House of the Dead

by Des Sheridan

  At that moment Neil arrived at his side, accompanied by his wife, Niamh. Robert enjoyed chatting to them but found his eyes kept returning to the beautiful stranger. The setting wasn’t the only feature captivating at Rosnaree, he reflected.

  The sound of a gong prompted the guests to drift into the dining room. Not before time, thought Robert, whose stomach had started to rumble. He sat next to Niamh, and over soup she filled Robert in on the history of the house. Built in 1810 by a local Anglo-Irish family, and extended in 1875, it had remained in their hands until the seventies when the last family member living in Ireland had died. News that the house was on the market had reached Brian’s ears. The house’s relative dilapidation and his ability to pay cash meant the purchase was soon signed and sealed. Niamh explained that her late mother, Catherine, had adored the house and it was Brian’s way of thanking her for all the years when his career had determined where they lived.

  ‘I can tell you, at the time everyone said the purchase extravagant, but Brian had the last laugh when house prices took off in the nineties. Of course it was mammy who restored and redecorated the place.’

  Looking about him Robert reckoned Catherine Ruane had done a fine job. Continuing the line of conversation, he mentioned the abandoned cottage to Niamh who listened in silence and then offered an explanation.

  ‘You need to remember, Robert, that land reform came very late to Ireland, in the nineteen twenties. Up till then most of the farmers suffered under absentee landlords. So the little cottages became associated with peasant status and poverty. Many people were happy to turn their back on them.’

  Robert was relaxing in Niamh’s company and relishing the food, not having eaten since breakfast. The main course was poached wild Atlantic salmon with parmentier potatoes, mange tout and green beans, served with a hollandaise sauce. It was simple cooking but delicious. As they ate, Niamh pointed out other guests. The beautiful woman, it turned out, was her younger sister, Tara.

  ‘Just home from the States, following some, eh... let’s say... complications. Don’t ask her about Boston, if you value your life.’

  Robert was surprised by this confidence, which seemed a little pointed and not very loyal, but Niamh offered no further details and Robert knew better than to ask.

  ‘The man next to Tara is Malachy McCarthy, a school friend of Tara’s she bumped into again recently. He is very knowledgeable, has a PhD in something to do with Irish history. And, believe it or not, is training to be a deacon. God knows why, in this day and age. Mind you we need some decent priests what with all the paedophile scandals and Malachy is a lovely man.’

  Niamh paused to take a mouthful of food before resuming the inventory.

  ‘Now, the big fellow on her right is Shay Healey, our local hero. He led the Sligo hurling team to victory in the All Ireland Championship a few years back. He has been helping out with the tomb since the discovery. He and Tara are spending a lot of time together, but don’t say I told you. Don’t ask me about the two people next to him. They came yesterday and are the top archaeologists from the Museum, but that’s all I know.’

  Shay was a lucky chap, Robert though as he topped up Niamh’s wine glass up and then his own. Brian was treating his guests to a fine white burgundy and Robert for one was not complaining.

  Chapter 47

  A lull in the conversation gave Brian the opening he needed and he tapped his glass with a spoon.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I want to say how glad I am that you could all come to our assistance so speedily. It really is very much appreciated. I thought a meal would give us a chance to get acquainted and, of course, to share the story so far, so you are all brought up to date. But for that I need a storyteller. And who better for the role than a historian?’

  Arching an eyebrow he turned to Malachy McCarthy, who was sitting beside Tara. Tara caught a look of peevish disappointment flash across the face of the local historian, Patrick Deargal, who was seated opposite her, as he picked up his wine glass and downed a gulp.

  ‘Now, Malachy, I see your dessert is as yet untouched, so would you mind kicking off? And may we start with the people who built the tomb that Jack found?’

  Turning to gauge his response Tara saw that Malachy looked momentarily startled, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Clearly he had not anticipated this invitation. Her friend was a man of medium height and build, a bit on the slight side, with mousey-coloured hair. He wiped his mouth nervously with his serviette, composing himself. There was something quite gauche about him sometimes and it was an endearing quality. It was reassuring to think that someone so knowledgeable had feet of clay, she thought with a smile. It made him human.

  “So I am to sing for my supper, eh Brian? Malachy observed. ‘But then again why not? For to be sure it has been a very fine supper! I just hope a lecture from me doesn’t send you all to sleep!’

  Tara wondered for a second why Brian had alighted upon Malachy. There were more expert persons around the table. She suspected it must be because he hoped Malachy wouldn’t talk over everyone’s head. At that moment Malachy launched forth.

  ‘So, the people who built the tomb, who were they indeed? You know, on one level we might well call them the Silent People, for they reveal so little of themselves to us. But we do know some things for sure, so let me start there. The evidence suggests that they originated in Iberia or maybe even further east in the Mediterranean, and, being great seafarers, they sailed up from Galicia to settle in Brittany, Wales, Ireland and then Scotland without a bother. They spread their great culture in an arc along the rugged coasts of Western Europe.’

  Malachy paused for breath, giving Tara an opportunity to reflect on her friend. He had called to the house about three weeks back out of the blue. She recalled her surprise and delight to open the door and find him standing there!

  ‘Hello, Tara, remember me?’ was all he had said.

  Of course she had remembered him. You didn’t forget a staunch school friend like him no matter how many years it was since they had last seen each other. Malachy had explained that he was visiting a priests’ retreat house near Sligo to study for his exams and he had heard that she was back home. Straight away they had got on well, the intervening years seeming to count for nothing. Malachy had become a regular visitor to Rosnaree since then. Both of them were changed people. Growing up and experience of life makes sure of that. But the old rapport was still there. Malachy was quite the intellectual now, with several degrees in Celtic studies under his belt. But responding to a vocational call, he was studying for his deaconate exams. She listened to his enthusiastic plans with affection. He was an odd fish but it was impossible not to warm to his manner. He seemed devoid of guile.

  A touch on her arm brought her back to the present. She moved her glass so Shay could top it up and realised that Malachy had started speaking again.

  ‘I think I am right in saying that they arrived in Ireland about five-thousand BC, or maybe even earlier. The archaeologists can shout if I get it wrong! Try and imagine what life for these early folk was like. Nowadays we are so organised and cossetted! Our families fit into large neighbourhoods; we go to school and university, and so forth. We all drive cars and shop in supermarkets. It is all highly orchestrated. But way back then, when the first settlers arrived survival was precarious. Nature and your close companions called the shots as to whether you lived or died. Life was in many ways a lottery stacked against you. Yet did these people didn’t play safe? No way! They were hardy and intrepid pioneers, used to travelling and surviving in small groups. They ventured up the rivers and hacked down tracts of the primeval forest to create glades so that they could farm the land for the first time. So are we talking primitive half ape-like grunting creatures? I don’t think so! Think skilled men and women more like. People who could build and sail boats, shape and wield axes, till the land and catch fish. Resourceful and intelligent survivors who, if they walked in that door, would put us to shame!’

  He had actua
lly pointed at the door as he said this and most eyes had moved to follow his command. Tara had not seen this side of him before. Behind the attempt at an easy manner was a man who knew his stuff. She noted that none of the archaeologists had contradicted him and suspected it wasn’t just out of politeness. He spoke with authority.

  ‘Then, having settled and established a way of life, they did something quite unexpected and extraordinary. Over a period of three-thousand years, while their civilisation held sway, they created many striking megalithic monuments - the stone circles, avenues and tombs, menhirs, dolmens and so forth - that dot the British Isles to this day. And there I will leave it! I had better shut up or I will have spoilt an excellent meal!’

  But if Malachy thought he was off the hook that easily he was mistaken. The question came from Brian.

  ‘How is that so many of these monuments have survived so long, Malachy?’

  ‘For a variety of reasons, Brian, I suppose,’ Malachy replied. ‘Often the stones used are enormous and not easy to remove. Many of the monuments are in the uplands which we tend to avoid. But others again are in remote lowland rural areas. I suspect there is another reason above and beyond these. We leave them alone because we are in awe of them and rightly so. The names of these sites are known to children the world over - Newgrange, Stonehenge, Avebury and Carnac. Why? Because they impress and are magical! They capture our imaginations.’

  At last Tara recognised a glimpse of the intuitive and empathic Malachy that she knew. But it was only a passing peek. She realised that there was more to Malachy than she had assumed. He was presenting quite differently tonight, no doubt because it was a different and high-powered audience. He was down-loading knowledge.

  He raised a palm.

  ‘Before you ask me can I prove all this, perhaps not. It is true that the style of edifice varies from place to place, but nonetheless I believe that they are the expression of a single world view and a shared culture. What’s more, many are located deliberately in ritual landscapes of great beauty as though paying homage to the natural world around them. I have to pinch myself to remember how small populations in Neolithic times were: no more than a hundred persons per settlement is our best guess. And, with little in the way of technology, it must have taken enormous effort and ingenuity to build these monuments. Now that tells us that these edifices were no fringe activity for these communities. The energy of an entire society was harnessed to create them, which means that they were highly significant to their creators.’

  A pause followed and gave Tara an opportunity to jump in.

  ‘It’s odd in the tomb, Malachy. The artwork almost shouts out at you. It’s big and bold and presents everywhere. And yet you say it is silent because we can’t understand it. It’s bizarre’.

  ‘Yes, it is strange,’ agreed Malachy. ‘But that is what happens when languages die out. The stories die with it. The Silent People had no writing as such and speak to us only through the art carved into the stones - an art that we can’t decipher to this day however much we may admire it. But we know they were a skilled and intelligent race. Many of the monuments incorporate astronomical alignments of proven sophistication and they could read the stars as easily as the ancient Babylonians. At the end of the day the monuments are their legacy, silent witnesses of a vanished people, and they still dominate our landscape some seven thousand years later.’

  Malachy drew out the last few words and a reverential silence followed.

  Chapter 48

  The silence in the room was interrupted by that voice again.

  ‘And were they druids?’

  Tara’s voice was musical and strong, an Irish lilt with an undertow of American drawl. Mid-Atlantic, thought Robert, and easily confused with a Canadian accent. He liked the sound.

  ‘No, Tara, we can’t say that. The druids came much later, with our forefathers the Celts. Who were a quite different kettle of fish; and so of course we remain.’

  Malachy smiled as he added the last comment, and then paused to take a sip of wine. It gave Robert a chance to assess the man. He was revising his initial impression that Malachy was of little consequence. He did seem mousey in many ways: the slightly diffident demeanour combined with small stature and unremarkable features. But then there was the voice. It was light but strong with a marked accent that Robert later found out hailed from Mayo. It rolled its way comfortably around the words, elongating the vowel sounds with relish and offsetting them with harsher consonants, many of which seemed to have an extra ‘h’ attached. For instance, Robert noticed the word ‘sure’ on his tongue sounded more like ‘shu-urre’. Robert had never encountered an Irish accent so rich and distinctive and he found listening to it somewhat mesmerising. And what’s more the man told a good tale. Robert sensed that however lightly Malachy wore his erudition he knew exactly what he was talking about.

  The Deacon, without prompting, resumed his tale.

  ‘Until recently we thought that the Celts arrived in Ireland as a mass migration from mainland Europe, probably Gaul, between 800 and 500 BC. More recent thinking, however, based on studies of population genetics, favours a fresh interpretation. We now see their arrival as more akin to that of the Normans conquering England, an invasion by a relatively small warrior class, who swiftly assumed power. And just to complicate the picture, some experts challenge the conventional geography, and believe the Celtic incomers may have originated in Iberia. The Galician link, that I have already mentioned, resurfacing again.’

  Malachy looked around the table, checking that he was holding their attention. The Deacon had established his authority. All eyes were on him and his enthusiasm for his subject was reflected in his sparkling eyes. This was a man it would be hard to dislike, thought Robert, and it was hard not to be swayed by his words.

  ‘They brought with them their priests, the druids, as well as master craftsmen in metals, and the beautiful language that evolved over time into what today we call Gaelic. That’s Modern Irish,’ he added, for Robert’s benefit, looking over at him.

  ‘We believe that they continued to use the ancient stone monuments of their predecessors for ritual purposes but they also had other sacred places, such as wells and glades in the woods. It’s astonishing but recognition of these still survives amongst the local people.’

  Warming to his theme, Malachy’s voice assumed a more intimate tone.

  ‘With the Celts we enter a world full of warrior heroes and gods who inhabited rocks, and trees and water. And their stories are captured in great mythic legends that fascinate and baffle us to this day. They believed completely in the power of the natural world, where every essence had a spirit that humans could encounter, just as real as you and me being in this room together. And can’t you just feel it in a place like Rosnaree? The landscape around here is littered with their remnants, their tombs and tumbledown walls, their special places with their whispered stories of faeries and banshees. I can’t help feeling that what they called magic is really an intensely spiritual awareness of what surrounds them. A highly focussed intuition of the elements of nature - the stones, the plants, the air and so forth. Physical world, spirit world - like a Christian world-view before St Patrick arrived. No wonder our ancestors took to the new religion so easily. To be honest, I reckon if you scratch beneath the skin of most of us you’ll find the Celtic world view still alive and well, just waiting to be rediscovered, let out, like a genii from the bottle. For our Celtic ancestors reality was half earthly and half magical, the two worlds operating alongside and occasionally seeping and merging into one another. And don’t we just agree with them, given where we live, what’s around us?’

  Robert had been enjoying the persuasive accumulation of Malachy’s rising rhetoric. It was so easy to let the poetic sweep of the Deacon’s musical voice carry you along. But an alarm bell had started to ring. For the first time Robert hesitated to accept what he was hearing. Malachy had effortlessly glided from fact to fiction yet still his words were delivered in the
same reassuring, involving tone. For a second Robert sensed a deeper, more zealous, side to Malachy’s identification with the Celts. And there was something else: a mismatch between the message and the medium. Crazy as it seemed the message somehow sounded much older than Malachy, whom he guessed to be in his mid-thirties. It was as though someone else was talking. It was true that Malachy’s voice sounded like it had been distilled for many years, like a good whisky. But the message was older still, much older.

  ‘And their stories mention a range of predecessor tribes too: the Milesians, the Fir Bolg, the Tuatha de Danann and others. The tales, chronologies and dynasties involved are complex and complicated, let me tell you. Many say they are nothing but legend, and that the Christian chroniclers twisted the stories anyhow to suit their own purpose. And no doubt they did, to some extent. But I believe that the old stories carry deep truth once you set aside the more fantastical aspects. Increasingly we find the histories and geographies of the Old Testament are being validated in remarkable detail by modern research in Israel and Jordan. I believe this will prove true of the Celts also, although we will have to look harder and dig deeper to find the evidence.’

  Conviction rang in Malachy’s voice. The believer was now speaking, leaving the academic persona behind. Just listening to him Robert could feel the magic of the Celtic world.

  ‘But remember there are several dimensions to this. We are talking here of a culture, captured in writing for the first time by incomers, namely the early Christian monks, from about 500 AD onwards. But that is by no means the only source of our knowledge. The oral tradition of the Celts in Ireland was thriving as recently as the nineteen-fifties. And these Celtic concepts, legends and landscapes were fully alive in people’s mind as recently as then. We are talking about a continuity of oral transmission over thousands of years. It is quite remarkable and we can tap into it, if we want to.’