PROLOGUE

Ireland, May 2014

Father Micheál lifted the sacred tome from its ancient oak chest. The feel of the smooth leather against his agéd skin was cool and dry as he ran his fingers gently over the old embossing. It had been well preserved over the centuries, as had the missive that lay inside the chest.

The chest seemed to be of no great importance other than to protect the book from the elements, but the carvings were no less impressive than the embossing on the book. Both had been hand-tooled with Celtic weaves and knotworks, obviously the work of a fine artisan. The detail rivaled the famous Book of Kells.

The lock on the chest had kept the book out of sight even if not out of mind. The latch on the book was crudely made. It was unknown if the book's lock had ever had a key. Micheál doubted it ever had. Because the book could not be opened the pages were well preserved.

Now, as he held the book before him, not even the sterile odor of this hospital room could disguise the scented age of the ancient leather, and of the oak that had held it for so long.

Over the centuries, legend grew up around the single thick leather volume of hand-bound vellum. Though no one knew the book's contents, there was quite a bit of speculation. Some imagined the book contained something of great importance, or some secret, written within its pages, that warranted such protection--something so mysterious that demanded such strict instruction of its care. There could be no mistake in the words of the missive that had accompanied the book.

Protect it with your very life.

The missive.

Micheál eyed it lying in the chest and lifted it to rest on top of the book, which he held in his left hand. The missive gave instructions not only to the protection of the chest with its bounty but also to its delivery. Part of the mystery was that it had a delivery date one thousand years to the day after the missive had been written.

That was today.

He had carried the chest containing the book from Armagh Cathedral, where it had been entrusted to the order in 1014, to its final destination--the bedside of a gravely ill woman.

The duty sister told Micheál that the couple standing beside the bed was the woman's parents. Their faces were full of grief.
The father was tall in stature, lean with graying blue eyes. He held his arm around his wife, offering comfort while she wept. Her body molded against her husbands with years of familiarity.

The father eyed Micheál carefully. Priests were normally summoned to the bedsides of those about to die. This was holy Catholic Ireland after all. But by the changing looks on the couple's faces, Micheál knew that his presence turned to curiosity when they saw the old chest he'd carried. Their sad eyes had followed him across the room to where he placed the chest on a small table in the corner of the room and then remove its contents. He felt their eyes on him even now as his thoughts turned back to the book.

After so many years, so many rumors and so much speculation, the book would finally be opened and its secret revealed. Micheál's body shook with both fear and excitement. It was the same trembling he felt moments ago as he released the lock on the chest and removed the contents.

Now, with the book and missive in hand, he turned to meet these people's expectant gazes. He took a deep breath to try to calm his pounding heart. A fine bead of perspiration formed on his brow as he thought that centuries-long waiting culminated here in this cool, sterile and somber room.

He looked to the woman lying on the hospital bed, the covers drawn up to her shoulders, her head bandaged in white gauze. Her skin was so pale that the blue circles of impending death shadowed her eyes. He understood now why the parents thought he'd come to give last rights. There was no disputing the woman's beauty, but death was quite evident unless some miracle happened to bring her out of her coma.

Micheál looked at the woman a bit closer and couldn't help but notice how familiar her face was. He looked down at the book in his hands and noticed how the woman lying in the bed near death resembled the woman embossed on the cover of the book. Could this sacred book be a family history?

How ironic it would be to have had so many centuries of guessing, legend creating and conjecture end up only as someone's genealogy.

But he didn't think so. Not with the dire warning of the missive, and a thousand years of missing information.
No, it wasn't genealogy.

From the time Micheál walked through the door to the time he came to stand before the parents with book in hand took only the space of a few moments. It seemed like an eternity, though, because he was so deep in his reflection. He could stall no longer.

"Me name is Father Micheál Murphy," he began, his thickly accented voice was weak and shaky, and clearing his throat only helped a little. He managed a weak smile as he stammered. "I don't quite know where to begin. I guess the beginnin' is always as good a place as any.

"I'm Abbot at Armagh Cathedral in Armagh City in Northern Ireland. In 1014AD this book was entrusted to our church for safe keepin'. The missive detailed the importance of the care of this book. It also gave instruction on its delivery."

Micheál handed the missive to the husband. He watched as the man pulled his arm from around his wife and used both hands to hold the ancient velum away from him.

"I...I can't read it. I think it's in Irish." He handed the missive back to Micheál. "Can you translate it? Please," he added, his voice almost pleading.

"Aye." He took out his reading glasses, though he knew it was just a formality. He'd read the missive so many times that he knew the words by heart. But no matter how many times he'd read it and how much speculation he was no closer to the answers he craved.

To: Archbishop Maelmuire, Armagh
1 May 1014AD

If you are receiving this chest I am finally gone.

Brodir's treachery has destroyed any hope for Ireland's future, and Malachy is relentless in his pursuit of us. We find that we cannot escape his wrath. He will not honor Brian's last wishes so we find that we must flee to a safer place if we are to survive. Our leaving is the only way to save the village. Malachy is destroying everything in his path to find us.

For reasons known only you and my trusted friend, I am sending Béibhinn to you with this chest and a grave request, as I trust no other. I will beg this of you if I must, but you must see to this chest's care until it can be delivered as I have outlined herein.

On the first day of May in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen, this chest must be delivered to the O'Brien's at Our Sisters of Mercy Hospital in the city of Corcaigh at precisely 9a.m.

This chest is sealed with a lock for which there is only this single key. The book within is sealed with a clasp for which there is no key. You know if its contents so there is no need to explain, but you will know the importance of my request. I only pray that Béibhinn has reached you safely.

This chest is all that is left of me. Guard it. Protect it with your very life if necessary. But see to its care until it can be safely delivered.

God bless you and keep you safe.

~Máirghréad

Micheál watched the range of expressions play across the father's face as he read the missive. When he was done he handed it to his wife and looked up.

"What does this mean, Father?" The man asked him in a voice that was curious yet strained in his grief.

"For reasons that have baffled even our most educated historians over the centuries, this Máirghréad, Margaret, entrusted the chest to our order. It has survived war, famine, blight, and depression. Even Rome has sought to claim the ownership of the book many times. It is to become the property of the Church should the missive prove false, or some hoax.

"'Tis not understood, but the chest containin' the book was to be delivered to ye, here in this place, now." Micheál explained. He looked at the book he still held in his hands. This would be the last time he would ever see it, feel the smoothness of the cover, and smell its age. There would be no more days standing at the vault that protected it, staring at it and contemplating just what could lay between the hand-tooled leather binding.

He took a deep breath then looked up once more. "A thousand years ago, times and places like we have in modern times did not exist. They could never have been imagined. That makes her message was that much more bafflin'. How did Margaret know that this hospital would be here in this city?

"Over the centuries, the contents of this book have remained a great mystery. Great mystery always leads to great debate. And great legend," he added.

"'Tis unknown what Margaret wrote on these pages, or why she wanted it guarded with such secrecy and care after she turned it over to the church. She is a mysterious woman in the history of Ireland. Little is known of her before she and Darragh united. Darragh's lines are long and strong throughout Irish history. His family can be traced well before the time of his birth. But Margaret is mentioned in our history books only briefly. All that is known of her is that she was under Darragh's protection. Tales tell that they were lovers. He loved her more than his own life, or so it is written in his history.

"Legend paints her a mad woman. Or prophet," he added. "She was filled with stories of things that could never have been imagined in such a time. If that were true, that she was possessed, then this could explain a hoax. But it's not a hoax because here ye are." Micheál shook his head. "'Tis beyond me that back in 1014AD anyone would know this place would exist, and that ye would be here at this specific time. But ye are here. Ye are," he repeated, incredulous.

The O'Brien's looked to one another.

Micheál had only just then realized he'd thought their name. Admitting that the O'Brien's existed meant that his responsibility was over. He wasn't sure he was ready for that. Nevertheless, if he hadn't come here today, as it had been expected for a millennium, the book would still leave his care and become the property of Rome. Then what would have become of the book? He had to admit that he was a little more than curious.

Reluctantly, with the trembling hands that held the book so tenderly, he stretched them outward. Mr. O'Brien's hands shook as much as his own. As soon as the man held the book Micheál put a hand to his. He reached over and brought Mrs. O'Brien's hand to rest on top of her husband's on top of the book. He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer, crossing himself when he was through. With the passing of the book, and the prayer, Micheál could swear he felt the room go still, as if Time held its breath.
Micheál went back to the chest and closed the lid and caressed the detail one last time. Then he turned back to the O'Brien's.
"Will ye let me know 'who dunnit'?" he asked, trying to lighten his heart, but his smile never made it to his eyes.

"Father." It was Mrs. O'Brien that spoke this time. Micheál stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned to her. Her voice showed its age, but he could tell it had once been very lyrical.

"Yes, child?"

She looked to her husband who nodded his approval before she asked, "Will you stay a while? If this book has been through what you tell us, you must be very curious. If it has been meant for us to have at this very point and time, then it must be meant for us to read now as well. Will you stay? Help us through it? No doubt it will be written in Irish as well, and well...we'll need help translating." She smiled at him now, falteringly but he could see by the shimmer in her pale green eyes that she had once been a very beautiful woman.

"Aye," was all he could say.

# # #

March 1014AD

Dear Mom and Dad,

What I'm about to tell you came as much of a surprise to me as I'm sure it will to you. But circumstances that only God and Fate controlled caused what I'm about to tell you.

Back to My Books