by Lyn Hamilton
“With these walls curving in like that, it would be virtually impossible to climb up there to see if we could make a bigger opening in the top,” Rob said softly in the darkness. “You’d have to be a spider or a fly, or something. Maybe you could stand on my shoulders and see if you could push some of the top stones away to widen the hole. But,” he sighed, “we still couldn’t get up there. Maybe, if I stood near the wall and pushed you up? Probably not,” he said, resignation in his voice. I was inclined to agree with him.
“I have a question for you,” he said after a few minutes of contemplation, “this being the first opportunity I’ve had to be alone with you since we got on the plane.”
And who’s fault was that, I wondered, what with him spending so much time with his favorite garda? “Ask away,” I said.
“Do you really think I’m a drip, and a—what was that other unpleasant term you used?—a poop?”
Really, the male ego. “No,” I said. “Well, maybe sometimes. If you could just be a little more relaxed with Jennifer.”
“How so?”
“Do you think this is a good time to discuss this?” I sighed.
“Why not?” he declared. “Not much else doing around here, is there?”
“All right. Then I would submit that she’s going to grow up, she’s going to have boyfriends. Brace yourself, she’s going to have sex. Why, instead of putting your energy into scaring the boys off, which frankly probably has the opposite effect of what you intended, why wouldn’t you talk to her about practical things like birth control and STDs and stuff?”
“That’s a mother’s job,” he replied.
I was tempted to say that since she didn’t have one, the role was his. But of course he knew that, and he had done the best he could with Jennifer, and not a bad job at all.
“Anyway, I’m not as much of a dinosaur as you think. I know she probably won’t marry her first high school sweetheart the way I did.”
How could she when you won’t let her have a high school sweetheart, I wanted to say, but kept my mouth shut.
“Don’t say anything,” he ordered. “Even in the dark, I know exactly what the expression on your face looks like right now. I just don’t think Gilhooly is a good place to start,” he continued. “She’s a little immature compared to some of her girlfriends. I mean how old is he, anyway? Old enough to be her father? He can’t be ten years younger than I am. Well maybe ten.” He paused. “Okay more than ten, but you get the idea.”
“You’re saying he’s too old for her, and you’re right,” I said. As tedious as a middle-aged man fussing about his age would normally be, this conversation about age struck me as rather interesting, suddenly. Could it be, I wondered, what with all this drama about Jennifer and her older man that I’d overlooked something rather important? How old would the lost child have been, I wondered. Because it would have had to be the child, wouldn’t it? The mother, father, father’s sister, and grandparents were already dead. Eithne said her parents had been married for thirty-four years. Byrne had been away a year before that. That meant his sister’s child couldn’t be any younger than about thirty-six, maybe more. Thirty-six to forty, say. Could Padraig be the lost child? It was possible, I supposed. You’d think that Eamon Byrne would have objected to his daughter taking up with his sister’s son, assuming he wasn’t in favor of a severely limited gene pool. But maybe he didn’t know. He didn’t seem to have known about Deirdre, perhaps because the family feud of his youth meant the families were not well acquainted. They’d inhabited quite different towns. Was it possible, I wondered, that the child was alive and had tracked the family down?
“And anyway, I don’t want her to get hurt,” I heard Rob say. “It’s just a vacation kind of relationship, admit it.”
I turned my attention back to what he was saying. If he thought in my weakened condition I was going to agree with everything he said, he was sorely mistaken. “And you, I suppose, are setting a good example for her in that regard? Alex may be the soul of discretion where his roommate’s comings and goings are concerned, but Jennifer knows perfectly well you’ve been creeping out very late and returning very early in the morning. And she doesn’t believe the police business excuse, either!”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” he sighed. “You didn’t have to. I know. You’re saying I’m a jerk and a poor excuse for a father.” He sounded dreadful there in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that. And no, I don’t think you’re a poor excuse for a father, or a jerk. I mean, look at Jennifer. She’s a lovely young woman, and very sensible. You should take credit for that. As for Maeve, she also seems very competent, and pleasant.” Faint praise, I know, but it was the best I could do. “I gather the relationship is pretty serious,” I added.
“Don’t think so,” he said quietly. I waited. “Two reasons: She’s not really a widow. Her husband is still breathing. There’s been no divorce in Ireland until very recently, so she bills herself as a widow for the sake of convention. He lives in Belfast.”
“So maybe now she’ll get a divorce.”
“I think she’s a little conflicted—is that the word?—on the subject, either because she doesn’t entirely approve of divorce, or because she still has some feelings for him.”
Oh dear, I thought. We both digested that for a moment.
“And the second reason?” I asked.
He sighed. “The second reason is that I’m not entirely sure that is where my heart lies. I’m not sure where it does lie, but I don’t think it’s there.”
I wasn’t sure I understood the details of that statement, but I did understand the sentiments expressed.
“And that fancy pants lawyer?” Rob said into the darkness.
“Don’t think so, either,” I replied.
“Reasons?” he said.
“One, I don’t think I’m his type somehow, and two, I’m not sure that’s where my heart lies.”
“Mmm,” he said. We sat in silence for a few moments.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while,” he said, suddenly. “You can say no. But I was wondering if you would consider being Jennifer’s legal guardian should anything happen to me. Her grandparents are getting a little frail for the job. You are the only person I know I would really entrust her to. She’s eighteen, so she’s almost beyond the need, but I think she could use some guidance for a while yet. You can think about it. I’m a policeman, remember, so the chances of being called upon to do this are higher than average.”
“I don’t have to think about it,” I said. “If I had a daughter, and I confess lately I’ve wished more than once that I did, I’d be pleased if she turned out like Jennifer. So yes, I’ll do it. You do realize, though, that if I’m your fallback, as it were, then you’ll have to stop following me into these dicey situations.”
“You’re right, I will,” he chuckled.
“What do you think will happen, here, I mean, and now? Be honest,” I said.
“Are you sure you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I expect whoever it is will either leave us here to rot, or come back to dispose of us.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “I’m sorry I asked.” We both sat contemplating that lovely thought for a while.
“Where are we, do you think?” he asked. “Still in the Dingle?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“North? West?”
“South-ish, I think.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because we’re in a clochán,” I replied. “And that’s where most of them are.”
“A what?”
“A clochán. A beehive hut. There are hundreds of them around here, on the slopes of Mount Eagle, most of them ruins, but some in good condition. I saw them when Malachy, Kevin, Jennifer, and I went looking for clues. Turn on the light, and look: Think of yourself on the inside of a beehive. See how the stones are placed to curve up to the top. It’s c
alled corbelling. A work of art, really. These beehive huts were little houses, dating back to the early days of Christianity and maybe even earlier. Monks lived alone in them, as hermits, to study and pray. Sometimes, they were built in clusters around a church. Or when they were used by ordinary folk rather than priests, around, or in, a fort for protection. This one is larger and higher than most. I think I’ve read that they were usually only about four feet high, but this one is much higher than that, so perhaps it was a house, rather than a monk’s cell.”
“Very interesting, I’m sure,” Rob said. “Now can we think of any way of getting out of this clochán thing?”
“Not really,” I replied. I thought for a moment. “Give me that lighter!” I said. I swept the tiny light over the surface of the walls, looking for what I desperately wanted to find. The walls were made of rows of stones placed on top of each other in rather tidy rows, tiny little stones filling in the spaces between them as necessary. For the first few feet, the walls angled in barely perceptibly, but as they got higher, you could see how each row of stones overhung the one below it just a bit, so that the wall curved up to the top, where an opening of about six inches had been left open.
“I’m thinking souterrain,” I said at last.
“Sue who?” he said.
“It’s not sue who, it’s sou what,” I replied. “Souterrain. Literally under the ground. If this was used as a house, there might be a souterrain.”
“Dare I say, so what?” Rob said, just a touch irritably.
“So—sometimes the souterrain was just a place to store food where it would keep cool in the ground. But sometimes it was an escape route. These shores were often plagued by Viking raids, and people needed an alternate way out of their homes should the Vikings, or pirates, or whatever arrive suddenly. The Viking raiders were particularly interested in church treasures, if I remember correctly, the jewel-encrusted manuscripts and such. So people built low, narrow and curved underground tunnels, the easier to defend themselves from anyone following them, that led several feet or yards outside their houses. If some marauder came toward the front door, they’d go into the tunnel and out the back way.
“Look here,” I said moving the light toward one side. “See where the stone pattern changes. Some of the stones are vertical rather than horizontal here, like a lintel over a doorway. And see, the stones are not as regularly placed. Perhaps this souterrain was filled in at a later date!”
Rob looked impressed. “Dry mortar,” he said, “no cement or anything. Just the stones themselves. It should be easy to take apart, relatively speaking. Let’s get to it! Here, you hold the light, and I’ll start.”
It was difficult at first, with the stones so closely packed, but in a matter of minutes, Rob had created a small hole in the wall. He reached back for the lighter, and carefully placed it into the hole, and peered in. I held my breath. It could easily just be a storage chamber, I thought, in fact it was more likely to be. I hardly dared to hope.
“I think it’s a tunnel,” he said at last. “Who’d have thought all that history of yours would be so useful.” I almost sobbed with relief.
Within minutes, we’d pulled out enough stones so that we could slip into the tunnel.
“You go first,” Rob said. “I’ll protect the rear, in case someone comes in before we get away.”
I pushed myself feet first into the tunnel. It was dank and cold, and I could see nothing in front of me. Rob passed me the lighter and I moved into the tunnel. After a few feet I was able to stand, although bent over at the waist. The tunnel jogged slightly, then narrowed, and after another few yards, I had to get down on my knees and crawl again. By the time I reached the end of it, I was lying on my stomach and pulling myself along with my elbows.
The end was blocked by a large stone. I pushed as hard as I could. The stone trembled slightly, but didn’t give way.
“Small problem,” I called back to Rob who was now just a few feet behind me. I held the light up to the rock.
“Mmm,” Rob agreed. “We’ll both have to push.” He pulled himself forward until we were lying side by side in the tunnel. “Turn on your side,” he said. “I need some more room.”
We were nose to nose and hip to hip by this time. I could feel his breath on my face. All I could think of was that if our captors came after us, we’d not be able to maneuver at all. Being a man, Rob saw it differently. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he said. I just knew he was grinning there in the darkness. I glared back, even if he couldn’t see.
“One, two, three, push!” he said. We both pushed as hard as we could on the stone. It rocked slightly.
“Again!” Rob ordered. We pushed again, then again. The stone started to rock, and finally, with a jerk, moved, then rolled away from the tunnel. Rob pushed me out in front of him, and we were free.
Chapter Eighteen
ON WHOM DO THE STARS SHINE?
So you want to hear the story of how the Celts came to Ireland, do you? The last great invasion of Ireland. That and the judgment of Amairgen.
Well, the story begins in Spain with a man by the name of Mil. He had a number of descendants as did his brothers. Now one of these boys was called Ith, and one fine day he climbed up on a high tower to see what he could see, contemplating the world about him. And on that clear day in winter, what do you think he saw?
Ireland did I hear you say? ‘Twas. Ireland for sure. ’Twas just a shadow on the horizon, but he decided to go there. Now some of his relatives were sure he was daft. ’Twas clouds you saw, not land, they told him, and they tried to stop his going. But he went anyway, yes he did. He took some followers and his son Lugaid. And when he got there, he asked the inhabitants—and we know who they were now, Tuatha dé, Tuatha dé Danaan, Children of the goddess Danu—he asked them, “what do you call this place?” “Inis elga, ” the people replied. “And who’s in charge?” Ith asked again. “Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht, and Mac Greine are the kings, ” they said.
So Ith and his son went to Ailech and met the three kings, and Ith said many good things about the land, so that he and the kings parted on good terms. But now the story takes a turn for the worse, for some of the Tuatha dé worried that Ith and his followers liked their country so much they would take it by force, so they hunted Ith down and killed him. His people took his body back to Spain where his brothers were sorrowful and angry, and vowed revenge.
So they collected their warriors, and all the sons of Mil and their relatives, the poet Amairgen among them, and in sixty-five ships sailed for Ireland. But when they got there, they couldn’t see the island, for the Tuatha dé had placed a spell on it, and the Milesians circled the island three times, before finally coming to Slieve Mish. You know Slieve Mish. Then they went on to Eblinne.
Eventually, the Sons of Mil went to Uisnech of Mide. Uisnech you see was, and still is, if only we knew it, the sacred center of Ireland. It sits within the mystical fifth province—the Irish word for province is cóiced, don’t you know, and that means a fifth. Now that causes problems for some amongst us. Because there are only four provinces, you see: Ulster, Connacht, Leinster, and Munster. Oh, they argue it away by saying that at one time or another Munster was actually two provinces, but those who hold the ancient stories in our hearts know there were five, and the fifth is called Mide—the place where the other four provinces come together.
And so Mide and Uisnech are a very special place. From there, on Uisnech Hill, you can see a ring of mountains all round. The whole of Ireland, if you had the vision, can be seen from there: the sacred sites and political centers of the other four provinces in olden times, Rathcroghan in Connacht; Emain Macha in Ulster; the Hill of Allen in Leinster; and Aine’s Hill and Lough Gur in Munster, all lining up across the mountaintops. And just across another hill, Tara, Seat of the High Kings of Ireland.
And in the old days, the Beltaine fires lit at Uisnech could be repeated on the mountaintops all round, and seen from all of Ireland. Yes, Uisnech is the eye of the fire of
the gods. And on its slopes sits Aill na Mireann, the Stone of Divisions, a huge stone cleft in four, yet still together. Just like Ireland. It was a magical place for a long, long time, until St. Patrick cursed its stones and the magic disappeared.
But that was much later. Who would Amairgen and the Sons of Mil meet at such a special place? The goddess Eriu, none other, the third goddess. Eriu, Fotla, Banba, three goddesses in one, like the shamrock or the holy Trinity. She welcomed them to the island, telling them it had been prophecised that they would come and hold the island, the best place in the world, forever. And she asked that her name remain on the island. Amairgen made a solemn promise that hers would be its chief name forever. ’Tis too, as Erin.
Next, they went to Tara, where the three Tuatha dé kings, Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht, and Mac Greine, husbands of the three goddesses reigned. The Sons of Mil gave the three kings three choices: Give us a battle, the kingship of Ireland, or a judgment of some kind, they said. The kings chose the judgment and they asked that Amairgen himself deliver it.
Amairgen, in making the very first judgment in Ireland, said the land would belong to the Tuatha dé Danaan until the Sons of Mil returned to take it by force, and, so that the Tuatha dé would not be taken by surprise, that the Milesians would sail nine waves away from the shores before returning.
The ships sailed away the nine waves, magic waves they were, and the Tuatha dé called upon their druids to cast a spell. A mighty storm overtook the invaders’ vessels, and there were many losses, but Amairgen thought it was a druidic storm and not a real one. He sent a man up the mast to see if the storm was higher than the mast of their ships. It was not, but the man died in the telling of it. Then Amairgen made a spell of his own, for the poets in those times were druids, you see, and the sea became calm. At last Amairgen stepped again on Ireland’s shores. “I am the sea-swell, I am a furious wave, ”he said, casting a spell on this isle. Then the Milesians, the Celts as we now know them, made their way to the Slieve Mish Mountains, right here in the Dingle, where a mighty battle was fought with the Tuatha dé Danaan; then another battle at Tailtiu, where the three kings of Ireland, and the three goddesses, Banba, Fotla, and Eriu died. And from that time till the Christian era, and some say long after, Ireland belonged to the Celts.
