Grass and Stone
The dream when it came was less threatening than it had been the night before. The opening was dark and somehow heavy feeling, but it did not terrify him as it had before and the light that shimmered around it did not blind him. He walked toward it with a steady pace, his pulse just beginning to pump a steady humming rhythm. He felt a cool breeze pass over him as he entered. He stood in the dark feeling the same overwhelming sense of being absorbed. He coud see the walls and noticed carvings on them. Turning he realized the space was small. As he slowly revolved to take in the entire cave he found his gaze wandering to the ceiling and it was then that the shaft of light stabbed through him, penetrating him and holding him both blind and motionless. His mind became unanchored, disconnected from himself. He floated along the beam of light, swirling upward. He could not say how long this lasted, just that it held him transfixed and separated in an oddly exhilarating way. When the light left him, he was in complete darkness. He stumbled and fell. Expecting rock, he was surprised to find a thick moss carpet beneath his hands. He laid himself out in the dark knowing he was no longer truly in the cave. He closed his eyes; he couldn't see in the dark anyway. He could hear a distant sound of running water and he could smell the light peaty scent of the moss he lay on. Then he caught another scent, something familiar and out of place, something comforting. He rolled toward the soft scent and stretched out his hand, finding the silk of her hair. He ran his fingers through her the length of it. She turned into his hand and he cupped her face gently. They found themselves wound around each other on the moss bed, the water symphony behind them urging them forward. The pure and complete pleasure of each touch was so exquisite it left him breathless and still needing more. She pulled up to look at him and as their eyes met, he lifted his hand to curl his fngers through her hair. In that moment of shattering completeness she was gone, nothing more than mist and a scrap of crimson silk woven round his fingers. The water continued to sing while he held silently to the silk and waited for this insanity to pass. He drifted into sleep on his moss bed, clutching what remained of his dream.
The morning came with the fresh scent of earth washed clean by the rain. The colors seemed heightened after the grey that had shadowed the evening before. Lin and Fiona sat at the breakfast table and chatted quietly, checking the time occasionall. It seemed odd that Roary was not yet down. It was unlike him to run late and he was almost twenty minutes late this morning. When he finally made it down to table, he looked horrible.
"Are you all right?" inquired Fiona.
"Rough night," responded Roary, "Just need some strong tea or a spot of coffee. I'll be fine."
He turned from them and went to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee and put together a breakfast plate.
He sat and ate without making eye contact.
"I think I'll go get the things together," said Fiona
Her absence seemed to make the table too small. Lin could feel Roary's discomfort.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lin asked
"I have no idea what ye are talkin about."
"Bull. You are acting like we have some sort of disease this morning. What is going on?"
"Well, if ye must know, I had a rather disturbing dream last night and ye were rather prominent in it."
"Well, if it was just a dream, then it can be put aside, can't it? We are not talking reality so no harm, no foul, right?"
"I canna be sayin that. It may have been but a dream, but it was powerful real to me. An' we have been there before, though ye seem eager enough to forget it."
"Oh, well, it's not that, it's. . . . Hell, Roary, I don't know what it is, but it's not a good time."
They looked at each other then, the first time during the whole conversation. Truly looked at each other, their eyes making contact in a way that they needed to and that was enough for now. She took his hand in hers, "Perhaps we should take some time to talk tonight."
"Aye, that we should."
They cleared their plates and cups and went to join Fiona.
They drove out to the Cairn and pulled in where they had stopped the night before. It was not quite the right spot, but they could see the mound from where they were. Apparently there was no visitor's center at this site. They climbed out and walked the short distance to the mound. Roary was struck by how soft and green the expanse looked, like a vast blanket unfurled over the wide mound of earth. They circled round the girth of it, finding two entrances, one with a shallow curve leading in and the other more open with a lintel-like shape marking the passageway in. Fiona and Lin started toward the passage with the lintel. Roary held back, a bit uncertain about entering the site. "I'll have a go at the other side," he called.
He wandered back, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tucked down avoiding the glare of the sun that suddenly seemed to be tilting straight into his eyes. He rounded the bend and found himself in front of the small curving passage that now seemed to lead into an incredibly dark space. "Bloody hell, it was just a dream and not such a bad one at that," he mumbled, then moved into the small cavern. He felt it almost immediately, the cold breeze, that feeling of being absorbed, then a sort of bliss of absolution before he felt nothing at all.
Fiona and Lin found the small cavern interesting. It had so many similarities to New Grange, small carvings very much like the Ogham writing in Ian's journal. But all in all, there was not that much to search out and certainly no feeling of drifting into a mystery or a sense of nearing the Sidhe. They soon came out and went in search of Roary, feeling a bit let down that this too seemed to be another lost thread in their hopes of finding the silks. They rounded the curve of the mound and started down toward the other opening. Entering, they were surprised that they did not find him there. It was a fairly small space and not nearly as interesting as the prior cavern. They exited and worked their way back around the mound. They did not see him anywhere. Lin fumbled in her pocket, found her phone, and tried calling him but found she had no signal.
It did not seem possible that he could have walked far enough to not be seen in such a short time with such a wide expanse in view. Where had he gone? The two women stood in the field of green at a complete loss. They had no clue, no idea what to do next. Had he just left? That did not seem likely. Lin pressed her pack into Fiona's hands and ran back to the cave where Roary had gone. Something was wrong, and it had something to do with that cave.
She ran round the bend and into the cave and was met immediately with a frigid breeze. The air was so cold it caught her breath and held her for a moment. She could hear water dancing in the distance. She stepped forward and caught her shoe on a rut, stumbled and fell to her knees. Her hands sank into a deep mossy carpet. She could smell the moss now. It did not belong in this cave, it had not been here before. She tried to stand and realized her foot was wedged. Lowering herself down to the mossy carpet, she sighed deeply and then reached for her foot to pull it free. She wrangled it out of the rut and leaned back in relief. Then she felt a hand in her hair. She froze. The touch was familiar and comforting, She turned toward it and the hand ran down her cheek and cupped her face. And then he was there. They were there in the dark, on the moss, a part of the water's dance. She felt absorbed, absolved and then suddenly she was simply alone in the cave with a foot that throbbed.
She pulled herself together mentally, took a few deep breaths and made her way back to Fiona.
"Whatever we thought about the Sidhe not being here, we were wrong," she noted simply.
"What did you do to your foot?"
"Wrenched it in that awful cave."
"What do we do now?"
"Wait, I guess," Lin replied in a whisper, relieved that Fiona had not asked anything more about the cave.
They sat in the green expanse, waiting, reading, writing, but mostly just waiting.
When he appeared, it was near dusk. He looked wrung out and disheveled but was strangely smiling. He said nothing until he made it to their feet. Then he sat down with them and laid a crimson silk out upon the green grass.
Its Cold Out Here....but Beautiful....
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Participles and Portents (57)
Words and Worms
The dark maw of the ancient tomb yawned ominously in the glinting morning light. He felt his chest constrict as if suddenly banded by steel and filled with water. His pulse pounded. He could not breathe. There was no room for air. He fought to free his mind, to force it blank. He could not bear the chance that the voice would return. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and run down into his eyes. Still the dark was in front of him and the light surrounding it blinded him.
He ran and, in doing so, plunged into the darkness that had quickened his pulse and raised his bile. The darkness absorbed him. It filled him. His chest released in a large exhale, the steel bands almost seeming to make a visceral noise as he took in air, bringing him up short in relief.
Roary woke in an icy sheen of sweat. He took some time to gain awareness of his surroundings, then gathered himself together and made his way to the water closet to splash his face and chest with cold water. As he wiped himself down, he tried to smooth away the nightmare and began to puzzle over the day's events. Where did they go from here? Fiona had searched Ian's journal only to find a few short references to the Royal Academy and a Mr. Frith. These were made in the margins of his musings on New Grange and a few symbols which seemed to have some resemblance to Ogham writing. They had arrived back at the visitor's center too late to inquire about the potential location of similar sites. Now they had the task of finding something that tied the basic elements surrounding the sepulchral mound of New Grange to the Royal Academy and the unknown Mr. Frith. This all assuming that Ian's journal was leading them toward a piece of the puzzle and not off on another wild goose chase like the visit to Teague O'Byrne, as fascinating as that might have been.
He took a deep breath and wonderered why it was that he had let himself get so entangled in this rot. Surely any service demanded of him as a boy by Aoife had been discharged now that Lin's family had assumed their role in her mischief. He knew well enough that dealings with Aiofe rarely left a body feeling hale and well cared for. Why had he closed his shop without hesitation and allowed himself to get so embroiled? Did he have some misplaced form of guilt? He dinna think so. The sea had offered the treasure to Sean, he had no control over that. Perhaps he could have refused the silk when Ian had asked, but it had not occurred to him that it was linked to anything at the time. He looked at himself in the mirror. No, he was tied to the mischief, he knew that, but it was somehow more now. He should never have read the little green notebook. Now he was tied to her. That was the hell of it. He went back to his room and pulled the paper from his jacket, fingered it and then read her poem again. He had no right to it, that much he knew, but it was in his hand all the same. He flipped the page and read his own response. It seemed clumsy to him, yet it was honest. He crumpled the page and threw it in the wastebin. He was here to help with the boys and nothing more. He had to keep that straight. There were lines in poems and lines in life; you had to learn to walk along them. He threw himself on the bed, an arm over his eyes, seeking for sleep that was not accompanied by dreams.
Harsh light filtered into the room, bleeding red through his eyelids, forcing him awake. Apparently he had managed to doze. A quick rap on the door, "Roary, we're going down for tea." Bloody hell, that was Lin. "I'll be down," he managed. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He stood, pulled out what he would wear for the day, packed the rest. After his morning hygiene he stopped back in the room to store his kit and turned to leave. He made it to the door before he went back to the wastebin and picked out the crumpled bit of paper, smoothed it carefully on the small desk in the room and tucked it back inside his jacket pocket. "Tis a fool that acts the fool, and so be it,' he mumbled.
If at breakfast he was more quiet than usual, no one mentioned it. They talked a bit, here and there, about how they might go about their task and eventually settled on going into Dublin to Trinity. There at least they might find out more about the Royal Academy and perhaps get a chance to talk to a scholar who had an interest in the ancient mounds of Ireland. That decided, they packed quickly, bade their hostess farewell and got into the car. The time in the car was subdued. He was pleased that the women had ceded the task of driving to him. It gave him something to do, a reason for being there he guessed. It took them a bit to find a place to park in the busy district around Trinity. There never seemed to be any end to the number of tourists trucking about, and now it seemed he was to be one of them, well of a sort. At least they were there for a reason other than gawking at the Book of Kells or the Library. He supposed it was funny that most people came for the book and ended up being more impressed by the library. It was a grand spectacle, the library that is, not that the Book was unimportant; it was just so "displayed", it was hard to see the heart in it. You really had to dig into its history to get what it really meant, and then it really was something to look at.
He asked around a bit and eventually found that they did not really need to be on campus at all. There was a retired scholar who operated one of the student bookstores nearby who seemed to be the man steeped in the lore of the ancients according to the students he spoke with. Lin and Fiona had wandered off to find the history department and now he would have to find them. They really should have made plans on when and how to hook back up. Dismal planning on their part actually. As he strolled the grounds he enjoyed the architecture and the greenspace, amazed as always that this oasis of calm and beauty sat in the middle of such a boisterous and crowded city, one that had so many sides and so much history.
He found them chatting with a couple of older students. Fiona was talking with her hands, laughing as she spoke, Lin interjecting now and then with a smile and a nod. The men were smiling and nodding along with the story. They were clearly enjoying themselves. He felt a sudden sense of indignation, almost to the point of anger. How could they be having a good time in the middle of everything that was happening? He stalked over to them. Lin glanced up and her smile slipped to concern. He stopped midstride. Is that what his presence did to her? Then he realized he had been barreling down on the two of them; of course she would look concerned. He waved and smiled, her smile returned. He strolled the rest of the way and was introduced to the two students. They were history majors as it turned out and while they were more focused on things to do with Ireland's rebellious past, they did know a bit about its earlier culture and thought they should visit old Mr.Cairen at the bookshop across the way. As this was the same information he had received, he simply nodded. They parted company and made their way to the bookshop.
The shop was right around the corner from a small pub where they agreed they could have lunch after seeing Mr. Cairen. It was a thin shop, more of a wedge on the side of the corner, with tall ceilings and shelves that ran to the top with ladders that ran down each of the five rows in the shop. At the very front was a small, high desk in a dark burnished wood that looked incredibly old and worn. Behind it was a man that looked like he had come as a part of the original shop. He sat hunched over, with curling shoulders, a wisp of hair on his pate, glasses perched on the far end of his rather bulbous nose and large ears fanning out from his otherwise long, thin and very wrinkled face. When the bell rang upon their entry, he glanced up briefly, but they apparently did not interest him as he went immediately back to his reading. Lin approached him with some hesitation - he did not seem like a very approachable person.
She cleared her throat, "Hmm, we are looking for a Mr. Cairen?"
He peered up at her over his glasses, "Ye are?"
"Well, yes, we are?'
"Does he know ye?"
"Well, no. We were told he was an expert on ancient sepulchral mounds and we wanted to discuss this topic with him."
Apparently she had said the magic words as the curled-up figure before her seemed to spring to life, the glasses coming off in a flourish as he stood. They were all amazed to discover that he was easily close to six feet tall, and while obviously not hearty, was not as completely rail thin as they had thought.
"Well, dear, in that case ye have found him. Pardon me lack of manners when ye first came in. Why don't ye come back to the study room and we can have a nice chat?" he smiled at her.
The smile was a bit disconcerting, as she discovered that he had no lower teeth and she was not sure where there could possible be a study room. To her surprise he opened a door behind the desk which revealed an anteroom equipped with several stuffed chairs and a few side tables as well as a small fireplace.
"I can see ye are a bit surprised. The students still like to visit me from time to time, so this comes in handy, and it makes a good place for a nap when I have the mind to do so. Would ye care for tea?"
Fiona stepped forward then and introduced herself and her companions.
"I'm afraid you must think us terribly rude for not introducing ourselves sooner,"
"Not at all. I am certain that would have passed in due time. Now what is it ye have a need to know that I might help ye with?"
Fiona laid out their interests as succinctly as possible without getting into the whole tale of Aiofe and the boys. She outlined the commentary from Ian's journal and even showed Mr. Cairen the symbols Ian had drawn.
"I only wish this was more of a mystery, my dear lady. I am fairly certain that yer young Ian is referring to the Cairn of Dowth. The Committee of Antiquities of the Royal Irish Academy obtained permission in the late 1840's from the proprietors of the Dowth estate to explore the mound and hired a Mr. Frith to oversee the work as one of the county engineers. Just a moment, I can probably tell ye more."
He left and went into the store and came back carrying a dusty book a few minutes later.
"Sorry to take so long. These aren't stored in places most people look, not popular I'm afraid. Ah, here we are. Mr. Frith found a cruciform chamber on the western side that was composed of rather enormous stones which, when examined, were in every way similar to those of New Grange and exhibited the same style of decoration. A rude sarchophagus was found in the centre and though it had been broken, it was put hack together. They also found a large quantity of animal bones in a semi-burnt state mixed in with shells, a bronze pin and some iron knives. There is a lot of other information here, but I suppose the most interesting is the notation that Ogham writing was also found at the site. Does any of this help?"
"Can we visit it?"
"I don't see why not, probably a tourist something or other now, like most things," he grumbled.
"Thank you very so much for your time. Would it be all right if we purchased that book?" asked Lin.
"Never really thought this would sell, but I guess so. It's a book shop after all," was the reply.
Gone was the lively Mr. Cairen and back was the shrunken, disheveled old man. They made their purchase and said goodbye. Entering the pub for lunch, they decided to order chowders all round in order to speed up the process in the hopes they could still visit the cairn that day. It was good thick seafood chowder and they ate it in relative silence. As they left the pub the only comment made was from Fiona, "He's an odd, lonely man that Mr. Cairen, don't you think?"
Back in the car, following virtually the same route they had that morning, they traveled at a good speed. Roary felt the hairs on his neck rising as they sped ever closer to their new destination. He wondered if he could in good conscience just drop the ladies off and go to register them for the night. He wondered if there was any reason he could find that would make sense for why he did not want to go near this tomb. He just felt raw about the idea. Perhaps it was the lingering images from the dream. Still in all, he dreaded arriving. As they neared their destination it began to rain, a rain just slighlty harder than a soft mist. It hung in the air like a cloud obscuring the view. They traveled the last ten miles slowly, not quite certain of the road. At last they found the drive and pulled off. Getting out they put on their rain gear and made their way toward the gate, noticing that what few cars were there seemed to be leaving. The ground was wet, the water standing in small pools. They glanced around at the area, the sifting grey of the rain, the soft green of the mound they could just barely make out, the people leaving, the earthworms struggling in the ponds at their feet. They had arrived too late today. They would have to return tomorrow and hope for better weather.
The thought made Roary shiver.
The dark maw of the ancient tomb yawned ominously in the glinting morning light. He felt his chest constrict as if suddenly banded by steel and filled with water. His pulse pounded. He could not breathe. There was no room for air. He fought to free his mind, to force it blank. He could not bear the chance that the voice would return. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and run down into his eyes. Still the dark was in front of him and the light surrounding it blinded him.
He ran and, in doing so, plunged into the darkness that had quickened his pulse and raised his bile. The darkness absorbed him. It filled him. His chest released in a large exhale, the steel bands almost seeming to make a visceral noise as he took in air, bringing him up short in relief.
Roary woke in an icy sheen of sweat. He took some time to gain awareness of his surroundings, then gathered himself together and made his way to the water closet to splash his face and chest with cold water. As he wiped himself down, he tried to smooth away the nightmare and began to puzzle over the day's events. Where did they go from here? Fiona had searched Ian's journal only to find a few short references to the Royal Academy and a Mr. Frith. These were made in the margins of his musings on New Grange and a few symbols which seemed to have some resemblance to Ogham writing. They had arrived back at the visitor's center too late to inquire about the potential location of similar sites. Now they had the task of finding something that tied the basic elements surrounding the sepulchral mound of New Grange to the Royal Academy and the unknown Mr. Frith. This all assuming that Ian's journal was leading them toward a piece of the puzzle and not off on another wild goose chase like the visit to Teague O'Byrne, as fascinating as that might have been.
He took a deep breath and wonderered why it was that he had let himself get so entangled in this rot. Surely any service demanded of him as a boy by Aoife had been discharged now that Lin's family had assumed their role in her mischief. He knew well enough that dealings with Aiofe rarely left a body feeling hale and well cared for. Why had he closed his shop without hesitation and allowed himself to get so embroiled? Did he have some misplaced form of guilt? He dinna think so. The sea had offered the treasure to Sean, he had no control over that. Perhaps he could have refused the silk when Ian had asked, but it had not occurred to him that it was linked to anything at the time. He looked at himself in the mirror. No, he was tied to the mischief, he knew that, but it was somehow more now. He should never have read the little green notebook. Now he was tied to her. That was the hell of it. He went back to his room and pulled the paper from his jacket, fingered it and then read her poem again. He had no right to it, that much he knew, but it was in his hand all the same. He flipped the page and read his own response. It seemed clumsy to him, yet it was honest. He crumpled the page and threw it in the wastebin. He was here to help with the boys and nothing more. He had to keep that straight. There were lines in poems and lines in life; you had to learn to walk along them. He threw himself on the bed, an arm over his eyes, seeking for sleep that was not accompanied by dreams.
Harsh light filtered into the room, bleeding red through his eyelids, forcing him awake. Apparently he had managed to doze. A quick rap on the door, "Roary, we're going down for tea." Bloody hell, that was Lin. "I'll be down," he managed. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He stood, pulled out what he would wear for the day, packed the rest. After his morning hygiene he stopped back in the room to store his kit and turned to leave. He made it to the door before he went back to the wastebin and picked out the crumpled bit of paper, smoothed it carefully on the small desk in the room and tucked it back inside his jacket pocket. "Tis a fool that acts the fool, and so be it,' he mumbled.
If at breakfast he was more quiet than usual, no one mentioned it. They talked a bit, here and there, about how they might go about their task and eventually settled on going into Dublin to Trinity. There at least they might find out more about the Royal Academy and perhaps get a chance to talk to a scholar who had an interest in the ancient mounds of Ireland. That decided, they packed quickly, bade their hostess farewell and got into the car. The time in the car was subdued. He was pleased that the women had ceded the task of driving to him. It gave him something to do, a reason for being there he guessed. It took them a bit to find a place to park in the busy district around Trinity. There never seemed to be any end to the number of tourists trucking about, and now it seemed he was to be one of them, well of a sort. At least they were there for a reason other than gawking at the Book of Kells or the Library. He supposed it was funny that most people came for the book and ended up being more impressed by the library. It was a grand spectacle, the library that is, not that the Book was unimportant; it was just so "displayed", it was hard to see the heart in it. You really had to dig into its history to get what it really meant, and then it really was something to look at.
He asked around a bit and eventually found that they did not really need to be on campus at all. There was a retired scholar who operated one of the student bookstores nearby who seemed to be the man steeped in the lore of the ancients according to the students he spoke with. Lin and Fiona had wandered off to find the history department and now he would have to find them. They really should have made plans on when and how to hook back up. Dismal planning on their part actually. As he strolled the grounds he enjoyed the architecture and the greenspace, amazed as always that this oasis of calm and beauty sat in the middle of such a boisterous and crowded city, one that had so many sides and so much history.
He found them chatting with a couple of older students. Fiona was talking with her hands, laughing as she spoke, Lin interjecting now and then with a smile and a nod. The men were smiling and nodding along with the story. They were clearly enjoying themselves. He felt a sudden sense of indignation, almost to the point of anger. How could they be having a good time in the middle of everything that was happening? He stalked over to them. Lin glanced up and her smile slipped to concern. He stopped midstride. Is that what his presence did to her? Then he realized he had been barreling down on the two of them; of course she would look concerned. He waved and smiled, her smile returned. He strolled the rest of the way and was introduced to the two students. They were history majors as it turned out and while they were more focused on things to do with Ireland's rebellious past, they did know a bit about its earlier culture and thought they should visit old Mr.Cairen at the bookshop across the way. As this was the same information he had received, he simply nodded. They parted company and made their way to the bookshop.
The shop was right around the corner from a small pub where they agreed they could have lunch after seeing Mr. Cairen. It was a thin shop, more of a wedge on the side of the corner, with tall ceilings and shelves that ran to the top with ladders that ran down each of the five rows in the shop. At the very front was a small, high desk in a dark burnished wood that looked incredibly old and worn. Behind it was a man that looked like he had come as a part of the original shop. He sat hunched over, with curling shoulders, a wisp of hair on his pate, glasses perched on the far end of his rather bulbous nose and large ears fanning out from his otherwise long, thin and very wrinkled face. When the bell rang upon their entry, he glanced up briefly, but they apparently did not interest him as he went immediately back to his reading. Lin approached him with some hesitation - he did not seem like a very approachable person.
She cleared her throat, "Hmm, we are looking for a Mr. Cairen?"
He peered up at her over his glasses, "Ye are?"
"Well, yes, we are?'
"Does he know ye?"
"Well, no. We were told he was an expert on ancient sepulchral mounds and we wanted to discuss this topic with him."
Apparently she had said the magic words as the curled-up figure before her seemed to spring to life, the glasses coming off in a flourish as he stood. They were all amazed to discover that he was easily close to six feet tall, and while obviously not hearty, was not as completely rail thin as they had thought.
"Well, dear, in that case ye have found him. Pardon me lack of manners when ye first came in. Why don't ye come back to the study room and we can have a nice chat?" he smiled at her.
The smile was a bit disconcerting, as she discovered that he had no lower teeth and she was not sure where there could possible be a study room. To her surprise he opened a door behind the desk which revealed an anteroom equipped with several stuffed chairs and a few side tables as well as a small fireplace.
"I can see ye are a bit surprised. The students still like to visit me from time to time, so this comes in handy, and it makes a good place for a nap when I have the mind to do so. Would ye care for tea?"
Fiona stepped forward then and introduced herself and her companions.
"I'm afraid you must think us terribly rude for not introducing ourselves sooner,"
"Not at all. I am certain that would have passed in due time. Now what is it ye have a need to know that I might help ye with?"
Fiona laid out their interests as succinctly as possible without getting into the whole tale of Aiofe and the boys. She outlined the commentary from Ian's journal and even showed Mr. Cairen the symbols Ian had drawn.
"I only wish this was more of a mystery, my dear lady. I am fairly certain that yer young Ian is referring to the Cairn of Dowth. The Committee of Antiquities of the Royal Irish Academy obtained permission in the late 1840's from the proprietors of the Dowth estate to explore the mound and hired a Mr. Frith to oversee the work as one of the county engineers. Just a moment, I can probably tell ye more."
He left and went into the store and came back carrying a dusty book a few minutes later.
"Sorry to take so long. These aren't stored in places most people look, not popular I'm afraid. Ah, here we are. Mr. Frith found a cruciform chamber on the western side that was composed of rather enormous stones which, when examined, were in every way similar to those of New Grange and exhibited the same style of decoration. A rude sarchophagus was found in the centre and though it had been broken, it was put hack together. They also found a large quantity of animal bones in a semi-burnt state mixed in with shells, a bronze pin and some iron knives. There is a lot of other information here, but I suppose the most interesting is the notation that Ogham writing was also found at the site. Does any of this help?"
"Can we visit it?"
"I don't see why not, probably a tourist something or other now, like most things," he grumbled.
"Thank you very so much for your time. Would it be all right if we purchased that book?" asked Lin.
"Never really thought this would sell, but I guess so. It's a book shop after all," was the reply.
Gone was the lively Mr. Cairen and back was the shrunken, disheveled old man. They made their purchase and said goodbye. Entering the pub for lunch, they decided to order chowders all round in order to speed up the process in the hopes they could still visit the cairn that day. It was good thick seafood chowder and they ate it in relative silence. As they left the pub the only comment made was from Fiona, "He's an odd, lonely man that Mr. Cairen, don't you think?"
Back in the car, following virtually the same route they had that morning, they traveled at a good speed. Roary felt the hairs on his neck rising as they sped ever closer to their new destination. He wondered if he could in good conscience just drop the ladies off and go to register them for the night. He wondered if there was any reason he could find that would make sense for why he did not want to go near this tomb. He just felt raw about the idea. Perhaps it was the lingering images from the dream. Still in all, he dreaded arriving. As they neared their destination it began to rain, a rain just slighlty harder than a soft mist. It hung in the air like a cloud obscuring the view. They traveled the last ten miles slowly, not quite certain of the road. At last they found the drive and pulled off. Getting out they put on their rain gear and made their way toward the gate, noticing that what few cars were there seemed to be leaving. The ground was wet, the water standing in small pools. They glanced around at the area, the sifting grey of the rain, the soft green of the mound they could just barely make out, the people leaving, the earthworms struggling in the ponds at their feet. They had arrived too late today. They would have to return tomorrow and hope for better weather.
The thought made Roary shiver.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
On Needing to Move
Its been awhile since I wrote. I have been incredibly busy. I have been writing, (for those of you that actually have been reading along this is not big news) a serialized book since last November. And while I only have a short bit to go to the finish line, I find myself at a place where I need to write something different for a moment. And so, here we go - a tangent.
On Needing to Move
In the last two weeks I have been in 11 cities other than my home. One could say I have traveled a bit. As I moved along this journey, from bustling urban areas, to heat-heavy rural communities, from the south of our great nation to its heartland, back south and then out east, I found myself getting caught by the rhythm in the mode of the travel.
My feet picking up the tap, tap, tap of the moving sidewalk as it rolls cog-to-cog and we move along it, (like the cogs in the machine of society that we are), all anxious to get wherever it is we think we are going. My hands drumming to the tick of the engine as it carries me further along the highway to a destination that is somehow always clear if not always dear. The thick hum of the plane, the clack of the train on the track, even the smack of my heels as they mark my path to the diner for coffee in the morning. These are the rhythms of the travel, the rhythms of life as I know it.
I watch the people around me and suddenly it occurs to me, that is all any of us are doing. That is why all of this equipment, all these structures, this mess and fuss and cost, that is the reason for all of it. We are driven to move. Our scientists have created people movers, but in truth it is our reality that we are people who move. We do not and cannot just simply stay still.
Even when we meditate we are transcending. An act of movement, not physical, true, but a movement of its own kind. I remember reading that we were created with an instinct to not just survive, but to thrive, and it is this instinct which has compelled man to seek to understand and to create. This made so much sense to me at the time, but now I wonder if pehaps all there really is at the very core is a need to move, to not stagnate, to continue on, like the tiny little particles of matter scientist's study - ever constantly in flux - always moving.
Perhaps that's what people are driven to do - to move, to flex, continously - maybe that is why we dream - because even in our sleep - we are driven to be active.
I guess there is time enough for nothing when there is truly nothing left of our conscious selves left. And maybe that is the point of dying, to be free from movement - unless you believe in reincarnation - and then - well - let's hope the next round provides a closet full of really comfortable shoes.
On Needing to Move
In the last two weeks I have been in 11 cities other than my home. One could say I have traveled a bit. As I moved along this journey, from bustling urban areas, to heat-heavy rural communities, from the south of our great nation to its heartland, back south and then out east, I found myself getting caught by the rhythm in the mode of the travel.
My feet picking up the tap, tap, tap of the moving sidewalk as it rolls cog-to-cog and we move along it, (like the cogs in the machine of society that we are), all anxious to get wherever it is we think we are going. My hands drumming to the tick of the engine as it carries me further along the highway to a destination that is somehow always clear if not always dear. The thick hum of the plane, the clack of the train on the track, even the smack of my heels as they mark my path to the diner for coffee in the morning. These are the rhythms of the travel, the rhythms of life as I know it.
I watch the people around me and suddenly it occurs to me, that is all any of us are doing. That is why all of this equipment, all these structures, this mess and fuss and cost, that is the reason for all of it. We are driven to move. Our scientists have created people movers, but in truth it is our reality that we are people who move. We do not and cannot just simply stay still.
Even when we meditate we are transcending. An act of movement, not physical, true, but a movement of its own kind. I remember reading that we were created with an instinct to not just survive, but to thrive, and it is this instinct which has compelled man to seek to understand and to create. This made so much sense to me at the time, but now I wonder if pehaps all there really is at the very core is a need to move, to not stagnate, to continue on, like the tiny little particles of matter scientist's study - ever constantly in flux - always moving.
Perhaps that's what people are driven to do - to move, to flex, continously - maybe that is why we dream - because even in our sleep - we are driven to be active.
I guess there is time enough for nothing when there is truly nothing left of our conscious selves left. And maybe that is the point of dying, to be free from movement - unless you believe in reincarnation - and then - well - let's hope the next round provides a closet full of really comfortable shoes.
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