Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

Sheer rock cliffs fell to the sea along a broad front, giving Pitt doubt they could make a landing. Brophy directed him to the northeast corner, where a small i

nlet called Blind Man’s Cove appeared beyond a jagged finger of rock. Protected from the westerly winds, the water became less turbulent as Pitt guided the boat alongside a short concrete pier at the mouth of the cove. An empty blue and white workboat was already there, tied to the dock.

“Guess we’re not the only storm runners out today,” Dirk said, “though I can see why the tour boats stayed home.” Even in the protected waters, the boat rocked and lurched.

“I’m told the winter gales can send waves ten meters over this pier.” Brophy shook his head. “Not a place for the faint-hearted.”

They secured the boat to the remaining section of dock and climbed ashore. Dirk grabbed a bulky backpack he’d loaded onto the boat, but was intercepted by Giordino. “Let me take that,” the shorter man said, hoisting it onto his shoulders without effort. “You look like you’d have trouble carrying a balloon today.”

“That obvious?” Dirk replied. His back and neck still ached when he moved, though he hadn’t realized his hunched gait was apparent to the others.

The men assembled onshore and began walking along a narrow road cut into the side of the cliff. It gradually ascended, following the island’s contour to the south. A thick concrete and stone wall on the outer edge protected visitors from an accidental plunge into the sea.

Giordino slapped a hand on the wall. “I see the monks weren’t the ones mixing concrete here.”

Brophy smiled. “The government built this little road. It leads to a lighthouse on the far south end. In the old days, lighthouse keepers were stationed here to man the light. Now it’s all automated.”

They followed the road a short distance until crossing a set of stone steps that rose steeply to the west. They saw at the end of the road the modern lighthouse on the island’s south promontory.

“From here, we climb.” Brophy motioned toward the steps. “Now we’ll be utilizing the handiwork of the old monks.”

The steps were rough and weathered, but spoke well, Pitt thought, of the brute labor that placed them there fourteen hundred years ago. The steps climbed to the center of the island, then angled north. The footing was wet and slippery from the rains, and they took their time.

After several minutes, Dirk stopped to catch his breath, his body feeling weak from his battering the day before. “Those monks must have been part billy goat.”

“They did have a bit of a hike to haul up their supplies,” Brophy said, equally winded. “It’s six hundred and eighteen steps to the monastery.”

As they resumed their climb, Dirk noticed an abundance of birdlife. Colorful puffins nested near the water, while larger gannets and razorbills soared overhead. He kept a sharp eye out for any peregrine falcons.

After passing a spire called Needle’s Eye, they dropped down to a terraced slope and the monastery. It was a walled enclosure, tucked between a steep escarpment and the island’s highest peak. Six beehive-shaped stone huts dominated the site, adjoined by the crumbled ruins of two oratories and a chapel.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Dirk said, “but the huts are impressive.”

“Only a dozen or so monks are believed to have lived here at its peak,” Brophy said. “Let’s take a look at the interiors of the huts. I’m hopeful there might be something of interest.”

The nearest stone structure stood roughly nine feet square, with a corbeled roof almost twice that height. They entered through an open doorway and found the interior dark and barren. Brophy clicked on a flashlight and scoured the walls for inscriptions, artwork, or other possible clues. There was nothing to be found.

He methodically searched the other five huts, finding no markings on any of the interior surfaces. He turned off his flashlight and exited the last hut with the others at his side.

“I’d hoped the monks might have known something and left a hint,” Brophy said. “There’s nothing.”

“Seems to me,” said Pitt, “that any memorials or inscriptions would be in their prayer cloisters or chapel.”

“Aye, you’re right. They’re in rougher condition, but worth a look.”

They searched the remaining walls of the chapel and the large oratory below the huts, found only some carved stone crosses. They made their way to the last structure, called the small oratory, which stood apart from the rest of the buildings at the far north end of the complex. Slightly smaller than the huts, it retained its pyramid roof and meter-thick walls. Inside, along the back wall, they found the remnants of a stepped altar.

Brophy examined the other walls with his light, then halted at one corner. On a large flat stone, he noticed a faint carved drawing. It was little more than the image of a triangle, with an S-shaped curving line that descended to a small figure at the bottom. The lower symbol appeared in the shape of a Celtic cross.

Brophy studied the diagram a moment, then turned to leave.

“Just a minute.” Pitt grabbed his arm to keep the light on the image. “Take a closer look at that cross. I think the drawing has been modified.”

Brophy strained to study the image under the small light. “I see what you mean. It’s in the crude shape of a classic Celtic cross. The base cross and upper loop were carved with some precision, with a sharp tool. The lower semicircle was added more crudely.”

“As well as the top post of the cross, above the T,” Pitt said.

“Yes, I see that as well.”