Read The Celtic Riddle for Free Online

sky on this side was a very dark gray, almost
black. From time to time, the sun would pierce through the cloud,
almost like a spotlight, and a bright circle of light would appear on
the water below. As I watched a heron swooped low, skimming the water
below us, "Next stop is America," Michael said, pointing out to sea. It
was true, when I thought about it. There really was nothing but water
between this point and North America. "I'd like to go there some day,"
he said wistfully, then more practically, "Rain coming. Weather comes
up very fast here. We won't stay long."
    Stay where, I wondered, but then I saw it. It was not quite as I'd
imagined it: Rose Cottage. In every way, in fact, it was quite
inappropriately named. Heather House, perhaps, or even Gorse Cottage,
but not a rose to be seen. Instead, there was a wind-weathered house a
hundred yards inland, its face to the sea, and its back to a mountain.
It was not large, not compared to Second Chance, that is, and in many
ways rather plain. Instead of the thatched roof of my reverie, the roof
was slate. The walls were whitewashed and two rather tired-looking
wooden chairs sat out front.
    I turned to Alex. He stood almost transfixed by the sight of it, as
if he could not believe his good fortune. He loved the place, I could
tell, and even though I knew this might mean I'd lose his company back
home, I felt a rush of happiness on his behalf.
    "Take a pew, why don't you?" Michael said, gesturing to the chairs,
"while I get the key." Alex sat on the sturdier-looking chair of the
two and gazed about him. I looked around as well, out to sea, and then
beyond the cottage to a patch of trees. When I looked back, Alex had a
small smile on his face and was nodding his head.
    "It's great, isn't it?" I said, feeling just so pleased for him.
    "Quite wonderful," he replied, having found his voice at last.
    Michael continued his search, lifting a couple of old pails on the
porch and feeling up into the rafters. "What's the problem?" I asked
him.
    "The key," he replied. "It's usually around here somewhere. I
thought Mr. Stewart would like to see inside."
    I tried the door, and it opened. Michael shrugged. "Last one here
forgot to lock up, I guess. No harm really. There's never anyone about,
and there's nothing in here worth much."
    We stepped inside into the main room. It may not have been the
little jewel I'd imagined, but I immediately fell in love with it. On
our left was a stone fireplace, cold stubs of candles stuck in wine
bottles on the mantel, melted wax making little sculptured beehives at
their base. Facing it was an old couch, not the perfect chintz I'd
pictured, but satisfyingly comfy, and it right angles to it, two large
chairs, the kind you yearn to flop down in. Another chair had been
placed beside Dne of the two windows facing the sea, turned slightly as
to best capture the view. And what a view it was, across the heather to
the cliffs and then as far as you could see over the water. I turned my
gaze out to sea. It was one of those times when the light is
extraordinary, when the sun is shining, but the sky and the water are
almost black, the circling gulls slashes of white against the
approaching dark. The wind dropped suddenly, the shriek of gulls as
well, and the world fell silent, a kind of morbid stillness, as if
breathless, waiting for something terrible to happen.
    Thinking that even an hour or so locked with the Byrne family in
that dark room with the red velvet and the war paintings and the swords
and spears had put me in a dreary frame of mind, I wrenched my
attention from these gloomy thoughts and turned back to the room.
    In contrast to my unease about the world outside, the room had a
very ordinary and comforting feel to it. To the right of the door was a
rough-hewn table pushed against the wall, with two wooden chairs on
either side. There was a pile of books on the table, and a well-worn
sweater had been placed over the back of one chair. At the back, there
was a