The Celtic Serpent Page 2

  About to leave, she recognized a familiar voice. Marcy, an old classmate, now the Director of the operating and intensive care areas, was signing in. Slightly built, with blond streaked hair and piercing black eyes, Marcy had been the chatty one of their student group.

  Completing the sign-in routine, Marcy turned to Angi with a quick wink said; “Another day, another dollar, heh Angi? By the way, did you know that Airmid is the name of a Celtic goddess?”

  “Fascinating, who was she?” asked Angi, knowing that Marcy was always a wizard when it came to such trivia.

  “Well, the other day a patient told me that Airmid was the healing goddess of the Tuatha de Danaan who existed in Ireland before the Celts. She was a goddess of medicinal plants and brought the dead to life.” Smiling, Marcy continued, “Now this electronic tool has a personality. I occasionally chat with her. Enough already, I believe your vacation’s almost due?”

  “A few more days and I am off,” replied Angi. Then she remembered their last meeting and asked, “How are you doing, Marcy? When we last talked you were really down. Any change?” They began to walk along together.

  “You know, Angi, except for the increased salary, this managerial life leaves much to be desired. I’m tired of the ‘prima donna’ doctors, the shortage of staff and supplies, unions blocking me at every turn and the never-ending automation being forced on us. So, in answer to your question, nothing has changed. I need a vacation, a change, or both. Actually, Angi, I didn’t become a nurse to be a referee. I like caring for patients. Perhaps its time I rethink my career. Angi, is it any better in your area?”

  “Well, I don’t have the variety of doctors you have to contend with, but I have the shortages and similar issues. However, I like the automation, particularly the robots. But, like you, I prefer direct care for its immediate rewards. This managerial world is a far cry from our student expectations. I’m still a neophyte in management after ten months but so far, it’s OK and I have even introduced a few changes.”

  Reaching the elevators, Marcy pressed the button, “God that takes guts. Good for you! Hope it works. Must run….. Have a great night old buddy. Let’s have coffee before you slip off to that Island of yours.”

  “Great, I’ll send you an e-mail later tonight. 3am is usually quiet.”

  Finding an alcove near the elevator Angi took a quick glance at the ER day report checking on the beds, staff and key issues.

  Walking on, she thought again of Marcy’s dilemma. Marcy was not alone. For years, cracks were appearing in a system plagued with excessive expectations, ongoing shortages and no limits. After forty years the idealistic, publically funded health system in Canada was beginning to show its age. Few solutions achieved much. Politicians and senior managers feared risk, and entrenched health groups were determined to hold on to their sacred turf. Introducing change was hellishly risky.

  Graduating with her nursing degree from Dalhousie University at 21, Angi took a fast-track promotional route. By 25, she had become the Director of the city’s main emergency department for adult care in a 1,000 bed Health Science Centre serving a population of a million people. Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, was the largest city on the east coast. This being Friday evening of a long weekend, it would be busy as, in addition to routine health issues, the weekend offered a melee of sports, arts and other events augmented with the arrival of four American navy ships.

  Greeting people en route, Angi moved lithely along the corridor, her athletic movements the result of early ballet training and years as a runner. While she might have described herself as somewhat ordinary, others found her platinum blond hair and emerald green eyes stunning. Glancing at her watch, she increased her stride aiming for her first official stop.

  Outside the ambulance receiving area, she encountered one of the fleet of robotic porters with supplies for some unit. Like miniature forklift trucks, the robots followed a pre-programmed route using sensors and beacons guided by a floor laser beam. On board communication devices allowed automated doors to open and close along corridors and the robots could even summon an elevator. Angi thought, “I rather like these little workaholics. They’ve improved infection control, deliver supplies and meals, clean rooms and remove waste and dirty linen. There are even rumors they might be used to dispense drugs. More sophisticated ones are already in the works for doctors. Wait till they see what the Japanese are developing, they even have nurses.” Then she chuckled, “I’ll likely be obsolete in a few years, best make the best of this while I can.”

  Angi chose the Emergency Department as her career option because she liked its energy, excitement and constant change. She also liked Halifax. It was a lively city with lots of social offerings. “I know I should be thinking about returning to the Island to help Gran ……….maybe later,” she thought.

  Arriving at the ambulance area Angi spotted a commanding figure vigorously giving instructions to the crew of an incoming ambulance. Dr. Graham Greene, the Medical Director of the Emergency Department, stood head and shoulders above his staff at six foot four, a strongly built individual with a wicked sense of humor. His Newfoundland accent was still evident after years in Nova Scotia. Recognizing Angi, he smiled and signaled he needed to talk to her, pointing to his office and waving both hands to indicate 10 minutes.

  Angi nodded and proceeded to make her rounds.

  Graham watched her while he waited for a response to his telephone instructions to an incoming ambulance attendant. He liked working with Angi for her quickness, cool headedness and her ability to work with different staff. He was glad she chose the ER after graduating and not surprised when she got promoted. While he wished her well he was not happy at losing a valuable professional to management. “There are few exceptional ones these days,” he thought. He was not looking forward to his chat with her for he would be the bearer of bad news. “Life really sucks,” he mumbled to himself, as he replied to another question from an incoming ambulance crew.

  The ten entrance ambulance bays were already busy; four ambulances had just arrived, the overhead electronic board indicating five more were en route and word had just been received of a bad car accident near the airport. It would be a busy night.

  Noting the time she quickened her steps towards Graham’s office.

  Bursting into the room on Angi’s heels, Graham greeted her with a somewhat over enthusiastic, “How are you feeling, Angi?”

  Sensing a medical inflection in his question, she replied, “A bit tired, but otherwise OK. I’m glad my vacation’s in a few days. Why, is there a reason for your question?”

  “Remember the blood test you asked me to take a few days ago?”

  “Yes, any results?”

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” he said, pushing his office chair towards her.

  “That’s not a good sign,” she thought. She had assumed anemia, but, perhaps she had picked up some infection. “I’ve had no temperature but there have been bouts of nausea.” Accepting his advice, she eased herself gently into the chair.

  “Well,” Graham continuing, “I had the blood test repeated and got a confirmation this morning. Angi, there is no easy way to say this. I’m sorry to inform you the test results indicate you have chronic lymphocytic leukemia,” the diagnostic bombshell exploding in the small office air. He concentrated on her reaction.

  Stunned, Angi went silent. “My God,” she thought, “the lights are being turned out before my life has begun.” Scrambling, she tried to remember former patients she had nursed with the disease. All seemed older, and died even with chemotherapy.

  As if reading her thoughts, Graham continued, “Now Angi, you know the prognosis for this disease has greatly improved in recent years. The disease may progress slowly and you are young and fit. I suggest you get a second opinion……...immediately. I would recommend Dr. David Wong, the best hematologist in the city. I’ll be glad to make the referral, if you wish.”

  Wanting the world to stop spinning, Angi slowly replied, “
Just…..wait, I need time to get my head around this, I……….” and the words ceased.

  “Yes, by all means give yourself a few days, come and chat with me if that helps. Above all, don’t carry this burden alone.”

  Before she could comment her electronic tablet came alive and she responded. “I have to go, there’s a problem with a patient in the psych ER. ……have to run.”

  Graham wanted to say more but instead placed a hand on her shoulder, “Very well, remember my door is always open. Angi, I’m truly sorry. Let me know what I can do for you when you’re ready.” He watched her scurry from his office.

  She couldn’t remember if she replied.

  Stoically, she headed towards the psych ER. “O God,” she cried, “how will I tell Gran? She was relying on me to help her in her senior years. Damn…. damn this world…..damn fate…..damn, damn, damn.…….I’m going to fight this!” And moments later she thought, “Is that what that stupid golden snake was trying to tell me? Strange.”

  * * *

  Ireland, Dublin: Trinity College

  Torrential rain accompanied the rolling thunder, as a lone figure, under a green golf umbrella, zigzagged through the semi-darkened streets of Dublin. Reaching the front door of Trinity College, he stepped aside to let an elderly woman pass, glancing briefly at her flowing white hair and long gray dress and cape. “What a hell of a night for a costume party,” he thought. Then, spying the open elevator, he dashed across the lobby, jumped aboard and pressed ‘three.’

  Entering his office, he deposited his umbrella against the doorframe, swung his jacket over the back of a wooden chair, and flicked on some Irish music and then his computer. Waiting for the computer to warm up, he watched the rain forming long streams on the windowpanes. Evening was approaching.

  The overhead illumination gave the bland décor of his academic retreat a certain glow. With no order to the books, papers and ancient bits and pieces resting on several bookshelves, the only open space was at his computer desk. The aroma was a unique blend of books, dust, mold, and human occupation which only centuries could create. The lone token of nature was a plant near the window which flourished on neglect.

  The storm reminded him of Sundays with his grandmother and Irish tales of the ancient gods and goddesses, ghosts and leprechauns. This likely led to his professional interest in Ireland’s past before the Anglo-Norman invasion, a lost heritage he loved to unearth. He chuckled as he remembered how her Banshee warning upset his little brother. She kept insisting that the O’Gratteney’s were one of the Irish families sometimes visited by an old woman of the fairy mounds as an omen of death.

  Kevyn O’Gratteney at 35 was an intensely competitive and intelligent Assistant Professor of History at Trinity College. Recently, he found himself running into problems with the pro-Roman Catholic members of faculty because of his popular lectures on Celtic Christianity and the Druids and his antagonism to centuries of church domination made worse by recent child abuse allegations. Restless, he needed a distraction and one appeared.

  In 2012, with Ireland’s economic downturn ensnaring everyone, Kevyn jumped at a chance to augment his salary with a private contract from a Boston colleague. The straightforward project asked him to search the Trinity College’s well-known library and archives to determine if and why, in the 17th Century, for some unknown reason, valuable crystals were removed from a piece of Celtic or ancient jewelry to be guarded for centuries by select Irish/Scots families.

  After months of research Kevyn had little to report. Then, one evening, a random computer search elicited a faint whisper of a secret cryptic code blocking access to something. More progress was made when he solicited the help of colleagues familiar with 17th century codes and secrets. He also contacted his brother in Cork, a computer specialist, to help penetrate restricted files. More time elapsed as he chased one clue after another, the labyrinth growing more frustrating with each discovery. Unfortunately, Kevyn’s activities also attracted unwanted attention.

  Antonino Borgiano had been exiled to Trinity College under a shroud of secrecy after his well-orchestrated career in the Vatican had collapsed following an incident at a boy’s school. But after years of privilege, remaining invisible was out of the question for Borgiano, however strongly it had been ordered. Instead, he adopted a lavish lifestyle, arriving daily in a red Maserati, dressed in the latest Italian fashion to aimlessly strut about the campus. Rumors circulated that he was under some cloud. Yet, despite his apparent wealth, he had few friends after nine months.

  Trapped, Borgiano needed an escape. A chance comment focused his gaze on Kevyn. Maybe he could find something lucrative in Kevyn’s contract? So, unbeknownst to Kevyn, Borgiano began tracking his activities, bribing library and other staff and hiring an outside computer hacker. Weeks of frustration finally paid off when he accessed an unencrypted e-mail. This scant clue gave him enough to solicit the help of two cousins at the Vatican library and call an ancient history professor in Italy.

  As was his habit, the friendly voice of Dr. Marcus Camisso answered the phone on the third ring. Slipping quickly past the preliminaries, Marcus asked, “Antonino, I heard you were out of the country on sabbatical leave, is that true?”

  Avoiding any discussion on the reason for his exile, Borgiano casually stated, “Yes, I’m here in Ireland doing some research. I’m calling to see if you might be able to help me.”

  “If I can,” was the cautious reply.

  “Have you ever heard of a secret Celtic medallion which may have existed in the 17th century or earlier?” requested Borgiano.

  “Interesting,” stated Marcus, “you are the second person seeking this information. As I told the last person, there were vague rumors of such an item at the time of the Inquisition, but nothing was ever found. As you well know, the church took a dim view of pagan magic.”

  “But Marcus, if such an item surfaced, what, in your opinion, might be its value in today’s antique market?”

  “Well, that’s hard to judge without seeing it.” Marcus continued, “Anything Celtic these days is popular, but one with supposed magical properties, however remote, might be worth millions.”

  Satisfied, Borgiano thanked Marcus, mumbling something about including him should anything develop, a promise he never intended to keep.

  “This may be my resurrection,” he thought, “but two e-mails, one of a 17th century witch and the second a sentence in a Roman legionnaire’s report about the Druids owning some medallion, were insufficient.” Still, unable to penetrate Kevyn’s files, he devised another tactic.

  One morning, Borgiano, unannounced, arrived at Kevyn’s office with a provocative salutation. “Well, O’Gratteney, I hear you’ve hooked yourself a lucrative American contract?”

  Irritated, Kevyn responded, “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.” Looking up he saw an impeccably dressed stranger, whose staged smile belied the deadness of his eyes, “Who are you, anyway?”

  Borgiano stepped across the threshold and commandeered a chair, making sure not to upset the crease in his pants, replied, “I am Antonino Zailo Borgiano,” each name pronounced precisely, “You should be nice to me, O’Gratteney, I come bearing a gift.” Dropping a document on his desk, he stood up and abruptly departed.

  The name registered. Kevyn did not like unsolicited material from strangers. Perplexed and intrigued, he reached for the document dated 1650. It was the testimony of a young Irish kitchen maid, Maggie Omrie, who was charged with having killed a farmer’s goose, rendering his hens sterile, of being involved in magical healing and talking to the Devil. At her trial one man swore under oath that she had two witch marks on her right shoulder. Terrified, Maggie began boasting she could give the council information about a great treasure. Encouraged, she told of being hired for a grand party of visiting Irish/Scots lords and ladies. During the event she overheard another maid talking about a Scottish lady who owned a magical gemstone. Unable to substantiate the story, Maggie was labeled a liar and
a witch and executed.

  After reading the case Kevyn thought, “Another case of communal madness. Unable to explain environmental disasters at the time due to a mini-ice age, community policies were enacted against witches for all the woes. The old blame game. It still haunts mankind.”

  Uncomfortable as to how Borgiano had stumbled on to what he was doing, he dismissed any threat but saw a benefit in using the material in his next report. What he had not calculated was in accepting the document he gave Borgiano confirmation of the medallion’s possible existence.

  Days later, Kevyn had arrived at the college to work on course work and complete his contract report. Bringing up his private file, he was alarmed to discover the security encryptions his brother installed had been breached. “Damn it!” thought Kevyn, “It’s got to be Borgiano! What the hell is he up to?”

  Unsuccessful in reaching anyone by phone on a Sunday evening, Kevyn opted for an e-mail to both his Boston colleague and his brother in Cork, sending both his critical files and alerting them to the computer hacking, Borgiano and his concerns. Making two back-up DVDs, he placed one in a secure slot in his desk and slipped the other into his jacket pocket vowing to talk to security in the morning.

  The storm outside raged on. Lost in thought, Kevyn exited the building, sloshing through the growing puddles heading in the direction of his parked car a few blocks away. At the edge of campus, he raised the umbrella, thinking he heard a cry, but, attributing it to the storm, walked on.

  Stepping out onto a quiet side street he did not hear a car engine rev up. In a flash, he looked up to see car lights barreling down on him. Unable to scream, Kevyn was thrown up into the air and landed on a nearby parked car. A witness would describe the deliberateness of the accident and that Dr. O’Gratteney didn’t have a chance.

  Borgiano sat coldly monitoring the accident. In his rise to power, he learned how to remove obstacles. A distant relative had found him a capable assistant, one he would use again.