Treasures: Visible & Invisible: Visible & Invisible Series

PRAISE FOR TREASURES

In a world where today’s young adults are constantly surrounded by media that is trying desperately to tear them down, it is a blessing to have books like this that reaffirm our Catholic faith.  Not only does each author give us a great story to read, they also challenge us to think about things like: the hardships of people in our ancient church, putting Grandma first on our social calendars, praying to God when in the midst of fear and suffering, staying strong in our faith while looking death in the face, listening to unlikely friends who lead us on the path to Christ, and ultimately realizing there is sacredness in the relics of our church.  You only find stories that build our faith like this in very special books.  The building-up of today’s youth is at the very heart and soul of what the authors are trying to do here, and they have done an amazing job.

BETH RUGGIERO, Lit by the Tree, Literature reviews from the Catholic side.

Litbythetree.com

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I invite teens, and readers of all ages, to stand on the craggy wind-swept cliff of your imagination, and experience the collection of stories called, Treasures: Visible & Invisible, created by the talented team of authors from Catholic Teen Books. With a shamrock as our touchstone, this book takes us on a journey through an expanse of time from ancient to modern. Be inspired by the holy greatness of heroism rooted in the spiritual treasures of the Emerald Isle.

CATHY GILMORE, Creator and advocator of stories that inspire heroic virtue. VirtueHeroes.com

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We thoroughly enjoyed this cleverly written book about the intercession of Saint Patrick throughout the ages. The combination of dynamic characters and intriguing stories kept us hooked from start to finish. A valuable addition to your Saint Patrick’s Day bookshelf!

JENNIFER & KATE WALDYKE, Co-hosts of Catholic Mom and Daughter

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This is the third collection from the authors of Catholic Teen Books. It was an inspiring read. Some stories are of miracles and others about change. Two contributors from the previous collection did not contribute and two new ones have joined the fray. In this collection are 8 stories from the 14 authors who currently compose the collective. My first thought was wow! What an amazing collection of stories around Saint Patrick! I am aware that not everyone likes short stories, but I love them, and this collection is amazing! Short stories are a different art form than novels, and not all novelists have mastered the craft. For a short story to be good, the writing needs to be tighter, cleaner, and crisper. And each of the 8 in this collection is extremely well written... (Full review on BookReviewsAndMore.ca)

STEVEN R. MCEVOY, BookReviewsAndMore.ca

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What a gift to Catholic teens and their families! Each piece in this collection of stories revolving around St Patrick is a beautiful portrayal of the faith. These are wholesome, engaging, and inspiring tales from a variety of genres that will both entertain and spiritually nourish every reader who picks up this book. 

KATIE FITZGERALD, ReadAtHomeMom.com

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TREASURES

Visible and Invisible

By Catholic Teen Books Authors:

Theresa Linden

Susan Peek

Antony B. Kolenc

Amanda Lauer

Carolyn Astfalk

Leslea Wahl

T. M. Gaouette

Corinna Turner

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Collection Copyright © 2021 Catholic Teen Books

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License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

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DEDICATION

For Saint Patrick, who in his autobiography, Saint Patrick’s Confessio, wrote, I know for certain, that before I was humbled I was like a stone lying in deep mire, and He that is mighty came and in His mercy raised me up and, indeed, lifted me high up and placed me on top of the wall.

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CONTENTS

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1. TREASURE IN THE BOGS - Theresa Linden

2. A SINGLE DAY . . . OR NOT - Susan Peek

3. LUCY AND THE HIDDEN CLOVER - Antony B. Kolenc

4. LUCKY AND BLESSED  - Amanda Lauer

5. DANKE - Carolyn Astfalk

6. GRACE AMONG GANGSTERS - Leslea Wahl

7. IN MOUTH OF FRIEND AND STRANGER - T. M. Gaouette

8. THE UNDERAPPRECIATED VIRTUES OF GREEN-FINGERED MONSTERS - Corinna Turner

Other Books by the Catholic Teen Books Authors

Boring Legal Bit

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"The kingdom of heaven is like treasure

hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up;

then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field."

(Matthew 13:44 RSV-CE)

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Historical

1

TREASURE IN THE BOGS

by

Theresa Linden

4th Century, Ireland

Magonus Saccatus stroked the soft fur of his favorite lamb and eased the warm little creature off his lap. Giving up on waiting for his friends Cillian and Tag, he got up from the boulder, secured his cape against the wind with a leather tie at his shoulder, and headed down the grassy, rocky hillside to find them. They’d planned to meet here around noon before heading off together for the festival marking the end of the harvest season, the Eve of Samhain. Celebrations all day and well into the night, they’d said, with music on the harp and horn, storytelling—of pagan gods, of course—but also sports competitions, food, and goods for sale. He had no money to buy anything, but he’d enjoy the experience.

An uncomfortable inner voice raised a question. What would his parents think if they knew he was celebrating this pagan festival? His father—not just a Roman officer but a deacon in the Church, and his mother related to the saintly bishop of Tours. Not to mention he had other ordained relatives. His parents had likely been aware of his lack of faith, but they didn’t pester him about it. They’d probably hoped that one day . . .

Magonus stomped down the hill at a quicker pace. It didn’t matter. He’d probably never see them again. Would he ever escape from this place? How could he?

Annoyed at the direction his life had taken, Magonus rubbed the long scar on his neck, where an iron collar had once cut into his skin. He remembered the first day of his captivity. Three months ago; he had not yet turned fifteen. He and his family had just arrived at their summer home on the western coast of Roman Briton, near the village of Bannavern Taburniae.

Anxious to meet up with a close friend, Magonus jogged toward the shore, just glimpsing it through the trees. He hadn’t seen his friend in several months, since just after he’d shared his deepest secret with him. Maybe he shouldn’t have told anyone at all, but his low mood at the time had him spilling things he would’ve otherwise kept to himself. It hadn’t been that big of a deal. Had it? Even though it still troubled his thoughts now and then. It had only concerned some things he’d done one day—rather, in one little hour.

As Magonus slowed his pace to catch his breath, he marveled at the pink sky, but in the next moment he realized he should’ve taken it as an omen. A shriek pierced the calm, and a flutter of seagulls took to the air. More panic-stricken screams followed.

His gaze snapped to the shore, still barely visible between foliage.

His mother’s last words to him had been, Keep an eye on the coast.

Roman legions had once protected them from invaders, but they’d been departing squad by squad, called away to defend other regions of the Roman Empire, leaving them vulnerable to raids by warriors dispatched by Ireland’s King Niall of the Nine Hostages. Magonus, and every other boy, had heard of him. He was the High King who lived in the center of Ireland and who fearlessly battled the English, French, Scots, and Romans.

Could it be? Regardless of his parents’ repeated warnings, Magonus had never expected the threat to come close to home.

Little flecks swirled in his peripheral vision, and a campfire smell tickled his nose. He spun to look back the way he’d come. Trees blocked his view of the family estate and other nearby homes, clouds of dark smoke rising above them, one cloud here, one there.

Magonus’ heart thumped out of control and sweat broke out on his skin. Something was wrong. Danger like he’d never known before. He’d better get back to the estate.

Before he could even turn, solid arms snaked around him from behind, gripped him hard, and hoisted him off his feet.

A few minutes later, he sat chained to other captives on wet wicker slats running the length of a long boat, amidst dozens of other currachs in the sea off the western coast of Roman Briton, heading for Ireland, the land of druids and pagans.

Keeping an eye out for Cillian and Tag, Magonus passed a decorative stone that stood as tall and wide as he did. Swirling patterns adorned the stone. They must’ve meant something—maybe warded off evil spirits or some such nonsense—but Magonus had yet to figure it out. He thumped across a little bridge that stretched over a ditch and then past a wooden fence, both of which surrounded the homestead, protecting it from raiders. Two round houses with pointy thatched roofs stood in the center of the ringfort, the larger one made of stones, the smaller of skins stretched over wicker posts. Servants milled about the fort, one tending the hens and geese, another hanging clothes on a line, a third grinding grain by the smaller house. The others had likely gone to the festival already.

Magonus glimpsed his friend Rhona, a servant girl his age, delivering rations. She met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes and turned away. Pity stirred in Magonus’ heart, though he had no idea what bothered her. None of them had it easy as the servants of Milchu, a chieftain and a druid. Magonus had met Rhona his first day here. She’d brought him a meager food supply—goose eggs, apples, and flatbread—that he’d had to make stretch out for a week. His stomach growled now at the thought of food. He never got enough to eat or drink and envied the sheep, who could satisfy themselves on the plentiful grass and clover of the land.

Two cows grazed at the opposite end of the fort. Farmers had brought them to the druid, hoping for cures. Many cows had been coming down with something lately, some of them dying. Magonus doubted that Milchu would be able to help them, but the people had trust in the druid. Strange what people put their faith in.

Reaching the servants’ skin-covered house, Magonus flung open the door. Pale sunlight streamed in from an opening in the cone-shaped roof, falling on the straw-littered dirt floor, the cooking stones in the center, and the empty pallets along the walls.

Tag? Magonus whispered. While the house looked empty, Cillian had always found places to hide Tag, the red-headed nine-year-old cripple. Magonus approached a stack of wooden bowls, earthen pots, and jugs and whispered the boy’s name again. He’d grown fond of the boy, just as Cillian had, and would never want any bad to come to him. But not everyone felt the same way. So Cillian kept the boy hidden and shared his meager rations with him, stealing more for the thin little boy when he could.

He’s gone.

Magonus jumped at the sound of the feminine voice coming from the half-open door behind him. Greetings, Rhona.

Pushing a lock of thick auburn hair off her freckled face, she gazed at him through sad gray eyes that matched the color of her long wool cloak. They found him, she whispered, her voice cracking. He’d gone out early this morning to . . .

Found whom? A dizzying sensation overcame him as his mind gave him the answer. They found him this morning?

Kept him tied up until Milchu decided what to do with him. Messengers came and went. Then a party of druids—her voice broke—took him away. Then . . . then Cillian went to rescue him. He thinks they took him to the bogs.

The bogs? Why?

The cows . . . She pressed her thin lips together as if unable to speak without crying but then tipped her round chin upward, perhaps trying to steel herself. Rhona, like many of the Irish slaves, had both a calmness and an inner strength that kept them going day after day. They hope to save the cows.

Magonus understood well enough. The druids offered sacrifices and votive offerings at the bogs to appease the gods or to secure blessings and favors. Some offerings consisted of shields and helmets, coins, jewelry or other valuables, and even animals. Other offerings made no sense. Little carved statues, bog idols. But other offerings . . . those made Magonus’ head spin. How could they sacrifice a human being to something that didn’t really exist? There were no gods. There was no God.

Criminals and cripples, Rhona managed to say, offering more of an explanation as to why they would sacrifice Tag.

Cillian had told him about that. Shortly after receiving his shepherd’s staff and being shown the hill where he was expected to spend the rest of his days tending sheep, Magonus had decided to escape.

I’m sorry, to disappoint you, he said to the flock of sheep standing close together like a big ball of fleece, but I’ve got to flee. I have no intention of being a shepherd in Ireland my whole life.

Not knowing his way around, he headed in the direction in which he’d seen Milchu, the druid, depart, hoping to arrive at some well-traveled road. Instead, Magonus found Milchu in a grove with other druids, all of them with long white beards and pale hooded capes. They chanted and danced around a roaring bonfire and tall, sharp stones set upright in a circle.

This is not a good night to be out.

Magonus jumped at the sound of the voice whispering over his shoulder.

Laughing without making a sound, Cillian pulled Magonus to the ground, probably to avoid the druids’ notice. This is the Summer Solstice, the holy day of Litha. Faeries and ghosts are out and about tonight. And some claim to see them.

See them? Impossible. There’s no such thing—

Cillian—a year or two older than Magonus but with a build twice as sturdy—put a dirt-stained finger to his thin lips, silencing Magonus. You don’t believe because you don’t see them yourself, huh? The older boy peered through the brush in the direction of the druids. Their chants and a campfire odor wafted on the warm night air. The hours of light are as long as they will ever be, and the power of the sun weakens when the days grow shorter. So the druids’ bonfire adds to the sun’s energy.

Magonus shook his head. He grew up on other tales. Water becoming wine. Wine becoming blood. Healings and miracles and a man rising from the dead. Everyone had to believe in something, he guessed. It made life bearable. Magonus got his feet back under him and stood.

Cillian rose with him. Look, I know you want to run off, but please don’t. His expression had turned harder than the stones around which the druids chanted. If you run, you will become a criminal. And even if they don’t catch you—which they will—you have nothing to pay your ship fare.

I don’t care if I become a criminal. Turning away from Cillian, whom he had yet to think of as a friend, he peered at the druids through the brush.

Criminals and cripples, Cillian said. That’s who the druids prefer to offer when the gods require human sacrifice.

On their walk back to the flock, Cillian had explained about the bogs, where most sacrifices and votive offerings took place. Magonus had seen them for himself in the days following, at a distance, anyway, while tending sheep on Mis’s Mountain. After a steep and rocky climb, the low mountain gave him a view of forests and fields, bogs and even the coast and sea beyond the bogs.

Rhona stood gazing at Magonus, as if wondering what he might do to help their friends.

How long ago did Cillian set off after him? Magonus finally said. Did he follow immediately?

I don’t know. Still standing in the doorway, Rhona glanced over her shoulder at the partially cloudy sky. He’s been gone for over an hour, I’d say.

Despair forced an involuntary exhale from Magonus. Blaming himself for not looking for his friends sooner, he clenched a fist.

Rhona stepped through the doorway toward him, a glimmer of hope in her gray eyes. This night stands on the boundary between the old year and the new one.

Put off by her pagan beliefs and not wanting to hear more, he turned away. Yes, Cillian told me all about it. As fall came to an end, the old year passed away and the new began. The pagans believed that the