, but none of the names meant any more to Bryndle than the name Morrigan, though in David’s mind a faint memory was stirring

          It must have been a full five minutes before either of the men spoke again, and then, as if some kind of spell was broken, the both started to speak at the same time.

          “What can it b...?” David started, as the Inspector unintentionally interrupted.

          “I’ve never seen anyt.....sorry, after you.”

          “Whatever can it be, I was about to say ... who is she, and what is it all about?”

          “Beats me.” concluded Bryndle, unable at the moment to add anything, but then, as though he wanted to break free from her mesmeric stare, he turned away.   

          "Anything familiar?" asked the police inspector, "or anything that looks unusual?"

          "Not for certain, but there is just one little thing.” He waited for Bryndle to comment, but he remained silent, so David carried on “The only thing that comes to my mind is Morrigan - the big picture."

          "What does she tell you?"

          "I don't know for sure; it might be coincidence but that name comes up in one of the Wagner opera's."

          "A fat lot of good that’s going to be," Bryndlel cut in rather curtly, wanting to clear his head, “we’ll be looking for Maria Callas next."

          "Sorry; but you did say anything," David was a touch upset to have been dismissed in such a fashion. “And after all it is part of theatre, Richard's world ... and Wagner was not unaware of the dark side of the human condition.” And then he added, “If you ask me I think she is some kind of a witch, and maybe that’s what we are up against.”

          Unimpressed Bryndle walked towards the dinning table where David had put the books and sat down to look at them. Most of them dealt with the history of Wales or Ireland in one form or another, and some were stories of America in the period of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He flicked through them one at a time looking for something; anything; but not knowing what. Frustrated rather than bored he pushed them aside. “Wonder what’s in the boxes?”

          David lifted up the polished oak box and placed it on the table. Had its handle been on the side it would have been rather like a wooden instrument case, or a box for special tools, but its beautifully shaped handle was on the top, and almost the full length of lid.  Miniature animals of unknown variety and humans with animal heads contorted themselves to create a handle shape, while it was attached to the case itself by two hands with long nails seemingly coming through the lid and holding on to their ungodly victims with an everlasting grip. It was an astonishingly beautiful box, made without doubt by a fine craftsman, and it was inlaid around the edge of each face with the same pattern they could see bordering the pictures in the shrine.

          The key turned easily, and the lid, only about half an inch in depth, lifted smoothly and without a sound, leaving the contents of the box free to be seen once a covering layer of very fine and delicate silk was removed.

          “I wonder what it is?” David allowed his thought to escape, for he was not really addressing the inspector, but looking at the white silk covering whatever it was hidden beneath it.

          “Only one way to find out.” said Bryndle, and it was he who reached down to carefully move aside the soft paper.  It was a bright red material that now met their gaze, and for just a moment Bryndle resisted, until the policeman in him took over.

          “Let’s have a look.” he said briskly, and in one movement it was out of the box, and suspended from Bryndle’s hands, arms outstretched and held aloft to display the large red velvet cloak. Unadorned with ermine or silk, its only relief were some toggle like fastenings. He held it for a few minutes, and then, arms aching, he laid it on the floor.

          “There’s something else.” he said , nodding at the box.

          David reached down and drew out a red silken drape, light as a feather, soft as down, and almost transparent.

          “What can it mean?” David said.

          “Some kind of ceremonial gowns no doubt.” Bryndle answered  “Do you know of any organisation he was in?”

          “I guess he had lots of connection in the theatre,” he stopped, puzzled,  “but if this is a theatre gown, why is it here, and in such an ornate box?”

          David got up to go to where the other boxes were stacked, but then he stopped, his gaze once again on the picture of Morrigan.  In particular the transparent silken veil draped over her shoulder, and the red cloak lying at her feet.

          They were the same as the ones in the box.

          More puzzled than ever he went to the other boxes, half a dozen of varying sizes, mainly filled with small books and magazines.  Casually he emptied the first box, which were chiefly books on subjects related to times long gone.  But then he come to one about witches, and their persecution. Here he found the first shred of evidence that might start to make sense of all that had happened. Bryndle had wandered across and now they were both going through the boxes.  He had found some hand written accounts of witch trials in the town of Salem in America.

          Suddenly he stopped and whistled to himself. "What do you make of this?" he asked, looking at David. "Thomas Bomally arrested and sent for trial," he paused, again looking at David, "charged with witchcraft."

          "When was that?"  David asked; naturally curious because of the name."

          "It says eighteen seventy one."

          "I know that some of my ancestors emigrated to America after the famine in Ireland - about eighteen fifty six or seven I think. One of them might have been that Thomas. But the only Thomas I know about came back to Liverpool, so it doesn’t sound like him."

          “Here’s another one.” Without saying another word he passed over what looked like a home made scrap book, its pages irregular and apparently random, where they had been stuck in manually.  David took the book and in a moment found the heading;  

                  It was a cutting from a Salem newspaper, dated 1875

​

          The Irish immigrant labourer, Thomas Bomally, who

          had been arrested by the anti witch committee, and

          had admitted practising evil activities, has escaped. 

          He was to have been examined by the inquisitor,

          and then burned at the stake the following day.

         

          "What do you make of that? ... any connection do you think?"

          "All I know is that round about the eighteen fifties some of my ancestors left Ireland and went to America, but I don’t know their names. And more recently, somewhere about the early nineteen hundreds I think, at least one of them came back and settled in Liverpool. He was my great Grandfather."

          David was unable to add anything more to that part of his family history, but felt uneasy, as if the discovery of that event over a hundred and thirty years ago was going to effect him in some way

          And then, remembering why he and Bryndle were delving into his brother's private life David asked  "But how can that have anything to do with Richard?" So absorbed had he become in what he had found in that strangely significant room, it was almost a shock to understand what their discoveries were starting to imply.

          The policeman looked across at David. "I don't know any more than you,” he replied, “but I feel certain that the answer to all our questions are here." He opened his arms and turned in a sweeping gesture. "Here in this room ...  and all we have to do is to find them."

          That statement, that positive assurance and authority somehow brought them both back to the task in hand. They had both been affected by their discovery, and in a very forceful way by Morrigan, who still fixed them in her steely gaze every time they looked at her.

          Between them they emptied all of the boxes on to the floor and spread the contents widely. It was mostly paper in one form or another, and some of it very old.  Gradually some kind of order established itself, as certain piles were formed.  Most of the American stuff turned out to have some connection to witches; their persecution, and their punishment. Another was concerned with Ireland and its folklore, as was the Welsh collection, with a particular link to its Celtic heritage and mythology.

          Gradually too, a picture of the family in those early years emerged, hazy and incomplete, but something of the influences of that time, and of earlier traditions started to show.

          It was David who finally found the key to it all, though its importance was not immediately apparent. It was, they were to discover, a family curse. In the back of an old book about Ireland’s connection with King Arthur he found a small piece of parchment, so old and thin that it was falling apart. Even though at that moment he was unaware of its significance, by its very nature it called for careful handling.

          That it was faded and unclear was the first difficulty.  That it was written in a form of Gaelic, long forgotten was another.  But there were two words he did recognise and that was enough for him to know that it was important. 

          Bomally and Morrigan.

          He passed the fragile document to Bryndle.  He looked at David and shrugged.

          "I wonder," he said "if this might just be the first piece of the jig saw."

          They both felt that the little piece of paper, so small and seemingly insignificant, could be a first step in the right direction. What they did not know however, was in which direction they were heading. And had they known it is doubtful they would have wished to continue.

          The search continued throughout the day, and by the time they left a fuller picture of Richard had emerged.  Far from complete, but it depicted a young man caught up with forces beyond their comprehension, almost too bizarre for them, especially David, to understand.

          Two other discoveries had been made, but neither David or Bryndle could tell if they helped to clarify anything, or simply muddied the water further. First, another newspaper 'cutting' had been found, apparently from the same source as the others.

​

                   Body in river -  might be the ‘witch’ Bomally. 

                  A body found in the river is thought to be that

                  of the Irish Immigrant who escaped from prison

                  three weeks ago, where he was waiting to be

                  tried and executed on a charge of witchcraft.

 

          This was interesting to David, though he still had no way of knowing if there was a link to his own family, and even allowing that there may be, he did not have the means to prove it.

          "And don't forget," he told Bryndle, who wasn't really interested in family history "if it was 'my' Thomas Bomally, how did he manage to get back to Liverpool if he drowned in that river?"

          Bryndle conceded that point, but then, significantly, he said  "Didn't you tell me that he was with his brother?" he yawned, feeling the strain of the day. "Perhaps it was the brother who was supposed to have drowned."

          "Or maybe it was the brother who came back to Liverpool. ... and maybe we will never know."

          The other was a list of names; all Bomally's, and all male. It was undated, and look quite old, but the last four names on the list made David shiver. They were: Gerald; Frederick; Richard; David.

          "Who are they all, and who made this list, and is that me at the end or is it just coincidence?" He looked to Bryndle for some answers, but there were none forthcoming.

          Bryndle had made one note after another, and had promised to seek some advice on ancient Welsh culture, in particular Morrigan and her followers.  Moreover, he was keen to know what words of magic or mayhem were to be found on that scrap of faded parchment, and the list of names.

          They were just more unanswered questions. But in the days that followed there would be more of those, and David was to have many a surprise. Visiting Becky in the hospital, and studying the books and papers found in Richards cottage had kept him pretty busy, and he hoped that Bryndle had been successful in his quest to have the little parchment document translated.

          He had not seen Bryndle for a week, or heard from him for three days.  Of Richard himself there had been no sign, and it was very worrying. His mind had been working overtime churning all the facts over and over again until he was dizzy, but there was so much he did not understand.

          Oddly David had almost got used to working alongside Bryndle and even, despite of his early misgivings, was starting to like him.  But it had become a strange partnership. As a suspect he had been subject to one side of the policeman's persona, but then, when circumstances had changed and they had become allies, he had discovered a new and more friendly side to the police inspector.  No doubt their common aim was the reason for them joining forces; finding and then apprehending Richard being their first priority, but there were other factors which created a sort of a bond.

          David’s family had been split asunder by the events of recent months, and from odd comments here and there he had gleaned that Bryndle’s family life had ended in acrimony and almost total separation from wife and his daughter.

          The telephone rang, and David was pleased to hear the slightly northern tones of his friend the inspector.

          "Bryndle" he said in his welcoming voice, "Speak of the devil; good to hear from you; I was thinking you must have gone back to Oxford."

          "As a matter fact I have, that's where I am now, and you may not be far off the mark.”

          “How so?”

          “You seemed to have enough on your plate looking after Miss Carr - is she out of hospital yet, by the way ? - and I needed to get some expert help, and there is nowhere better than here for that."

          David was nonplussed, not knowing which strand of that multi faceted statement to respond to first.

          "Becky should be out of hospital tomorrow, I'll be looking after her here at the cottage for a while before we set off to Oxfordshire." He paused to recollect his thoughts. "You said I was not far off the mark; what did you mean by that? and you mentioned expert help; any progress in that direction?”

          "Too many questions, and you are in for a surprise I think, but you will have to be patient.  It's too complicated for the phone, so there's a letter on its way to you from one of my friends here at the university.  She's a professor from the Department of Ancient Studies, and she has been fascinated by you little find;  you'll probably get her letter in the morning.”

          "Is that it for now then?" David asked, and then added, not waiting for a reply, "nothing new at my end - still no sight or sound of Richard."

          "So I hear, I have spoken to your sergeant Harris.  He says he doesn't think he is still around."

          Again ignoring Bryndle’s insistence that Harris was in some way ‘his’, David put the phone down. There was nothing more to say, Bryndle would not explain what he meant by saying ‘not far off the mark’. ‘Infuriating’ David muttered, but he was gone now, so he tried to keep busy until it was time to visit the hospital again.

          It had been a long night during which David managed little sleep. Things had slowed down so much, and he was at a loss to know how to react. Finding his brother’s body, only to discover that it wasn’t him, had caused him some grief, but that was now behind him. The excitement of finding the shrine was also behind him, except that David could not forget that it was there even though everything had been returned and the secret door firmly closed.

          Why it was there in the first place was simply another unanswered question to add to the list, as was ‘why was it kept secret?  Was it just another facet of the strange world that Richard had chosen to inhabit, and the even stranger company he was keeping?

          For the moment Bryndle had gone, other duties calling, and now David felt uneasy, uncertain of his next move. To make things worse, the cottage seemed cold and eerie. During his stay he had become more aware of its poor state of repair, and now it's persona as a cottage by the seaside had changed. It was simply an old house; remote, quite large, uninviting, and a little intimidating.

           So many mixed emotions, and there seemed to be no way to properly express any of them. David had almost forgotten that not long ago he had the love of a wonderful woman, and of a loving father. What was left of that?  His father was dead, and so, he was almost sure, was Becky's love. His recent visits to her at the hospital had not been encouraging. She had expressed gratitude for saving her life, but at the same time she had reminded him that she had actually tried to end it.      

          “Unfair.” he had exclaimed for she had clearly been under some kind of influence when she jumped. Never-the-less, she had not expressed one word of love.

          As for Richard, his brother! He was gone too; forever perhaps. But it was he who had stolen everything that mattered from him, except his life; nothing else left, nothing saved. Now he didn’t care much about his life any more. It was a relief when the morning came, and the start of a new day. Becky would be with him soon, and this would be his last chance to repair the damage that his family had caused her. Three men, all Bomally’s, had brought chaos to her life. It was true that two of them had done so unwittingly, and now it was left to just one of them to salvage whatever could be saved. But first he would have to regain her trust, and that would be a tall order.

          The small red van stopped at the end of the drive and the postman hopped out, trotting from his first step, until he reached the front door, or at least where the front door had been.  A large rectangle of unpainted chipboard was now in its place, and the old door, its hinges broken and the side frame splintered, was lying to one side rejected, half propped against the porch.

          Nearly two weeks had elapsed since David had found the cottage so early on that rainy morning. 'Only two weeks’ he thought, ‘it seems like two months' and in that time the postman had not called once. Today David had been watching for him. But when? what time? He had no idea. So it was a relief when he saw the young man trotting down the drive. He slipped out of the house by the door at the rear, and arrived at the front to see the postman looking for a suitable place to deposit the single letter.

          David made no attempt to explain, but simply thanked him, and waited until the  man trotted back to his van, before he opened the door to his own car. It was time to collect Becky, and the letter would have to wait.

          David had not imagined that Becky would fall into his arms when she was released, which was just as well for she did not. She had wanted to go straight home, except that just now she didn’t feel that she had a home. She had agreed to stay at the cottage until the police said she could leave and then she would move on. In any case, she had told him, she did not like the cottage because of its cold and unfriendly atmosphere.       

          "But where will you go?" David had asked, "and why wont you let me look after you?"

          It was a question he asked many times, and every time Becky refused to answer. Perhaps her refusal was her answer, but now, though satisfactorily recovering from her injuries , she seemed unable to come to terms with her other injuries; injuries to her mind and to her soul. David hoped that at least he might have a part to play in her physical recovery, if not her mental one.

          It was a cool journey back to the cottage, and conversation between the two was polite and brief.  How different from when, not so long ago, they spent so much time in each others arms.

          Eventually, when they were settled, each in their own rooms, David finally got a chance to read his letter.  Carefully tearing open the envelope, he took out two sheets of paper. 

         

                            The first was headed :-

                  

 

 

                   Professor Hilary Preston

                   Dept of Ancient Studies

                   Oxford University

 

                   Dear Mr Bomally

                   Enclosed is a translation from a small piece of

                   parchment given to me by Inspector Edward

                   Bryndle, which he tells me is your property.

                   The parchment itself is more than three hundred

                   years old, and the language is of an ancient Gaelic

                   tongue which was common amongst Celtic

                   speaking people long before the time of Christ.

                   Much of it does not translate directly, and also

                   some of the writing is so badly faded as to be

                   unintelligible.  With that in mind you should

                   know that my translation is in part intelligent

                   guesswork, but based upon my knowledge of

                   this subject, I believe it forms a reasonably

                   accurate account.  By that I mean that I have

                   put down what I believe to be the true meaning.

              

                   Morrigan’s curse

                   I, Morrigan, Goddess of death and the slain, do hereby

                   curse all Bomally men through all eternity

 

                  

          In light of day, in dark of night, Bomally men will suffer fright.

          In one and two and year by year, Bomally men will suffer fear.

          For every child of male decent, will curse his forbear's treason,

          For none will ever make repent, or question Morrigan’s reason.

 

         For now when womb and belly swell, you'll rue the day, that manly thrust,

         for if it's man child I do tell, he'll not know 'God' - in me he'll trust.

         When mothers blood is flowing free, her life force strong to face the morrow,

         for though she’ll know the joy of birth, she’ll also know its pain and sorrow.

 

          For one from two, for all time hence, no other god but me he'll seek,

          And earthly powers he will find, To follow me, turn strong men weak.

          In me he'll find that awesome power, he'll know no ruler, sire or king.

          His freedom certain, year, day, hour, and only me in praise he'll sing.

                  

          But wait awhile, I’ll tell you sure, my curse is not yet done.

          For sons there’ll not be three or more, but only one plus one

          And with each future generation, no memories will remain

          From father's son, and father’s son, twill all just start again.

 

          The second sheet of paper continued professor Preston’s findings.

 

          As I mentioned, the translation is not literal, so a little interpretation

          may be needed, but below is mine which I feel is very close.

 

          An ancient Bomally ancestor had two sons. One was pious and

          virtuous, the other was the opposite, delighting in the dark side of

          life, and became a disciple of Morrigan, the goddess of Death.

          The first son, feeling it was his duty to save his brother, sought the

          aid of the gods of light, and managed to wrest his wayward sibling

          from Morrigan. He denounced his former black idol before he died,

          his soul saved. 

          She (Morrigan) was furious and issued a curse on Bomally men, that

          for all time none would ever have more than two sons and that one

          of them would be devoted to her.

          Also, that there would be no memory of this from one generation to

          another, so with each new generation the curse starts  again and

          the trauma is renewed. 

                  

                   I hope this information will be helpful.

 

          Inspector Bryndle also gave me the names of nine characters depicted

          in a shrine, which seems to be dedicated to their memory and worship.

 

                   The following might therefore be of interest to you.

                   Morrigan; an ancient goddess of the dead and the slain.

                   List of gods on the panel surrounding Morrigan in the shrine.

                   1        Aeron - god of slaughter

                   2        Afagadu - god of utter darkness

                   3        Arduinna - goddess of wild boars

                   4        Breas - god of cruelty

                   5        Efnisien - minor god; quarrelsome & antagonistic              

                   6        Taron - god of war

                   7        Sheela-na-gig - goddess of debauchery           

                   8        Argona - Another goddess of slaughter.

 

                   I hope this information will be helpful

                   Hilary Preston

 

 

David read the letter again before carefully returning it to its envelope. He had hoped for some information regarding the list of names, but at last he had an insight to the questions that had been invading his consciousness and his conscience, during this unhappy period in his life.  Not perhaps the complete answer, and not perhaps to all the questions, but it did start to explain Richards unbalanced behaviour. It also explained how his father, and he himself, and yes Becky too, had all been such easy and willing victims in his maniacal plot.

          As he placed the letter in his briefcase, David prayed that their ordeal might be over, but he could not help the uncomfortable feeling that it was not.  Knowing what he now knew, he could not believe that Richard would bow out so easily, and that begged the question; where is he now?