by Lisa Henry
What the hell did Darragh see in him apart from convenience? But there was something. Ciaran saw it in every glance that Darragh exchanged with him. Something warm. Something gentle and fierce at the same time.
And yet, Ciaran still didn’t trust that Darragh wouldn’t take him north and trade him for supplies and favours, whether he liked it or not.
But he didn’t let go of Darragh’s hand.
The narrow, walled road led them to a village, long abandoned. The windows of the shops and houses had all been boarded up or broken through. Ransacked too, probably. Ciaran tried to imagine the place bustling with people. Old farmers down in the pub arguing over old family feuds; young men in the bookmakers’, picking horses or hurling teams; women in the chemist’s; grandmothers at the shops after mass. So many people, all of them free and safe and secure in their futures. Struggling to pay bills, maybe, or worrying about that argument they had yesterday with their significant other, or angry at the government for one reason or another, but safe and civilised. No Boru.
They stopped in the shade of an old bus shelter to eat. Darragh gave Ciaran the pick of the remaining protein bars while Rabbit looked on, owl eyed.
Darragh glowered at him.
“Go on,” Ciaran said in an undertone.
Darragh tossed Rabbit a bar.
“Thanks,” Rabbit said with a nod. “Thanks, thanks.” He tore open the bar and quickly scarfed it down, groaning with pleasure. “Chocolate! Haven’t had chocolate in ages!”
Ciaran chewed slowly as he watched Rabbit, jealous that he was enjoying the bar so much. To him, it just tasted like bland overprocessed shite, making him miss fresh eggs on his breakfast roll and Sunday roasts, even when he had to eat them with his father. He hadn’t appreciated any of it at the time; it had only reminded him of how privileged he and his father were compared to the Irish in the camps, even the Northern Irish. The Republic of Ireland’s society may have collapsed, but elsewhere times were hard, too: recession, war, disease. Poverty and hardship were everywhere, all over the world.
Rabbit finished the bar and tore the wrapper open. He turned it inside out and licked it.
Ciaran looked away, studying a clump of dandelions that grew in the gutter and waved in the breeze. Stringy and tough. He sighed.
“How far is this place, Rabbit?” Darragh asked. “We’re tired.”
Ciaran’s tired, he was saying. Ciaran flushed.
“Not far.” Rabbit tucked the wrapper into his pocket. He squinted at the road and pointed. “Jus’ up the way a bit.”
“How far?” Darragh frowned.
Rabbit tilted his head. “Dunno. A bit.”
“Will we be there before night, Rabbit?” Ciaran asked quietly. Rabbit didn’t understand the question. While Darragh might have an idea of miles or hours left over from the lessons taught to him in his childhood, Rabbit clearly had none.
“Oh, sure.” Rabbit grinned. “It’s jus’ a bit, so.”
Darragh’s frown deepened, and Ciaran almost smiled. He laid a hand on Darragh’s broad forearm and shook his head slightly. “Leave it. He can’t tell you.”
“Can’t tell him what?” Rabbit asked with a tilt of his head.
“The hours,” Ciaran replied. “Clock time. And the miles. Distance. We used to measure all sorts of things, before.”
“Before,” Rabbit echoed, the word imbued with meaning. Even someone as young as him didn’t need to ask “Before what?”
Before the world had ended.
Of course, for Rabbit the world hadn’t ended. This world was all he’d known, and as far as Ciaran could tell, it had been mostly kind to him. He didn’t seem to carry any weight or grief on his shoulders, didn’t seem to mourn or miss the old world. Maybe with monsters like Boru gone, there might be hope for Ireland. Rabbit and the bandits represented that hope. And Darragh, of course, even though he obviously did carry the weight of grief. His children wouldn’t, if he had any. Ciaran imagined that he eventually would, couldn’t see the man spending his entire life alone just because no other man in his village was like him. He’d settle. For companionship, for the chance at a family and love and stability, he’d settle. He’d go on. Think of Ciaran, maybe, when he went to bed with his wife.
The sadness of it hit Ciaran so hard and fast he felt as if he’d been stabbed. But was it sadness for Darragh or for himself?
And just then Darragh’s arm fell around Ciaran’s shoulders, gathering him in tight enough that Darragh could press a kiss to the top of his head before he whispered, “You all right? Or will we rest longer here?”
Even as anxious to go as he was, Darragh worried first and foremost about Ciaran’s well-being. But didn’t do so in a way that revealed his concern—and Ciaran’s attendant weakness—to Rabbit.
“Let’s keep going,” Ciaran said. I’m fine.
They left the bus shelter and the village behind them, turning onto a narrower road, another corridor of green that seemed almost strange and dreamlike. Ciaran kept his head down as he walked, watching for obstacles. If he stumbled, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop from tripping over. He was tired and wished he’d admitted it to Darragh so they might have stopped longer in the village. His feet and legs ached from walking for hours, but it was more than that. It was bone deep.
Rabbit hummed tunelessly as they walked.
Ciaran blinked up into the trees. He wanted to ask how much longer, but Rabbit had already proved it a pointless question. But, God, if he asked to stop for a rest, would he ever get up again? Would Darragh let him?
A shape through the trees—magical and familiar at the same time. A slope of a hill, nothing more, but Ciaran’s breath caught in his throat.
No, he was imagining it. He stopped, squinted, but the screen of trees hid it from him.
“Rabbit,” he said, “what sort of place are we going to?”
Rabbit grinned. “A good place, little birdie. High and safe. Bit spooky-like. You scared of ghosts? Or cramped spaces, even?”
“More cramped than a car boot?” Ciaran shot back.
Rabbit’s face fell.
Ciaran relented. “No, Rabbit, I’m all right with cramped spaces.” As long as there’s a way out. “Tell me more about this place.”
“It’s good,” Rabbit said, his grin less proud than before. “You’ll be safe there, cross my heart, you will. It’s real special. Better than hiding in a building!”
Ciaran wasn’t so sure. There were millions of abandoned buildings in Ireland, after all. Finding three men amongst them would be like the proverbial needle in a haystack. But at a “special” place? Did special mean unique, noticeable? At least it was remote. And having the high ground would mean they’d know about anyone approaching, that much was true.
“Rabbit,” Ciaran said worriedly. “What sort of place is it?”
And then, through a gap in the trees, he saw it. Shining white on the horizon, reflecting light even on an overcast day such as this. The ancient mound ringed with a gleaming stone wall, mysterious and majestic. Older than history. Surrounded by standing stones and waving, knee-high grass.
“Fuck,” Ciaran said, clapping his hand over his mouth. He felt a sudden wave of … homesickness? No, he’d never been here. Was it possible to never have been to a place, and yet somehow to miss it? Tears sprung to his eyes.
“Ciaran?” Darragh asked worriedly. “Are you all right?”
Ciaran nodded, his throat tight.
“That’s the place,” Rabbit said proudly.
“You don’t …” Ciaran cleared his throat. “You don’t even know what it is, do you?”
Darragh mistook the emotion in his voice. “We don’t have to go. We’ll find someplace else.”
“No,” Ciaran said. He blinked his tears away, and now a wild grin overtook his expression. “No, that’s Newgrange, and we’re fucking going.”
Even though Ciaran had seemed beyond exhausted for hours, he got a second burst of energy now, practically loping up the hill
towards the glowing monument he’d called Newgrange.
And then something magical happened: running through that tall green grass, Ciaran laughed. Cheered.
Darragh’s heart squeezed. He didn’t know why this place had made Ciaran cry, and he didn’t know why it was making him laugh now, but to see such joy in him, for whatever reason, made Darragh happy, too.
Rabbit seemed amused, following after Ciaran with a chuckle and a shake of his head. Taking one last look at them both drinking in the sight of Ciaran circling a standing stone, dragging his hands over its surface in awe, Darragh went after them.
“Newgrange,” Ciaran was reciting to himself as Darragh approached. “Newgrange. It’s Newgrange. I don’t believe it.”
“What is it?” Darragh asked. He couldn’t help smiling at the look of wonder on Ciaran’s face.
Ciaran splayed his fingers across the stone. “It’s been here forever, and it’s still here.” His cheeks flushed with exhilaration and his eyes shone. “Even after … even after …”
“But what is it?” Darragh asked him, releasing him of the burden of finishing that bleak thought. A burial mound or a barrow? He’d seen such things at home before, but never one on this scale. Never one so grand. And he was superstitious enough to know that such places ought to be avoided, even though he couldn’t remember if that superstition had been something passed down to him from the adults or something they’d concocted on their own.
Ciaran smiled. “It was once believed that this was the home of the Dagda. Or the burial place of the ancient kings of Tara.” He looked almost close to tears as he ran his hands over the stone, as reverently as he’d once caressed the ancient books in the library at Trinity. He glanced at Rabbit. “Can we go in? Is the entrance clear?”
“The stairs is gone but you just have to hop those big stones and it should be clear, yeah. Tight as fuck to squeeze in though. You’ll have a hell of a time of it, bruiser.”
Darragh glared at him. “I’ll fit. Anywhere Ciaran goes, I go too.”
Rabbit made a face. “What’s a Dagda, anyhow?”
“The Dagda,” Ciaran corrected him absently, heading towards the massive mound. “The father of the gods.”
“Like Jesus?”
Ciaran laughed. “No, different gods. Older gods. Our gods.”
“Jesus is our God,” Rabbit insisted. He crossed himself. Piously, and backwards.
Ciaran put up both hands. “All right, all right. Sorry, sorry. They’re the gods of our old stories, then. You know, the good people? The sidhe, the faeries?”
Rabbit chewed his lip. “The good people, I know. Although why we call them good people when they’re rotten bad is beyond me. Maybe we oughtn’t go knockin’ on this Dagda’s door then.”
Darragh nodded. He knew the good people, too. Didn’t realise they were anything more than a story the older children told the younger ones to scare the bejesus out of them, though.
“It’s just a story,” Ciaran said. “The Dagda doesn’t live here, any more than Jesus lives here, and we won’t fall through to the otherworld. You’ve been inside before, haven’t you, Rabbit?”
Rabbit nodded, his wild hair flying. “But I didn’t know there was a god inside then.”
“There’s not,” Ciaran said. “Look, it’s just a … well, it’s a like a church, I suppose. There’s nothing in there.”
“We should give an offering, just in case,” Darragh put in. He wasn’t about to chance it.
Ciaran opened his mouth and then closed it again. He stared at Darragh for a moment, his head on an angle, and then smiled warmly as though he liked whatever it was he’d seen. “Yes, let’s do that.”
“What’ve you got?” Rabbit asked, nodding at Darragh’s pack.
Darragh dropped the pack on the ground and hesitated. He didn’t want to leave any food, not when it was so valuable. He also didn’t want to offend the good people by leaving them something worthless. Cruel, wicked, and vindictive creatures, they were.
Rabbit pulled the wrapper of his protein bar out of his pocket, gave it one last lick, and set it down on the ground. He placed a small stone on top of it. “There, so.”
“Let’s hope he’s merciful,” Darragh said, staring at the sad little wrapper flapping in the breeze.
“Well, we can kill an animal for it. There’s a place to burn the bones inside there. Still were ashes, last time I stopped by.”
“We’re not killing an animal,” Ciaran said. “Not unless we’re eating it ourselves. Let’s just go in, all right? I’ll keep the Dagda away from you both, I promise.”
Darragh frowned, and Ciaran flashed him a grin. He dug through Darragh’s pack until he pulled out the tiny turn-crank torch that Maureen had given him in Dublin.
“Come on,” Ciaran said, hiking up towards the shadowed entrance of the mound and tossing a look over his shoulder at them as he went. “It’ll be fine. I’m dying to see in there.”
“Right, so,” Rabbit said and followed.
Something seized in Darragh’s chest. “Not you.”
Whatever was inside there, it wasn’t Rabbit’s place to follow Ciaran.
They both turned and stared at him, and Darragh lifted his chin, daring them to argue. “Rabbit, you stay outside and keep watch. It’ll be dark in there. We won’t know if anyone’s coming if there’s nobody keeping watch. Ciaran needs to rest, and I’m not leaving you alone with him, so that means you keep watch.”
“Trying to get me alone in the dark, Darragh?” Ciaran called back, his voice teasing.
Darragh snorted and shouldered the pack again. “Rest, Ciaran,” he repeated, but couldn’t help but smile. Ciaran laughing and frolicking and now teasing. It was wonderful to see. The fresh air, or maybe this place, made him absolutely blossom.
Rabbit, though, blushed to the roots of his filthy hair and squatted down on top of the entrance stone. Didn’t look up as Darragh climbed past him. Ciaran had already disappeared down the dark, cramped passage. Darragh could hear the echoing sounds of his breathing, the hush of his awed sighs.
“You warn us,” Darragh ordered. “You see anyone approaching, even your people, you warn us. He’s trusting you.” He nodded his head towards the passage. “Like he trusted you before. Don’t betray him again.”
“Eyes and ears open, bruiser,” Rabbit muttered.
Darragh paused. “My name is Darragh.”
“Right, so,” Rabbit said, still not looking at him.
Darragh squeezed into the entrance. The passage was low and narrow, like Rabbit had said, and it was hard going at the start. The pack caught, but Darragh tugged it free, concentrating on that small annoyance rather than worrying about the sensation of being swallowed by the earth. If Ciaran hadn’t been ahead of him, he would have crawled out again. But he didn’t. He carried his pack in front of him, hunched his shoulders in, turned sideways, and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like he was being crushed, crushed, and he’d never—
The passage finally opened into a round, cavernous space. Ciaran had the flashlight out, the thin beam shooting across a domed ceiling of massive, overlapping stone.
Finally able to breathe deep again, Darragh crouched and dug through his pack, searching for their lantern. He lit it with a twist of the key, filling the space with spooky, flickering light. Ciaran immediately turned the flashlight off to preserve the battery.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he breathed.
Creepy.
“Are you going to tell me a story about this place that will make me love it, too?” Darragh asked him.
Ciaran smiled. “Is that what I do?”
“You do seem to have a bit of the gift of the gab. Inherited that from your politician father, maybe.” Darragh smiled back to show there were no ill feelings left over that particular secret. He understood now why Ciaran had guarded his identity so closely. He may have kept certain facts a secret, yes, but he’d also given so much of himself in different ways.
Darragh had known him a
fter all.
“Hmmm,” Ciaran said. “Well, forget about the Dagda and the burial mounds of the kings of Tara for a moment. What if I told you that on the shortest day of the year, the Winter Solstice, at sunrise, this place is full of light? It comes through the little window above the passage and illuminates this entire chamber.”
Darragh gazed around. “Is that why it’s here? To catch the sunlight?”
“To worship the dead,” Ciaran said with a shrug. “To understand the universe. And maybe, yes, to catch the sunlight on the darkest day of the year.”
“The darkest day…” Darragh repeated back. They’d had a few of those themselves, he and Ciaran. Dark, dark days. And Ciaran had been the one to bring the light, into Darragh’s darkest days, at least. He wondered if he had ever brought light into Ciaran’s darkest days. He reached out and took Ciaran’s hand, knowing the words would be clumsy even before he said them. “I caught the light, too.”
Ciaran didn’t react for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “Did you?”
Darragh nodded. Ciaran’s smile, his cleverness, his words, all light. He tugged Ciaran closer, and held him. One of those brief moments when Ciaran was content to be held and didn’t fight, didn’t bristle. Darragh breathed in his scent. “Right now, you need to rest, Ciaran. Need to get your strength.” He tightened his grip against his own words. “The longest part of our journey is still to come.”
Ciaran nodded against Darragh’s chest and sighed. “You know, whatever happens, at least I saw this. At least I was here.”
“Don’t,” Darragh said. He stroked Ciaran’s hair. “Don’t think like that.”
“I don’t know any other way to think,” Ciaran said, his voice muffled against Darragh’s coat. “When I ran away from you, when I was running back to Dublin, I thought that was what I wanted. But Maureen was right about me. I’m not strong enough to fight, am I?”
“Not yet,” Darragh said. And I don’t want you to fight.