I turned back around, finding myself surrounded by darkness. Fear ran to my hairline and I plunged into the passage, the basket banging against the walls in my haste to catch up with Henry and the lantern. A faint glow to the left indicated that the passage turned sharply. I barreled around the corner, running smack into Henry’s back.
“Be careful, Selah,” Henry snapped, turning around to face me. My fear must have been evident, for his expression softened. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I just heard something.”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Could be the ghosts you were talking about earlier.”
“Probably just a rat,” I said pointedly, opting to salvage my dignity rather than confess that a ghost had been my first thought.
“Would you like me to go look?”
I was tempted to say yes, but shook my head when I saw the low wooden door behind him. The smell of burnt herbs was too pronounced for me to doubt what lay just out of sight. “Where is the other key?”
Henry already had it in his hand. He slid it into place and dislodged the bolt. The door creaked open, releasing the full force of the burnt herbs. Without pause, we both ducked beneath the doorframe, and entered the vault. Once inside, Henry’s head nearly brushed the ceiling, which was lower than in the previous chapel, and so curved it felt for a moment like we had stepped into a barrel that had been tipped on its side. The room was also much smaller, no more than ten feet across at best. At first glance it appeared to be empty until we took another step and the lamplight fell on an altar near the far wall.
I crossed the room with Henry close behind. This altar was much shorter than the two previous altars I had seen tonight—the perfect height for someone to kneel rather than stand. Its smooth stone surface bore the blackened scorch marks from numerous fires. Deep scratches marred the two far corners in what appeared to be words carved into the stone.
I bent closer. “Will you move the lantern over here?”
Henry obliged and I read Brigid Baudach.
“We found the right place,” I said, smiling as I moved to the other corner. Henry followed with the lamp and my eyes grew wide at the sight of the inscription—Caitria Ni Brid 218 AD.
Henry ran his fingers across the carving. “Does this mean anything to you?”
“Caitria was the first leath’dhia to leave Ireland,” I said excitedly. “This altar was opened for her more than 1500 years ago.”
Henry nodded. “Well, you best get started. Do you need help with your laces?” His tone was flat, his face impassive.
“I can manage,” I said, rebuffed by his apparent lack of interest in either the altar or me.
He turned around, and I changed as quickly as possible, leaving my clothes in a heap where they landed. Dressed in the white linen sheath, I knelt at the altar and placed the herbs in the center where the stone was most heavily charred. Sparks from the flint showered the dried stems and leaves. At the first hint of smoke, I took a deep breath and began to recite the Gaelic words.
The sound of Henry’s boot scraped against the floor. Distracted, I stopped chanting and stole a peek from beneath my lashes. No longer facing the door, he had turned back around to watch me.
“Well,” he said after a moment. “Are you going to finish or not?”
I wasn’t used to being stared at during this private moment, let alone by someone who was doing so little to conceal his irritation. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Would you like me to turn around?”
I glared at him. “If you don’t mind,” I said crisply. He turned, and I took another deep breath.
Brigid Buadach, Buaid na fine,Siur Rig nime, Nar in duine, Eslind luige, Lethan breo. Riar na n-oiged, Oibel ecnai, Ingen Dubthaig, Duine uallach, Brigid buadach, Brigid buadach.
I repeated the words three times, chanting so low and fast I was surprised when it actually worked and I found myself standing in a thick gray mist. Habit moved me forward into the warm sunshine, my feet sinking into the velvety soft grass at the garden’s edge. Looking about, my first thought was that my soul had been carried to the same garden Brigid had created for my grandmother in the Colonies. Everything appeared the same, the trees and flowers all placed where I remembered. But there was one difference not visible to the eye—this garden felt ancient. The power that pulsed all around me, through me, was deeper and richer than anything I had ever felt before.