“I don’t think we’re going to get any more from him than we got from the good doctor, Kirkland,” he told her. “I want to explore the castle. That wasn’t a banshee. Someone there is playing games—games that intend to leave one victor and a field of dead. And,” he added, “we will need to speak with Brendan and see about an autopsy for Collum.”
She nodded, looking unhappy. Although Devin had only met Brendan once before, she certainly cared about him—because she loved Uncle Seamus and Kelly. And she wasn’t happy about making circumstances worse for them.
Then again, they were there because Brendan was no fool, and while legend and so-called prophecies might play at the back of his mind, he suspected something very real rather than imaginary.
“Let’s go on to the castle then,” she said.
They started along the road, coming to the church and the rolling graveyard.
St. Patrick’s of the Village wasn’t grand in the way that great cathedrals were—it was still beautiful and an attraction in itself. Rocky had listened to Gary the Ghost’s history lesson on the church and read a number of the plaques on the old stone walls as well. There had been a church on this location since the fifth century; the church had been built atop an old Druid field—as natural to the inhabitants of the time as combining a few of their holidays and turning a few of their gods and goddesses into “saints.” The original wooden structure had burned. So had a second. The third structure—built of stone—had survived since the ninth century with medieval restoration and additions.
The whole of it sat over catacombs that stretched far and wide beneath the village and held remains from those who had died since the first structure had been built. The graveyard itself was so old that many of the remaining graves from the first centuries after St. Patrick were noted by curious stones—their messages and memories to the living worn down by time and the elements.
But the graveyard was also filled with medieval art and architecture. Celtic crosses rose above tombs and stood almost starkly on patches of overgrown grass as well—the individual names and memorials to those they guarded also lost to the trial and error of time. It was both a beautiful and forlorn place, for no matter how the church and graveyard might be loved and tended by those entrusted with their care, time and the elements wore on.
“Do you know Father Flannery?” Rocky asked Devin.
“I met him, of course,” Devin said. “Years ago. I doubt that he’d remember me.”
“Let’s see if he’s about,” Rocky suggested.
“If you wish.”
A low stone wall—easily walked over—surrounded the church and some of the graveyard. Some of the wall was long broken or worn down, and still, it seemed that the little wooden gate created some kind of crossing—from the everyday world into that of something higher.
Just to reach the double wooden doors of the church they passed a number of tombs, gravestones, and great obelisks and Celtic crosses. Parishioners of the village were still buried here—the modern concept of a distant cemetery had never come to Karney.
Devin, a few feet ahead of Rocky, tried one of the large doors. It gave easily in her hands and they stepped into the old church. Devin backed to a side, allowing him to enter, and they both took a moment to let their eyes adjust.
He’d researched the church already. While the first might have been a creation of the Dark Ages, the present structure seemed to have Norman overtones, and while small, it had the appearance of a greater Gothic structure.
Simple wooden pews filled the church. Most of those in Karney, Devin had told him, were still Catholic and came to church regularly. It wasn’t just church—it was where the villagers gathered and enjoyed one another’s company.
There were lovely old side altars—many with tombs of a revered knight, perhaps, or even more modern warrior—one who might have died in the pursuit of independence for the Republic of Ireland.
The main altar was very simple, marble in structure, and while he knew there were secular colors for each season, St. Patrick’s was now decked out in green. Beautiful tapestries with scenes of the days of Ireland’s patron saint covered the massive windows and the altar itself—even the runner that led from the front door to the altar.
His eyes had barely adjusted when he saw a figure walking toward them. At first, in the shade of the church, he appeared to be some kind of a wraith, a fantastic creature of myth and legend bearing down upon them. Rocky quickly realized that he was a man in the long dark robes of a priest.
“Hello, welcome to St. Patrick’s!” Father Flannery said in greeting, a soft, pleasant brogue causing a roll to his words.
“Father Flannery,” Devin said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Kelly Karney’s cousin from America.”