Inish Clare

by Jennifer Rose McMahon

  “Can we move it? Is there any way?” I pressed on it to feel its unforgiving heft.

  Rory walked through the yard with his hand on his chin, thinking. He paced and wove around the rusted farm equipment.

  “Over there.” Paul pointed and moved to Rory. “In the tall grass. It’s got wheels.”

  The cart appeared content in staying put in its own final resting place, with its wheels worn down to bare metal and its flatbed barely able to hold its beams.

  Rory nodded with a twinkle of hope in his eye.

  He ran back to Fergal.

  “Move.” And he shoved him over to the hidden cart.

  Pulling overgrowth away and running his hand along the side rail with optimism, Rory coaxed it back to work, clearing a path for its resurrection. He kicked dirt and debris away from the wheels and instructed Fergal to pull.

  I hopped off the stone pile with a thrill of anticipation and joined Rory.

  Rory and I pushed as Fergal pulled with his good arm, cursing under his breath, and the cart came free from its resting place. We moved it all the way up to the stone pile and nestled it as close as possible to the base of the rocks.

  I flew around the yard looking for a hoist or a lever of some kind to help move the coffin onto the cart. A pile of rusty clothesline poles tripped me and I stumbled as my feet rolled across them.

  And then I got an idea.

  We set the poles horizontally up the stone mound toward the coffin. Rory got behind the heavy crate and pushed. At first it didn’t budge but as he shimmied back and forth, it creaked from its position and moved out of its four-hundred-year hiding place.

  Rory pushed more and the heavy coffin rolled on the poles, gaining speed as it moved from pole to pole and smashed onto the edge of the flatbed.

  Paul used a pole to prop the end of the coffin up to the exact level of the platform and Rory and Fergal pushed it the rest of the way.

  Our busy activity halted without a word as we stared at the sarcophagus in its full glory. Fantastic tribal detail and ancient Celtic designs—beasts and swirls, knots and Gaelic words, adorned the stone coffin, sealed tight by time.

  It was the casket of a queen.

  The stunning beauty of the encasement caused my breath to suck in and my chest heaved. Pure joy overflowed through the tears that blurred my vision.

  We stared. Our silent stillness speaking volumes.

  Without a single spoken word, we pushed the cart through the yard and out onto the dirt road. The swirling gusts offered strength and assistance to ease the operation, which fueled our spirits—knowing Gráinne was near.

  As a makeshift funeral procession, we entered the graveyard like beaten soldiers with steadfast hearts. Fergal dragged his feet at the back, grumbling and resisting every step.

  The path we carved toward the tomb was well-traveled by us and we followed the familiar route in solemn silence. We pushed and heaved as the cart groaned in weary resistance through the tangled ivy and thick moss and then we lightened our efforts as we approached the front of the burial mound.

  The tomb door remained open by several inches, after being abandoned by Fergal’s unsuccessful looting attempt. Stone on stone scratches, like tiger claw marks, streaked the jam where the door partially separated from its tight, centuries-old installation.

  Fergal’s relentless probing had worked, and the key stuck out from the hole, panting from the effort of performing its intended task after hundreds of years of inactivity.

  We stood stock-still, staring into the narrow opening to the dark cavern of the tomb, wondering what secrets either escaped on the wind or hid with stealth in the shadows within.

  I couldn’t believe it was open.

  I’d waited so long for the answers I prayed it held.

  My narrowed eyes flashed a glare at Fergal as I reeled with resentment of him stealing the moment from me and turning it to something evil.

  I never actually thought we’d get this far, though.

  A shiver ran through me as I thought about the simple fact of what we were doing—opening a crypt like grave robbers. It seemed wrong, on so many levels. But the silence in my settled gut assured me it was right.

  “Sure, I told ya,” Fergal said from behind, leaning for a better look. “There’s nothin’ in there.”

  I moved closer and wrapped my fingers around the stone slab door and pulled. Inch by inch, stone scraping on stone, I heaved it farther open.

  Golden rays from the sinking sun eagerly reached in, attempting to gain access to a space that was hidden from its reach for centuries. The gentle glow illuminated the empty blackness of the tomb, exposing tightly packed fist-sized rocks in the sidewalls and a stone slab bottom.

  My heart sank.

  Fergal was right.

  I looked back at Rory and Paul who were waiting with bated breath, watching my every move and I shook my head.

  “Rory, help me pull it all the way open,” I urged him. “So Gráinne’s coffin can slide in.”

  He stepped closer and pulled from the outside of the door as I pushed from its inside.

  The polished stone interior of the door was liquid-like, reflecting light in every direction. Like a magic mirror, it cast my reflection back at me in a blur of whirling haze. The one fixed feature was a masterful engraving right in the center. The same as the one on her coffin. And on her original grave marker on Clare Island. I smiled to myself.

  I reached for the marker and traced the outline with my finger, then pulled back as if being shocked. The low light of twilight bounced off the inside of the door and lit the interior of the tomb enough for me to see all the way to the back through the reflection on the door.

  My head snapped around for a clear look into the depths of the tomb.

  The hazy reflection could have been playing tricks on me.

  As I leaned in farther, my hair stood on end as my eyes zoomed in on objects resting against the rear wall.

  “Paul! There’s something in there!” I shouted.

  The three of them crowded in for a better look.

  Rory shoved Fergal back and sealed off his access by shimmying in close to Paul.

  I crawled in and reached as far as I could with my arm, wiggling my fingers in hopes of connecting with something. The length of the tomb ran at least six or eight feet to the back and I gulped back the dread rising in my throat—the dread of having to go farther in.

  I inched my knees along the rock slab bottom and stretched again, reaching only half the way. I swallowed a mouthful of air and looked back.

  “Go on,” Rory said. “You got this.”

  Paul pressed his lips together in agreement.

  “I have to go all the way to the back,” I said to myself loud enough for anyone else to hear, hoping for resistance or some other excuse to stall.

  Paul and Rory’s eyes widened as they bared their teeth and grimaced, sending clear signals of how they felt about my predicament, but understanding the necessity of moving forward.

  Fergal jockeyed for a better view, tapping his fingers off one another in eager anticipation. His lips moved, exposing his rotted teeth, as he jabbered to himself as if counting his share of the booty.

  I crouched into a compact form, with my knees tucked under me and my elbows in tight, and shuffled along the rough bottom of the tomb. Claustrophobia threatened my already-shaky confidence as the side walls closed in as I moved deeper into the crypt.

  My elbows touched both sides at the very back and my subconscious suddenly had the need to stretch and move about, egging on my claustrophobia like a teasing sibling. Ignoring my inner turmoil, I reached to the back wall and felt around blindly, patting down the area, to see with my hands.

  My fingers moved around a wooden box, maybe the size of a milk crate, and then a leather sack, like a large garbage bag filled with loose pieces. I pulled at the leather parcel and dragged it along the length of the tomb back to the open air.

  Everyone stepped away as I crawled out with t
he ancient, dust-covered sack. They stared in disbelief as I knelt at the leather bag and allowed the tension to shudder out of me without shame, in jolts of pent up fear and phobias.

  I glanced up at Paul and then to Rory. Looking for agreement of what to do next. They nodded and nudged at me to open it.

  I ran my hands over my face and through my hair as I took a deep breath.

  Leaves rustled and then lifted up from the ground and the ivy fluttered in the rising breeze. The mist of the boneyard swirled in agitation as the wind picked up and gusted all around us.

  She was awakening again, responding.

  She was here.

  If she wanted to stop me, she would have by now. Without any trouble she could’ve sealed me in that tomb and annihilated everyone else. A clever plan if I’d maybe misunderstood her intentions all along. I paused as the possibility sunk in.

  My hand went to my mouth to stop the idea from forming any further. My own thoughts might have more power than I knew, so keeping focus was key.

  My eyes darted around for any sign of her taking form and then focused back on the leather wrappings. I unfolded thick flaps of the weathered hide, revealing the opening. Cracked leather cordage sealed the bag but crumbled in my hands from the ravages of time as I fumbled with it. A clang of metal on stone rattled from within the parcel, raising everyone’s eyebrows with anxious curiosity.

  I reached in to the unknown with a shaking, cautious hand, careful not to damage the fragile, aged contents. My fingers glided over a smooth round object, like clay pottery, and then a cold metal plate of some kind. I grasped onto the heavy metal object and pulled it out for its first breath of fresh air in over four hundred years.

  My mouth fell open as I looked up at Paul and Rory.

  The ancient family crest was the size of a dinner plate. Raised features in the metal depicted a fire-breathing mythical lion-beast. The crest of the DeLacy Clan.

  I dropped it into the moss and pulled my hand away, as if I’d touched something I shouldn’t have. Tears misted my eyes in anticipation of what else might be hiding in the satchel.

  I reached back into the bag for the pottery. My hand pushed past rods or solid tubes of some form and found the pot. My fingers went into grooves almost like a bowling ball and I grabbed one and pulled it out.

  As it emerged from the bag, the wind came in whipping gusts all around us—swirling debris and shaking the boughs of every tree along the perimeter of the graveyard. The space around us went wild as I pulled the solemn skull from the bag.

  My hand froze with my fingers in the eye sockets as terror quaked through me. The urge to throw it consumed my every nerve but I held on, protecting it from harm. Tears ran down my cheeks without shame.

  “Hugh.” Paul’s voice broke through the roar of the wind around us.

  My arm trembled, shaking the skull in my hand, making it look as if it were struggling to come back to life. I pushed it back into the bag and rested it within the rods and tubes, his bones I assumed.

  My knuckles hit off another metal plate and I pulled it out as I withdrew my hand from the bag, shaking off the heebie-jeebies from whatever else could be lurking in there.

  The boar and galley of the O’Maille family crest stood proud upon the plate. I inhaled and filled my lungs, hearing the clan motto play over in my mind. Terra Marique Potens. Powerful by Land and Sea. I placed it next to the DeLacy crest in the moss, feeling closer than ever to reconnecting Grace to Hugh.

  I rewrapped the leather bundle of Hugh’s remains with careful efficiency and lifted it back into the tomb.

  He fought for Grace. He defended her honor and her territory. She was his captain. His queen. With deep respect, I handled his remains like those of a brave and honorable soldier.

  I inched deeper and deeper, scooching along on my knees, until his remains rested in their original place. I pressed on the bag with my hands, as if to assure him that he wouldn’t be alone any longer. His time for eternal peace was soon to come.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness more, I reached over and felt around at the box, searching for something to grab onto. The potential contents couldn’t be ignored and my burning curiosity kept me moving.

  A metal ring hung from the center of one side. I pulled on it and dragged the heavy wooden crate, shimmying it across the slab floor to the opening of the tomb. I crawled out and then reached back for it. Rory squeezed in closer and found another ring on the opposite side and we heaved it out and onto the ivy.

  The wind whipped into a violent frenzy casting twigs and leaves through the air like explosive shrapnel. I shielded my eyes in response but felt none of it as our spot remained calm and unaffected, like a safe dome. The churning blasts came right to the edge of the burial mound and the surrounding gravestones but spread up and over us, leaving us untouched.

  In the blur of the gusts and debris, a figure emerged at the side of the mound, crouched and struggling with his chains. His muscles strained from the effort of centuries, trying to free himself. His leather pants and vest moved with him like his own skin as strands of hair broke free from the cord that tied it back as he struggled.

  It was Hugh.

  Bound by time and grief.

  I jerked my gaze over to Paul in terror, begging him with my tear-filled eyes for him to be seeing the same thing. His eyes locked on Hugh as his jaw hung open and his head nodded in astonishment.

  Rory and Fergal froze in disbelief and stared. Fergal stepped back to distance himself from the ghostly apparition, his head shaking as if wishing it away.

  I moved faster as my hands shook and fiddled with the latch that sealed the crate. The rusted metal flap pressed over a protruding metal piece. I pried the time-seized latch with my fingers and forced it off the peg, bending my nails to the quick in my haste. Pressing my palms along the line of the lid, I pushed the top open and it fell back on its stiff leather hinges.

  We all leaned at the same time and peered in, holding our breath with wide eyes.

  I blinked into the crate to clear my vision and be sure what I was seeing wasn’t a hallucination. The shaking of my body twitched through every awakened nerve as I shook my head in disbelief.

  I’d just opened a pirate’s treasure chest from the 1500s.

  My hands ran back through my hair in disbelief.

  The weight of our actions through my mind into overload. We were traveling back in time by touching these things, breathing the same air as them, and bringing a new level of life to their once-lost existence.

  The contents of the chest shone out from their dark, ancient imprisonment, begging to be touched. Scrolls and fabric, metal wrist plates—like battle armor cuffs adorned with clan symbols—and Celtic broaches for fastening cloaks.

  I reached in and lifted a handkerchief, yellowed and stiff from time but still holding onto its lace edges, and placed it on my lap safely. I removed the wrist cuffs and their embedded gemstones glistened in every direction, widening Fergal’s eyes and stretching his sinister grin.

  The scrolls reached out from within, as if hoping to be picked next. I pulled the engraved metal tubes out of the crate, one at a time, and laid them side by side in the ivy. Weathered parchment poked out of one and I gently eased it from its protective shell.

  The three men hovered over me while the winds whipped into a frenzy as I touched the concealed sheets, closing in for a better look. Unrolling just a small bit, images of hand drawn maps, old English scrawl, and royal seals jumped out at us. More treaties and land deeds.

  Everything we needed.

  My eyes darted to Paul’s, wide with astonishment.

  “It’s all here. Grace’s treasures.” I peered back into the box to see what was hidden under the scrolls.

  I gasped and reeled back with my hand covering my mouth.

  Coins. Hundreds of them. And more jewels. Rings. A crown.

  “Oh my god.” I spoke into the chest.

  “Real pirate’s booty,” Rory chuffed, shaking his head.


  Thunder roared around us as the sky darkened to heavy black and the sound of a stampede rumbled from every direction. Gráinne took form in the swirling squall and stood tall at the top of the burial mound, staring down on us.

  My captain. The pirate queen.

  Her thick locks of long hair flew in the powerful gusts as the fabric of her white blouse flapped across her arms in ivory waves. The leather of her vest laced tight under her chest wrapped her waist with a thick sash that held the empty sword scabbard.

  Gráinne’s penetrating eyes held me slave to her every command and my fierce loyalty guided each move without question.

  Her arm jolted up as she pointed at me and then at the crate, leading my line of vision with her finger straight back to the tomb. I nodded in understanding and lowered my head in shame wondering if I’d made a huge mistake.

  My face reddened as I gathered the contents back into the crate, imagining violating the pirate queen, instead of helping. I didn’t dare look at her again.

  My muscles acted like they belonged to someone else and the task became increasingly difficult under her close scrutiny. I readied the scrolls for last, planning to place the handkerchief delicately across the top.

  As I lifted them up to the chest, a burst of agitated wind blasted them out of my hands. In a rattling splash of clanking metal, they landed by her sword on the cart.

  Rory startled at first but then stepped closer to the cart and with hands on his hips, set a protective barrier between the items and Fergal.

  I twisted back toward Grace with wide eyes.

  She gave us the scrolls.

  Relief washed over me. I hadn’t upset her.

  And she allowed the scrolls into Rory’s protection.

  My eyebrows scrunched as my head tipped in thought.

  As I gazed back into her eyes, her voice filled my mind with her ancient language that permeated our sheltered space.

  Rory moved closer, hearing it too.

  “Taoiseach na clans O’Maille agus Mac Mathúna. Ní mór duit troid go Gaedhealach chur ar ais go dtí a ghlóir bunaidh. Beidh an Druids tú a threorú. Filleadh ar an talamh ar an rhythms ársa an aois Ceilteach.”