“There you are, Lyle,” Father Rye said and stood up. “Does your da have his ferry ready for our guests?”
Lyle eyed the crowd. “He does, Father. He ran me up to fetch ’em. Though they’d better be quick. The blow’s kicking up fierce already.”
Father Rye placed his palms on his hips, looking forlorn at losing his guests. “You best be going. You don’t want to be caught midcrossing when that storm hits.”
Gray nodded. “Let’s go.” He got everyone moving toward the door.
“Can my dog stay with you?” Wallace asked the priest. “There’s one thing Rufus can’t stomach and that’s boats.”
Father Rye’s smile returned. “I’d like that. You can nab him up on your way back.”
Rufus looked happy enough with that decision. He lowered his head back to his paws as he lay by the fire.
As Gray headed to the door, Father Rye called out, “Lyle, when you get to the island, make sure you show them the Hermit’s Cave.”
Gray glanced back.
Father Rye winked at him. “Where Merlin is buried.”
11:22 A.M.
Rachel eyed the ferry doubtfully. The small boat looked sound enough. It was a double-hulled catamaran, with a covered pilot’s cabin in front and an open deck in the stern. She had been on such boats before when diving in the Mediterranean. They were notoriously stable and reliable.
Still, as she watched it roll and tilt in the chop, Rachel grew concerned. With one hand clutching her coat closed at her neck, she stared into the stiff wind. She could smell the rain. Though dry here, a heavy downpour swept toward the coast.
Her expression must have been easy to read.
“The Benlli’s a good boat,” the ferryman attested. Decked out in a heavy sweater and yellow slicker, he was Lyle’s father, Owen Bryce. His boy bounced over the rolling deck with the agility of a red-haired monkey. His father watched him proudly. “Don’t you fret, miss. We’ll get you there safe. She runs low with a steep deadrise.”
Rachel didn’t know what he meant, but she took confidence in his vocabulary. He seemed to know what he was talking about.
Lyle appeared and offered her his hand. She took it as she hopped from jetty to boat. Gray and Wallace were already aboard, with their heads together. Kowalski followed behind with Seichan.
Rachel kept away from Seichan and took a seat next to Gray. Still, she sensed the woman’s presence—not because she was staring at Rachel, but because she purposefully wasn’t. It made her angry. She felt she deserved at least to be acknowledged.
To take her mind off Seichan and the rocking boat, she focused back on Gray. He had to speak loudly as the catamaran’s twin outboard engines gurgled to a roar.
“Back at the rectory,” Gray said, “I heard you mumble something about not being surprised Father Giovanni kept coming back here.”
Rachel had heard the same. It had been when Father Rye had been talking about the pagan queen.
Wallace nodded. “Aye. As a historian of Neolithic Britain, I’m quite familiar with the Irish tales of the monstrous Fomorians who supposedly first inhabited the lands here. It was said they were giants who ate people alive. But it was the vicar’s description of them as descendants of Ham, a figure straight out of the Bible, that must have pinched Marco’s nose and kept him focused here.”
“How so?” Gray asked.
“To start with, Celtic tales were all told orally. Spread by word of mouth. The only reason we even have them today is because of the Irish monks who survived the ravages of the Dark Ages in seclusion, who spent their days meticulously decorating and illuminating manuscripts. They preserved the core of Western civilization through the Middle Ages. Including preserving Irish legends and sagas by writing them down for the first time. But what you must understand is that the monks were still Christians, so in their retelling, many of these stories took on a biblical slant.”
“Like the Fomorians being described as descendants of Ham,” Gray said.
“Precisely. The Bible never actually denotes a race for these cursed descendants of Ham, but early Jewish and Christian scholars interpreted the curse to mean that Ham’s descendants were black-skinned. It was the way that slavery was once justified.”
Gray sat back, understanding dawning in his face. “So what you’re saying is that the Celts described the Fomorian queen as being black, so the monks made her a descendant of Ham.”
Wallace agreed. “A dark-skinned queen who could cure the sick.”
“And to Marco, she was possibly an early pagan incarnation of the Black Madonna.” Gray looked out toward the island as the boat churned into the choppier open waters. “Perhaps even the legends of the sorceress Morgan Le Fay and Avalon tie back to that same mythology. Another woman bearing magical healing powers.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “No wonder Father Giovanni became obsessed with this place.”
“For that reason, and also the key.” Wallace folded his arms and easily rolled with the boat’s motion.
“The key to the Doomsday Book?” Rachel asked. “I thought you said that was rubbish.”
“I may have thought it was rubbish, but Marco didn’t. All the legends of the key suggest that it unlocked a vast treasure, a treasure that could save the world. Marco believed I was on the right course in studying the places marked as ‘wasted.’ And I’m growing to think he’s right.”
“Why’s that?” Gray asked.
“Father Rye’s stories. He spoke of how the Fomorians battled the invading Celts by casting plagues on them. It was said the Druids did the same when the Romans invaded. So it makes me wonder if the Celts learned something from the conquered Fomorians, something more than just agriculture. A new means of warfare, a new weapon. Maybe there was a core of truth behind these stories. A truth buried in the Domesday Book.”
Rachel began to get a glimmer of where he was headed, but Gray got there first.
“You think that ability to cast plagues survived into the eleventh century. Maybe an early form of biowarfare.”
Rachel pictured the condition of the mummies. Emaciated, with mushrooms growing internally.
“Could someone have poisoned these villages with some sort of fungal parasite?” Gray asked. “And if so, who?”
“As I said before, all the villages noted in the Domesday Book were located in places of friction between Christians and pagans. And I think it’s especially telling that the first place struck was Bardsey Island. Hallowed ground for the Druids. They could not have liked the monks and Christians being here.”