The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) by Frank P. Ryan Page B

“Recently he’s been getting worse. It’s something to do with the reason he came to Clonmel. But we don’t really know why he came here.”
    Kate held Mo at arm’s length. “Why he came here? Here to Clonmel?”
    “To spy on you.”
    Padraig barked a laugh. “You’re pulling my leg.”
    “He thinks that you, Mr. O’Brien, are some kind of druid.”
    “And what does he mean by that?”
    “A pagan . . . or something like that!”
    “Well now, isn’t that quite an accusation? What then is a pagan? Is a pagan someone who believes in ghosts? Or a child who discovers the meaning of magic? The druids were more than priests. These days they would be regarded as great thinkers . . . a mixture of priest and philosopher.”
    “So you’re not a pagan?”
    “What were the old religions but an attempt at understanding . . . maybe at understanding things that might better have been left alone.”
    “Grimstone talked about power. Old power.”
    “What old power?”
    “Don’t ask me. I know how weird it all sounds. But it’s the way his mind works. He appears to be an old-type preacher but he doesn’t really mention Jesus, only the old hellfire and brimstone stuff. All he seems to care about is controlling people. He sets up some new branch of his church somewhere, converting gullible people. He goes looking for scapegoats. Somebody to attack. It brings him publicity and frightens still more into joining him.”
    “And that monster, he’s here and up to something like that?”
    Mark’s head dropped.
    Padraig stiffened. “I sensed there was something about you both, but I never imagined such nonsense in my wildest dreams.” He was silent for several seconds. “But then, maybe we can turn the tables on him. Mo, will you show me yourbook again? Sit yourself down here on the grass while I take another look at some of your beautiful pictures.”
    The four friends sat on the hummock while Padraig leafed through the pages of Mo’s green-covered notebook. Mo watched the old man’s face, his features half-hidden in the shadows and the long hawk-like nose almost touching the paper. She jumped when he pounced on one drawing. He dropped to one knee to point it out to her.
    “There!” he exclaimed. “This is what caught my eye when I first looked through it.”
    Mo glanced fearfully at the drawing. Fear made her stammer worse. “It’s thuh-thuh-thuh—it’s the suh-suh-suh . . .”
    Mark spoke for her. “It’s the sigil. On Grimstone’s black cross.”
    “Sigil? D’you mean some kind of symbol?”
    “It’s part of the cross. Where the figure of Jesus would be, but this is definitely not Jesus. It’s silvery in color instead of black, like the rest of it.”
    “Like suh-suh-suh-something very . . . vuh-vuh-very old.”
    “That’s right. The cross is made out of a black, twisted kind of metal. Like iron, but I’m not sure it’s really iron.”
    “Will you tell me everything you recall of it, Mark?”
    “It’s . . . well, it’s kind of gnarly, just like Mo has drawn it, only a lot bigger . . . and heavier.” Mark held out his hands, to give an idea of the dimensions.
    “Cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-creepy!”
    “The worst thing, the most repulsive thing about it, is the sigil in the middle.”
    “It guh-guh-guh-glows!”
    Mark nodded. “Honestly—it’s true. The sigil really glows, so you can see it shining in the dark. When Grimstone is talking to it.”
    Alan interrupted, “This guy talks to it?”
    “He calls it his Lord—his Master.”
    “No way!”
    “Muh-Muh-Muh-Mark and I . . . wuh-wuh-wuh-we think . . . we think he kuh-kuh . . . kuh-kuh-killed . . .”
    Mark took up what Mo was trying to explain. “We don’t know for certain, but from the way he talks about it sometimes, we think, maybe, he might have killed some old man for it. The old man claimed that it came from a barrow grave.”
    “Which would hardly be Christian, since barrow graves are far older than