“It’s all wrong,” Philby said, tracing his fingers along the blade of the sword, which was lying atop his crossed legs.
“Well, maybe you have a better idea,” said a disgusted Charlene.
“Sorry, not you, Charlene,” Philby said. “The sword.” He motioned down at it. “The sword is all wrong.”
“How can a sword be wrong?” Amanda asked.
“Wayne gave us the box,” Philby said, “and the box became the sword…or the cross. But if it’s a sword, I think this is the wrong sword. If it’s a cross, maybe the clue is: France.”
“The only thing we got in France,” said Charlene, “was a lot of hassle.”
“But if there are Overtakers guarding France, couldn’t that mean something?” Jess asked.
“Of course it could,” Finn agreed. “We won’t give up on that.”
“But I’m telling you it’s the wrong sword,” Philby said.
“There he goes again,” Maybeck said.
“And that’s got to be significant.”
“Wrong how?” asked Amanda.
“The Maelstrom is Norway, so the sword should be Norwegian, right?”
No one challenged him.
“But it’s not. It’s an Irish sword.”
“And you know this, how? Speaks with an Irish accent, does it?” Maybeck said.
The others chuckled.
“Norwegian swords have circles of metal, like a doughnut, above the grip, not crosses. And you see this round shape, like a coin, at the center of the cross? It happens that that’s an Irish design. It’s an old Irish sword—very old. And what makes it particularly strange is that there’s a fly in the coin on one side, and a shamrock on the other.” He passed it around.
“Engraved,” Jess said, handing it to Maybeck.
“No, not engraved,” Maybeck said. He picked at the coin with his fingernail and caught an edge. “It’s drawn on Scotch tape, clear tape that’s been stuck on.”
“Wayne,” Finn said.
“Irish. Fly,” said Philby. He held out his hand to Charlene. “It’s a clue.”
“Fly Irish?” Willa said. “Isn’t there an Irish airline?”
“Maybe the airline sponsors one of the World Showcases,” Finn said.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Philby cautioned, working Charlene’s phone. “Wouldn’t he have drawn a plane if he wanted us to go searching Irish airlines? But it’s a fly. A housefly. Why?”
“SWAT?” Maybeck said. “Like a police SWAT team?”
“You are such a…boy,” Willa said.
“Better than the alternative,” Maybeck said.
Philby looked up from the phone. “Wiki lists a bunch of things for The Fly.”
“This is so Wayne,” Willa said. “I hate to say it, but this just seems so exactly what Wayne would do. You know? I mean, when does he ever just leave a message like: Maleficent is under Pirates? He’s always so—”
“Careful,” Finn said. “He makes sure no one could figure it out but us. It’s too much for one person to process. But the five of us—”
“Seven now,” said Charlene.
Philby read from the phone. “Okay…there were a bunch of movie versions—”
“I love that movie!” said Maybeck, interrupting.
“Hush!” said Willa. “Let him speak.”
“A short story. There’s a magazine…a U2 song—”
“That’s it!” said Charlene. “U2’s an Irish band.”
“And you would know this because?” Willa questioned her.
“My parents listen to them all the time. Definitely Irish. And they’ve been around for like forever.”
“Okay, people,” Finn said. “Are you telling me that Wayne, who is approximately nine thousand years old, would have any idea who U2 are?”
“I’m just saying: it’s a song,” Charlene said. “And the words are wicked. It’s all about stars falling, and secrets, and human consciousness. It’s heavy stuff. Eclipses and friends and…it could easily be some kind of message.”
“I can Google the lyrics,” Philby said. “But there’s more here. There’s a Dave Matthews song—”
“Sweet,” said Charlene. “I know that song too!”
“—and a poem by a guy named Blake,” Philby continued.
“William Blake,” said Amanda. “He’s British. Northern Ireland’s part of Great Britain. All of Ireland was part of Great Britain before Irish independence—so we can’t rule out Blake.”