location of the cave. The entire cliff was layers of shale and sandstone, none of which looked particularly stable. He made a mark in the grass at the top of the cliff, level with where he thought the cliff was.
The horse came galloping back in a record time; he really was magic. A garden hose was clamped in his teeth and part of it was trailing behind him; the hose head scraping with a metallic sound where it struck rock. Andrew grabbed it from him and knotted it around his waist. His equine assistant held the other end and lowered him carefully over the edge of the cliff.
The cave was just big enough for him to slide into. He nearly jammed in the opening and he had a small moment of complete panic, but breathed his way through it. Being stuck in the cave was the least of his problems today; starting with the fact that he was probably fired for not coming back to work after lunch.
At this point, he remembered that the Cliffs of Moher were famous for their birdlife. He knew this because he was standing in it. The cave was evidently a favoured nesting place. And it stank. Guano… that was the nice name for what he was ankle deep in. His day was just getting better and better.
He wished he had a light or some breathing apparatus. A gas mask?
He exhaled and had a small giggle at the thought that his horse was waiting for him and was probably worried.
He stumbled towards the back of the cave.
“Now,” he spoke aloud, “if I was going to hide… what the fuck… I don’t even know what I am looking for… what an idiot…”
While he was berating himself, the last ray of the sun illuminated the cave and something glinted from the back wall. Andrew prayed it was not a big mica deposit and stumbled towards it. He reached up to feel a little shelf carved into the wall. He grasped something just as the last of the light faded. His small moment of earlier anxiety nearly blossomed into a full blown panic attack. It was dark, he was inside a cave, 200 metres up the side of the cliffs of Moher and he was relying on a horse pulling on a garden hose to get him out of this. And it was dark. And again, with the dark.
Da horsey code would be a best seller if he survived this to write it.
There was a small tug on the garden hose and he suddenly thought that he could just follow the hose back to the entrance.
He breathed a sigh of relief. He breathed an even bigger sigh when he finally fell to the grass at his equine companion’s hooves.
“I am never doing that again!” he stated with absolute conviction.
He was still clutching the, whatever it was, in his hand. He held it out victoriously for Bayard to see. “Is this it?” he asked. “I thought it must be… I mean the birds are unlikely to leave a whatever this is, on a shelf in the back of a bird shit infested cave… eh?”
“As you say,” said the horse. “It resembles most clearly a North African letter container.”
“A mail tube? Cool.”
“Most probably of leaden construct.”
“Well it wouldn’t corrode. And North Africa makes sense, with the Crusades and all. But if we open it, it will fall apart.”
The horse frowned at him.
“If… and I am saying if… it is over 800 years old, then we will have an Indiana Jones moment and it will crumble to dust in our hands,” Andrew said.
“I knoweth not this Jones.”
“Well, no, you wouldn’t.”
Andrew started to pat himself down, as he lay still flat on the grass. “Ha huh!” he said triumphantly as he held his phone out for the horse to see.
“It’s a telephone,” he explained. “Oh, for fucks sake… it has a built-in camera.”
The horse made some snort noise.
Andrew rolled his eyes and put on his best Shakespearean imitation. “This small magic tablet can capture the image of the message held within, so the truth of it is not lost to all.”
“Huh?” said the horse.
“You’re taking the piss aren’t you?” said Andrew.
He got to his feet, only slightly more dishevelled from his trip down the cliff and into the guano filled cave. “I need a bath and some dinner. We need to find somewhere where we can check the tube. It would be dumb to open it here and have the message blow away.”
“That is wise,” said Bayard. He only looked half shocked, that Andrew had a good idea.
“So we need an inn with a stable.”
“Indeed,” agreed the horse. “I obtained the hose from an inn some distance away. It may have a stable.”
“So, lead on Macduff,” ordered Andrew. “I think that might be it for my Shakespearean quotes, but I will think about it.”
Andrew wound up the hose and slung it over a shoulder. They may as well return it, if they were going that way.
Andrew had thankfully retained the custody of his wallet and was quickly retaining the use of his wits, as he sobered up. He decided that Ireland was a strange place if an inn coped, without comment, about a guest showing up with a horse and demanding lodging for them both. He was an Australian on a working visa. Bayard was right; the inn did have a stable.
The woman, who ran the inn, even offered him a change of clothes. She assured him that she had some clothes that had been about to go to goodwill. She confessed in a conspiratorial whisper, that her son was about his size but that he had gained some weight recently and the clothes were being given away because he was too fat for them now.
She offered to send them up to his room and he gratefully accepted. She also said that if he wished, his clothes could be laundered and returned to him in the morning. She argued that it would help her son retain his dignity.
Andrew had a shower in the room and found the clothes on his bed. They did fit him perfectly. He took the metal tube and headed down to the stables. He found Bayard happily chomping on a nosebag of oats.
“Damn, I haven’t had dinner yet…”
He carried a fold up card table in from the ostler’s room over to the horse stall so that Bayard could see. In the end, he had to take the nosebag off him, he was just too happy to be in there.
“Pay attention,” he reprimanded him, as he found a light switch.
“It has been many years since I partook of such delicious grains,” said Bayard.
“You can have it back when we are finished. Geez, I am reprimanding a horse,” said Andrew.
He pulled out his phone and made sure it was set to take a photo. The letter tube was intricately decorated and had an onion shaped bulb on each end. It was about eight inches long and about an inch and a half in diameter.
“Right,” he exhaled, “are you ready?”
“I am vexed,” announced the horse.
“Yeah, me too… assuming I know what the heck vexed means.”
He pulled the end of the tube off and peered inside. A scrap of parchment was tightly rolled inside the tube. He tilted the container and the paper fell out into his hand. It was so fragile that small pieces were already crumbling off the edges.
“Okay,” he stated, “I will use the tube to hold it steady and I will take a photo of it. This would be easier if we had another set of hands, you know.” The horse gave him an apologetic look.
“Yeah, sorry,” Andrew apologised. “I know you have your hoofs full with transport and cliff hauling.”
Andrew exhaled heavily. “Right,” he said. He held the parchment flat on the table and used the lid and the tube to stop it from rolling back up. It was already starting to fall apart. As far as he could tell it had only two words written on it, but it was better to be safe. He took three photos, before lifting the weights. The paper curled back up with an audible snap. He placed it back inside the metal tube and slipped it into a pocket.
“Could you read it?” he asked Bayard.
“It said ‘sanctuary’, ‘Tipperary’, in Gaelic.”
“Well what does that mean?”
“I knoweth not and I wish to return to my grains.”
“Fine,” huffed Andrew. “I need some dinner too. I will come collect you in the morning after breakf
ast. Good night.” He gave him back his nosebag and returned the card table to the ostler’s room.
He ate his dinner in the dining room with the other guests. A chubby man behind the bar kept staring at him. He thought it might be the owner’s son and he beat a hasty retreat as soon as he could. He asked at the reception desk if he could get access to a computer. He wished to check some maps.
“Oh we don’t have none o’ that. Where was it you wished to be travelling to?” she asked.
“Tipperary,” he replied.
“It be only two hours travel, from hereabouts. Less if ye use the tolls, mayhap 90 mile or 120 km,” the helpful woman said. “Dinna forget to check out all the kirks, things of beauty, they are, even if some be naught but ruins these days.”
“Really? That close. Thank you.”
“Breakfast is from 6:30 in the dining room.”
“Thank you, again and good night.”
He threw himself into bed and slept like a log.
At breakfast with his brain cells suitable fortified by coffee, he thought over the two words. Surely paladins loved churches, and sanctuary was another word for church, right? So maybe it had something to do with the ruined churches, the inn owner had mentioned.
After breakfast, he returned to his room and changed into his clean clothes. He headed down to the stable leaving the other clothes at the desk.
Bayard was waiting for him, as was the Ostler. He was a very old man who seemed genuinely pleased to have an equine guest, for a change. He had given Bayard a rub down and a currycomb.
“He’s a proper Bayard, he is,” he told him.
“Really?” said the astonished Andrew.
“Aye, any horse of this colouring is called a Bayard after the original.”
“The original?” prompted Andrew.
“Aye, the mount of the sons of Aymon. Could carry all four at the same time. He was renowned for his spirit, and possessed the supernatural ability to adjust his size to his riders.”
“Charlemagne’s horse,” suggested Andrew.
“Not his. No. He tried to drown him.”
“Really?” said Andrew, with a glance at the silent horse. “Can’t think why,” he said.
“And,” whispered the old man, “it was said he could talk.”
“A talking, shape-changing horse,” said Andrew drily. “What are the odds?”
The old man laughed. He pulled a sugar cube from his pocket and fed it to the horse who rubbed his head up and down against his chest. He pulled his ears and gave him a smack on the side of his neck. “You look after him now,” he told Andrew.
“Actually, it’s usually the other way around.”
The horse wagged his head towards the Ostler and Andrew looked confused for a minute.
“Oh, right…” he said, as he found some notes to cover a tip for the man. Blessed with a horse that reminds you to tip. Geez.
They walked out of the yard together.
“So,” said Andrew, “it’s not a long way to Tipperary. Maybe 90 miles. Reckon we can manage that?”
Andrew mounted at the first place where he could climb up onto something.
There was silence for a while as they meandered along.
“Charlemagne tried to drown you?” Andrew finally asked.
“Ay.”
“And…?”
“A large stone was tied to my neck and I was pushed into a river.”
“So what? You did a Houdini?”
“Pardon?”
“He was a magician who specialised in underwater escapes.”
“Nay, unless he possessed hooves to smash the stone with.”
Andrew laughed. “So I know a horse that was smarter than Charlemagne.” He chuckled away.
“Charlemagne… thought more of himself than others.”
“Wow! That’s almost an insult from you. What else did he do?”
“The paladins were the vassals of Roland.”
“What? He stole them? Shit, that sounds like a kingly enough act.”
“Indeed; royalty often forgets the vassals-”
“And their animals. Then what did you do?”
“I escaped to live forever more in the woods.”
“Now that sounds like a quote.”
There was another silence.
“So, why now? I mean why have you come looking for me now?” Andrew asked.
“The time is at hand and you are in the right place.”
“Uh huh. You said we had to go to the cliffs last night. Why then?”
“Twas the solstice Meán Geimhridh, Celtic Midwinter. December 23rd.”
“I am surprised you could say that with your teeth and all.”
“Gaelic is easier with a lot of teeth.”
“Ha!” said Andrew. “You made a joke.”
“We shalt go faster. Time is short.” Without waiting for his response, Bayard moved into an easy canter. Andrew found it much easier to stay on his back at this speed. It was like riding a rocking horse. His huge hooves ate up the miles. They stopped at a gas station for a drink of water and a bathroom break for Andrew.
He bought himself a coffee, and sat on the edge of the verge while Bayard had a snack of his own. He had a tourist map open that he had purchased at the counter.
“Ruins… heaps of ruins.”
The horse lifted his head and looked at him with a mouthful of grass.
“So what is the story of Maugris?” Andrew asked.
The horse looked thoughtful for a second and then he spoke, “A female slave stole away the two children of Duke Bevis of Aygremont. She sold the elder, but retained the babe. The slave having laid herself to rest, under a white-thorn, was devoured by a lion and a leopard, who killed one another, in their dispute for the infant.”
He chewed some more grass. For once, Andrew didn’t interrupt.
“And the babe lay under the thorn, and cried loudly, during which it came to pass that Oriande la Fée, who abode at Rosefleur with other fae, looked under the thorn tree. She brought the child home with her. Her damsels having examined him, and found, by a precious ring that was in his ear, that he was of noble lineage.”
“A ring in his ear? No wonder he was crying.”
The horse rolled his eyes and continued to chew.
“Sorry. Please continue.”
“When he was old enough, she put him under the care of her brother Baudris, who knew all the arts of magic and necromancy, and was of the age of a hundred years and he taught what he knew to Maugris. When Maugris was grown a man, the Fay Oriande clad him in arms, and he became her ami; and she loved him "de si grand amour qu'elle doute fort qu'il ne se departe d'avecques elle."
“Wait a sec… he bonked his fairy step mother?”
The horse moved as if he was uncomfortable or embarrassed.
Andrew was laughing so hard, he nearly fell on the grass. He wiped his eyes, “You gotta love the French,” he said. “What did the last bit mean?”
“Twas a love so great as it doubts extremely that he not depart from her.”
“Smothered him, and he ran away, huh?”
The horse ate some more grass and Andrew finished his coffee. “Okay… so we should check out some church ruins… ‘sanctuary’… yes?”
Bayard nodded.
“So what are we looking for now?”
“Mayhap the sword,” suggested the horse.
“Which one?”
“Durendal wilt prove most useful.”
“Does it have a story? It was Roland’s sword?”
“Given unto him by Maugris.”
“Man, he gets around. Where did he get it?”
“T’was the sword of Hector of Troy.”
“Get out!”
“The sword is said to contain within its golden hilt, one tooth of Saint Peter, the blood of Saint Basil, the hair of Saint Denis, and a piece of the raiment of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
“So it’s a super duper Christian sword. Blessed four times. Saint Denis…
there was a Saint Denis?”
“Aye, the bishop of Paris. Martyred in AD 250.”
“Geez, do I want to ask how he was martyred?”
“Decapitated.”
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Andrew asked suspiciously.
“After his head was chopped off, Denis is said to have picked it up and walked six miles to the summit of Mont Mars (now Montmartre), preaching a sermon the entire way.”
“I had uni lecturers who could probably do that. I don’t think I want to ask about Saint Basil.” He stood and brushed himself down. “Come on my noble steed, we must away.”
The horse frowned at him.