Father Rye pointed in the direction of his church. "The oldest part of Saint Hywyn's dates back to 1137. Through its doors, thousands and thousands of pilgrims have flowed on their way to Bardsey. Including most of the Irish and English saints of that time."

As if summoned by the priest's words, the rectory door burst open and a tall boy pounded into the room with all the verve that only a thirteen-year-old could muster. The boy quickly pulled off his cap to reveal hair so red it looked ready to set fire to the room.

"There you are, Lyle," Father Rye said and stood up. "Does your da have his ferry ready for our guests?"

Lyle eyed the crowd. "He does, Father. He ran me up to fetch 'em. Though they'd better be quick. The blow's kicking up fierce already."

Father Rye placed his palms on his hips, looking forlorn at losing his guests. "You best be going. You don't want to be caught midcrossing when that storm hits."

Gray nodded. "Let's go." He got everyone moving toward the door.

"Can my dog stay with you?" Wallace asked the priest. "There's one thing Rufus can't stomach and that's boats."

Father Rye's smile returned. "I'd like that. You can nab him up on your way back."

Rufus looked happy enough with that decision. He lowered his head back to his paws as he lay by the fire.

As Gray headed to the door, Father Rye called out, "Lyle, when you get to the island, make sure you show them the Hermit's Cave."

Gray glanced back.

Father Rye winked at him. "Where Merlin is buried."

11:22 A.M.

Rachel eyed the ferry doubtfully. The small boat looked sound enough. It was a double-hulled catamaran, with a covered pilot's cabin in front and an open deck in the stern. She had been on such boats before when diving in the Mediterranean. They were notoriously stable and reliable.

Still, as she watched it roll and tilt in the chop, Rachel grew concerned. With one hand clutching her coat closed at her neck, she stared into the stiff wind. She could smell the rain. Though dry here, a heavy downpour swept toward the coast.

Her expression must have been easy to read.

"The Benlli's a good boat," the ferryman attested. Decked out in a heavy sweater and yellow slicker, he was Lyle's father, Owen Bryce. His boy bounced over the rolling deck with the agility of a red-haired monkey. His father watched him proudly. "Don't you fret, miss. We'll get you there safe. She runs low with a steep deadrise."

Rachel didn't know what he meant, but she took confidence in his vocabulary. He seemed to know what he was talking about.

Lyle appeared and offered her his hand. She took it as she hopped from jetty to boat. Gray and Wallace were already aboard, with their heads together. Kowalski followed behind with Seichan.

Rachel kept away from Seichan and took a seat next to Gray. Still, she sensed the woman's presence-not because she was staring at Rachel, but because she purposefully wasn't. It made her angry. She felt she deserved at least to be acknowledged.

To take her mind off Seichan and the rocking boat, she focused back on Gray. He had to speak loudly as the catamaran's twin outboard engines gurgled to a roar.

"Back at the rectory," Gray said, "I heard you mumble something about not being surprised Father Giovanni kept coming back here."

Rachel had heard the same. It had been when Father Rye had been talking about the pagan queen.

Wallace nodded. "Aye. As a historian of Neolithic Britain, I'm quite familiar with the Irish tales of the monstrous Fomorians who supposedly first inhabited the lands here. It was said they were giants who ate people alive. But it was the vicar's description of them as descendants of Ham, a figure straight out of the Bible, that must have pinched Marco's nose and kept him focused here."

"How so?" Gray asked.

"To start with, Celtic tales were all told orally. Spread by word of mouth. The only reason we even have them today is because of the Irish monks who survived the ravages of the Dark Ages in seclusion, who spent their days meticulously decorating and illuminating manuscripts. They preserved the core of Western civilization through the Middle Ages. Including preserving Irish legends and sagas by writing them down for the first time. But what you must understand is that the monks were still Christians, so in their retelling, many of these stories took on a biblical slant."

"Like the Fomorians being described as descendants of Ham," Gray said.

"Precisely. The Bible never actually denotes a race for these cursed descendants of Ham, but early Jewish and Christian scholars interpreted the curse to mean that Ham's descendants were black-skinned. It was the way that slavery was once justified."

Gray sat back, understanding dawning in his face. "So what you're saying is that the Celts described the Fomorian queen as being black, so the monks made her a descendant of Ham."