Raiding Cooley

PREFACE

Raiding Cooley

A re-telling of the old Irish epic An Táin Bó Cúailnge (The Cattle Raid of Cooley)

An ancient curse, draoidic prophecies and two women wreak havoc on the Kingdom of the Ulaidh, defended by a lone hero destined for fame. Portents at Sétanta’s semi-divine birth herald the arrival of a champion credited with the saviour of the kingdom whose life will be short and bloody but whose name will last forever.

A further prophecy predicts the destruction of Eamhain Macha, the seat of royal power in the Ulaidh, with the birth of a golden-haired girl, Deirdre of the Sorrows. Her beauty brings betrayal, death, destruction and the loss of honour and leaves the kingdom open for Medb’s greed.

Thirsting for fame and glory, Sétanta stands alone against an avaricious queen raiding deep into the kingdom of the Ulaidh, in a quest for the fabled Donn, the Brown Bull of Cooley. Bonds of kinship and oaths of loyalty broken, Sétanta fights for renown, honour and to fulfil the prophecies, despite the malignancy of the Fates.

Prepared to sever the deepest relationships and break all vows in pursuit of everlasting fame and glory, the kingdom in ruins around him, only then does Sétanta realize the fickleness of fame.

Based on 12th century Irish manuscripts, the Book of the Brown Cow and the Book of Lenister and a later 14th century manuscript, the Yellow Book of Lecan, the three documents tell the partial stories of An Táin Bó Cúailnge, The Cattle Raid of Cooley, in what is known as the Ulster Cycle, tales relating to King Conor Mac Nessa and the heroes of The Red Branch, chief of whom is Sétanta, also know as Cú Chulainn, the hound of Ulster. The origins of the stories are far older than the manuscripts, compiled by Irish monks which were probably based on documents two or three centuries earlier (now no longer extant) which in turn were probably based on oral accounts which would have been retold in multiple versions by differing storytellers influenced by their own historical and cultural backgrounds.

Prologue

The Curse

The Kingdom of the Ulaidh, 463 BCE

A cold wind from the eastern mountains brought the peaty smell of smoke drifting up from the thatch of the round house. The farm looked prosperous but uncared for, the small fence around the herb and vegetable patch trampled and muddy, the whole place unloved and forlorn. The woman crouched in the shelter of a thicket of elm saplings and carefully examined the farm and its surroundings before scrambling down the low, thickly forested hill. The dawn was not far off and already the fog was thinning now, shredding away against a stand of alders as the rising sun cast her long shadow on the wet ground behind her. There’s no woman looking after it, and that’s for sure, she told herself, but still she did not dare to approach just yet, despite the onrush of nausea and fear gripping her. Another night alone and without shelter in the mountains would be the death of her but still caution and fear for her unborn child, resting deep within her womb, held her back. The track forked and the left hand fork, just discernible in the growing light, led through the sodden pastures, where toadstools grew on either side of the trail, to the round house. Somewhere in the thinning mist, a scaldy crow cawed. Squinting down through a gap in the thick canopy of the oak trees surrounding her, the woman tried to gauge when the sun would rise over the rim of the mountains surrounding the valley. The man would have to drive his cattle out of the byre inside the house soon. This was it, she decided, she would have to make her move then.

***

Crunniuc, son of Agnoman, shifted uneasily on the wolf-skin just inside the low doorway of the round house. He was a short, stocky man, barrel-chested, with a worn, weather-beaten face, his black hair unevenly hacked so that tufts stood up like stiff boar bristles used to brush down the horses. The cattle lowed and moved restlessly, and Crunniuc dropped his hand to the heavy iron hilt of the long sword that lay beside him. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows, he peered out, seeking for some movement in the surrounding trees. The loneliness of that dark spot seemed oppressive and for the first time the isolation of the farm struck him. Yet, he sensed, there was some class of man or beast out there. He could feel it and so could his animals. There! Something was moving and coming towards him, a dark shape, a member of the Sídhe or a fairy of the Tuatha Dé Danann perhaps, and just then the sun rose over the eastern rim of the mountains behind the house and flooded the rutted track leading from the woods with a nacreous glow. It was a woman, right enough, and a fine figure of a woman at that, Crunniuc thought to himself as he pushed himself to his feet, the sword still in his right hand.

The blessing of the morning on you and all that travel with you, he called out, getting a better look at her now as she gazed at him, her eyes bright as flowers and the sun gleaming off her teeth. Long dark hair was pulled back in thick braids from her high forehead while her slender neck was encircled with a heavy torc of twisted gold wires. Her cloak, muddied and torn, was held at her shoulder with an enamelled brooch but Crunniuc could still discern the proud jut of her breasts beneath the rough cloth.

May the apple of your eye see only good, she replied, bowing slightly.

Standing to one side, Crunniuc warily scanned the surroundings but could detect no sign of movement or life that was unnatural for that time and place.

Without another word, the women ducked her head and stooped past him towards the central hearth of the house before Crunniuc knew what was happening. By the time he had gathered his wits and followed her inside, she was already on her knees, fanning the embers into life under the pot-bellied cauldron. The cattle had stopped complaining, he noticed, as if the touch of domesticity had stilled their concerns.

***

That night, the pounded earth floor freshly swept, and layered with cut rushes, the pile of peat blocks stacked ready beside the hearth, the animals fed and watered, a feed of oat cakes before him and the savoury smell of, he couldn’t tell you what not, coming from the cauldron suspended over the hearth and a horn of his own strong ale in his hand, Crunniuc leaned back on his wolf-skin and drank his eyes full of the woman on the other side of the hearth. Not much of a talker, right enough, he mused, but there might be a blessing in that, all the same. He had to hand it to her, though, she had settled down and begun working as soon as she had arrived, as though she had been in the house before and knew it backwards. Everything was in order and he didn’t have to say a word to her.

Belching noisily, he lurched over to the pile of skins she was squatting on. Is it my warm thighs you’re wanting? she asked leaning towards him, so that the loose linen shift she was wearing fell forward, revealing the swell of her round breasts.

***

Looking back, Crunniuc used to wonder what he had done before Macha had arrived. Fair enough, he had always been able to bull his own cows and to put meat on his board and to drink his fill when the mood was on him but this, this was different. Macha had the magic touch right enough. Maybe he hadn’t been too far off the mark that first morning when he had seen her coming out of the oak forest and had thought her one of the magical folk of the Tuatha Dé Danann for there was never a lack of good duck eggs to suck on or crisp oat cakes to dip into the honey or finely woven cloth of his own spun wool to wrap himself in or the dark, sour ale flavoured with heather that he enjoyed so much or the – the list could go on endlessly, he thought to himself.

He didn’t care, what did it matter, and anyway, who was there to know or to doubt his word. All he knew was that as the child in Macha’s belly grew, so too did his own fortunes. Maybe it was his own child and why not, hadn’t he mounted her himself that first day? After all, it had been around the time of the féis of Imbolc itself when she arrived and what better time to father a child than then? Hadn’t everything flourished then, his cattle, his ducks and geese, his pigs and his sheep? By Lugh, he was a rich man now and make no mistake about it. And even if the child wasn’t his, he mused, what harm was there in it? The best thing was to wait and see and if there was no resemblance to him, well then, that was another matter and could be attended to, if need be. And yet, a chill lay on his heart, for all that. Macha, she was a strange one. Not a word out of her about where she was from or who she had known and yet there was a strange power about her that made him wary of pressing her too hard on those points.

Maybe at the approaching féis of Samhain, when folk from all round gathered for the start of the year and to make their sacrifices, he would learn something then. Shivering slightly, he puller her warm body closer to him and slid his hand over the mound of her smooth belly, feeling the child within stir and move. Macha moaned and pushed her haunches tighter again his loins. His hardening desire pushed all other thoughts from his mind, as, grunting, he slid into her from behind.

***

The sound of the hooves almost drowned out the screech of the iron shod wheels as the chariots, drawn by pairs of sweating horses, pounded past the cheering spectators. Lashed on by the charioteers, the warriors, standing proudly and sure-footed in the light wicker framework, brandished their spears. Ducking from the spattering of clods thrown up by the wheels and hooves, Crunniuc cursed bitterly as the chariot he had wagered on finally lumbered past the end posts driven into the turf at the end of the field.

The féis of Samhain might very well be a time for sacrifices and community gatherings, Crunniuc thought sourly to himself, as he swilled down another strong black ale, but by Lugh’s bollix, he was making enough sacrifice on his own wild betting. Not one chariot he had wagered on had crossed the finishing line first. There wouldn’t be much chance of vaunting or displaying his new found wealth and power, despite what Macha had said.

Setting off the previous day just as a grey dawn heralded another dark and dank day, Macha had placed a warning hand on his forearm. T’would be well not to appear boastful or careless in your speech, she had whispered enigmatically as he swung himself up on the horse’s back.

Lurching from ale vendor to meat seller, Crunniuc wandered disconsolately around the fair ground, ignoring the sights and sounds until the blast of horns signified the next event of the day when the king’s chariot was to take part in the race. Pushing his way through the throng, Crunniuc managed to get a good position near the start line where the horses and chariots were being manoeuvred by the charioteers and their slaves. The king’s chariot was a fine piece of work, Crunniuc could see, the light wooden frame finely carved in swirling fretwork while the terret rings, through which the yoked horses’ rein passed, were finely enamelled. The horses themselves were fine beasts, their nostrils flaring.

None of your men there will be able to beat your man, a wizen creature standing beside Crunniuc observed, winking slyly, as he nodded towards the king’s charioteer, a small man, gaunt and scrawny with short fair hair and a hard glint in his hooded eyes.

Sure the race isn’t over until it’s done, chipped in another spectator, a tall man whose face was partially obscured by his finely woven hooded cloak, but I’m prepared to wager a fine horn of ale on the outcome.

The horns sounded and the banners waved and the chariots were off, the grey horses belonging to Cairbre Niad Fer Mac Rois, the king of Teamhair rearing up and pawing frantically at the air before settling back with a crash while the other charioteers cursed and swore, their long whips curving over the backs of their mounts as they urged their horses on, willing them to avoid the tangle of horses, wheels and chariots as each man jockeyed for a leading position. Then coming around the curve and rattling in fine style towards the finish line, the king’s charioteer was well in front and cantered past the cheering crowd at the finishing line.

By all that is sacred, did yis ever see the likes of that? the wizened man crooned. Sure there be nothing that could beat them horses, to my mind, not with your man guiding them and him knowing the king would be wanting a win

Arragh, man, don’t be talking out of you, Crunniuc snapped. Sure who would want to beat the king himself right enough, but the horses themselves and the charioteer, He paused and swallowed the last of the ale in his horn. They’re not worth that, I tell you. Crunniuc turned his head and spat noisily on the churned up turf. My woman does be faster than the lot of them put together

The horns blared out again and in the sudden silence, the tall man threw back his hood, and strode forward to greet the winning charioteer and to fondly stroke the sweating horses.

Nobles, warriors, friends, honoured guests, strangers and heroes all, I thank you for your presence here today and for the valiant attempts by the charioteers to wrest the victor’s crown from my horses, my charioteer and I but there is one here among us, Crunniuc, son of Agnoman, son of Curir Ulaidh, who thinks otherwise.

Here the speaker stopped and fixed the bewildered Crunniuc with an icy stare. It was only then that Crunniuc realized the foolish error he had made, doubly so since there was no doubt that the tall man was indeed the high king, Cairbre Mac Rois, himself and that he, Crunniuc, had ignored Macha’s advice not to boast.

Falling to his knees on the muddy turf, Crunniuc nervously laid his sword, hilt first, on the ground in front of him,

Noble Lord, giver of rings and cups, wisest of all men, forgive my drunken ramblings. No offence was intended and no one could believe that a woman, heavy with child as she is, could surpass you in either skill, agility or in the choice of mounts.

Be that as it may, Crunniuc, son of Agnomen, I wish to see this woman whom you claim is faster than that which belongs to me.

My lord, it would be a heavy burden for me to summon her here, advanced as she is with child.

Burden! roared the king and in a fluid stooping motion, Crunniuc’s sword was snatched from the ground and the point ground, none too gently, into the pit of Crunniuc’s suddenly dry throat. Burden? repeated the King. You will die if she does not come forthwith.

***

Macha knew her time was near. The jolting ride in the heavy four-wheeled wagon pulled by the king’s oxen had hastened her birth pains and her water had just broken. Already the first agonizing cramps were beginning to split her lower body. Gritting her teeth, she stood tall and looked out from the wagon at the growing, jostling crowd. In the time it had taken to summon her, the drinking and feasting had continued unabated and now the host of men, women and children were well into the spirit of the féis. If it is a sacrifice they want, she thought grimly to herself, then, by all that is sacred, that is what I will give them.

People of the Ulaidh she called out suddenly, her voice high and thin in the cold air cutting through the drunken roar and babble of the crowd. A mother’s child is each one of you here, standing before me. Behold, see me now in my pangs. Help me, I implore you. Is this how you would have your own mother treated? Wait, I beseech you, until my child is born.

Show us your speed now, cackled a ragged crone near the back of the wagon, while the murmur of the drunken crowd swelled up again to boom and crash around the hills. The horns blared out again to command silence and the king stepped forward.

Woman, he demanded, What is your name?

My name, and the name of my unborn child she cried out in a clear, high voice, will be given to this place, for I am Macha, daughter of Sainrith Mac Imbaith and I tell you now, a long lasting curse will come out of this day’s sad events on all the men of Ulaidh.

A silence filled the field then and Crunniuc shivered and cursed himself for he knew then that the apparent insignificance of his actions would have far-flung and, as yet, unseen consequences.

A heavy war chariot was brought forward and lined up beside the king’s sleek, gilded one. Even from afar, Crunniuc could see that it would be no match for the king’s vehicle just as the horses, dull, lumbering beasts, more like oxen than horses, were fastened to its yoke.

Macha was helped from the wagon by willing hands and lifted up to the chariot step while the rough leather reins were thrust into her pale hands. Crunniuc could see the tension in her white knuckles and bowed his head in shame.

The horns blared and the chariots were off. A ghastly aura seemed to surround Macha as, standing firmly erect, her long hair billowing out in the cold wind, her shift taut against her grossly swollen belly, she urged her horses on in a voice totally unfamiliar to Crunniuc. The chariot wheels seemed to lift off the ground and the lumbering horses assumed the gait of Scythian mares. The very air itself shimmered and was filled with the sound of strife and pounding of hooves, the creaking of harnesses and the iron roar of spoked wheels as if in some terrible battle, for a struggle it was for Macha to keep within her belly the bursting out of life until the race was done.

As her chariot reached the finishing line a length ahead of the mortified king, Macha put her head back and screamed loud enough to split the heavens and as she did so the blood streaked bodies of twins, a boy and a girl, slid out from between her legs and into her waiting hands.

Hear me now, and bad cess to you all for know that I am Macha Mac Sainrith, the personification of the triple goddesses of the frenzied havoc, chaos and panic of war and, along with my sister gods of war, Badb, the scaldy crow who causes fear and confusion among warriors, and Nemain the voice of dread among the battlefield corpses, I name this place Eamhain Macha – the twins of Macha - and all those who hear – or have heard - me in my time of birth pangs, let you know this. Our spirit lives on through time and will never die out for I am as eternal as long as there is war and dissent among men. For nine generations from this time forth, for five moons, all men of the Ulaidh will suffer from the same birth pains as I have today experienced so that not one of you will have more than the strength of the weakest woman on her bed of labour and may you all remember this day in the hour of your greatest need.

Part ONE

Roman Camp

c. 57 BCE

At least there was one thing you could say for the Romans, Breoga reflected sourly as he topped the last rise in the chain of low wooded hills before beginning the slow descent to the neat rectangular camp on the plain below. They knew how to make a good camp and tonight he would be sure of hot food and a visit to the public bath house before meeting up with the quaesor to haggle over the trade goods Breoga was pulling along behind him in his small mule train. And after that, he supposed, sour red wine while the minor tribunes would want to hear more stories about the Keltoi.

This camp, he could see, was far more than a temporary marching camp; instead it was a well-fortified base, housing at least two legions by the look of things. Well and good, Breoga thought to himself – the more the merrier and the better the trading. From his vantage point on the low hill, he could clearly see the rectangular shape of the fort, its clay ramparts surmounted by a timber palisade protected by a deep ditch cut around the outside, It’s Aquila standard, dwarfing the smaller Vexillium showing the legion’s name and emblem, stood proud against the darkening sky.

Another good thing, he thought ruefully, was the Roman road running as straight as a spear direct from the north to the south gate. Once down from the rough hillside track, he would make good time, even with his tired mules.

Funny thing about the Romans, though, once you knew the layout of one camp or fort, then you knew the layout of them all, and Roman camps were no stranger to Breoga, a Gallaecian from northern Iberia. He had travelled far and wide with his merchant father and was well used to both the ways of the Romans and the Keltoi tribes, having traded in wine, slaves, perfumes, spices, hunting dogs, drugs, weapons, news and technology as well as more mundane goods such as cattle, hides and grain - - agricultural produce suitable for an army - supplying many Roman camps in his native Hispania, in Gaul, Germania and as well as the tribal centres, in Brittanica, Dál Riata and Ériu.

Once inside the main gate, having been cursorily checked by a bored legionnaire, Breoga headed down the via principalis towards the centre of the camp and the parade ground. One side of the parade ground housed the base commander or praetor and his staff while opposite it was the squat quaestorium, housing the supply officer. Perpendicular to that was the forum, a small duplicate of an urban forum, where public business could be conducted and where Breoga knew he could offload any of his trade goods the commissary rejected.

A tribune in a blue-banded tunic, accompanied by his scribe, strode briskly into the camp commissary and sat down behind his small desk. Despite his youth, Titus Publius, a narrow banded tribune of the IX legion was a confident soldier, having fought with Gaius Julius in Gaul and beyond in the northern lands. Nevertheless, he was well aware of his lack of knowledge with regard to the tribes he was in daily contact with and eager for news about them.

And what wild stories do you have for me now, concerning our barbaric friends here and in Britannia? Titus Publius inquired. You’ve been there, I gather, and speak enough Gaulish and other tongues to make some sense of what you see and hear, is that right? Are the inhabitants of that mist shrouded isle so different from the tribes we deal with right now?

A thousand apologies lord, Breoga raised his joined hands to his bowed head in a gesture of supplication, but since we last met I have spent so little time in Albion, which you refer to as Britannia, that I fear there is nothing that I can tell you that you do not already know.

Initially contact between the trader and the young Roman had been confined to the trading of small amounts of luxury goods such as wine, in exchange for minerals and grain under the watchful eye of the quaesor, the supply officer but the tribune learned he could gain much information of interest from the talkative old trader about the lands he knew the Republic would soon wish to annex.

Titus rose from behind his writing desk and strode the length of the room impatiently. I know it is only a matter of time before the legions finish their work here in defence of our allies, the Remi. Then we will push further west across the narrow sea into Britannia and north into Dál Riata. They say the Pictish tribes there are small, stunted little warriors, fierce, quick to scorn and always ready to back up their oaths with blood and violence? Is that so? Could they overpower our legions were we to go there? Picking up a flash of wine, Titus waited until Breoga’s cup was empty.

Breoga drained his beaker of the sour wine which the tribune seemed to favour and considered. Were the legions to go where no Roman legion has ever gone before, my lord, they, no doubt, would be as successful as all such initial forays by the legions have been and will be forever.

They say our enemies, the Nervii are the fiercest warriors among all the Keltoi, some of them fighting buff naked, Titus added, hoping to draw the garrulous trader, filling up his cup with more of the dark brown wine.

Breoga put down his beaker and looked up at the tribune before continuing, But even beyond Britannia and Dál Riata, there lies the far flung western isle, so remote and untouched by Roman civilization and there, they say, the fiercest warriors of the Keltoi, the Craobh Ruadh, remain, in such wild and wooded country, ruled by warlike kings, greedy queens, fierce warriors banded together by loyalty and honour in defence of their kingdoms and demi-gods, intent on seizing and maintaining power by warfare, conquest and cattle raiding.

This far-flung isle you speak of, is that what we Romans call Iuverna? Titus asked eagerly, his young face flushing as he displayed his worldly knowledge.

Breoga reached down to the sack at the side of the low table and withdrew a bulging leather wineskin. Try this wine, my lord and I will tell you what I know of that isle you speak of, for I have been there many times, ever since I was a child, accompanying my father there in the hopes of acquiring one of their fearsome hounds.

Titus picked up his beaker and allowed Breoga to pour a jet of wine before sniffing suspiciously at the liquid. There appeared to be a faint sheen on the surface, as if oil floated there, mingled with a strong smell of resin, with which the inside of the leather wineskin had been coated. Putting it down untouched, he turned to face the trader.

So, tell me, when did you first go to Iuverna?

I first set foot on that far-flung western isle when I was a child. I remember it well, looking back now that I am in my middle years, but I’ll tell you this much, that isle was a place of wonder and magic and awe. The green hills, thick with forest and wolves, elk and boar, swept down right to the edge of that cruel, grey sea and the wind would cut the face off you. But the people, did they notice the cold and the wind and the rain that would tear the flesh off your very bones? They did not.

The trader paused and drank deeply before continuing.

Certainly, they were the men that would tramp barefoot over the thorny ground, splashing through the icy bogs and not a bother on them. And weren’t their women folk as fierce? Often they would be fighting alongside their menfolk, the lot of them stripped down to the pelt, the bodies smeared with ochre and other dyes, the hair on the heads piled up and stiff as a helmet, the long swords hacking and cutting while the wolfhounds would tear the throat out of a man and without as much as a snuffle, they’d bound on to the next warrior, the jaws on them as high as a tall man’s shoulder. Sure, didn’t I see lions in Sumeria that looked like pups compared to those hounds and the noise and the brassy bellow of their trumpets and the roaring out of the lot of them would freeze the blood of a mortal man?

Titus picked up his beaker, sniffed at it again before taking a tentative sip. Go on, he said.

"I remember the first time my father took me there from our home in Hispania. Wolfhounds, he’d say, those are the hounds I want and the high king, or Ard Rí, they call him there, a fierce ould bollix, would demand more than his fair share of the fine amphorae of wine that we had brought, aye, wine and more than that. We would sit in the great hall, night after night, listening to their vaunting the exploits of warriors and champions.

But could you get your hands on a hound that easily? Breoga laughed harshly before turning to spit on the floor of the tent. Not for nothing did we ply the ould’ fella with the latest artifices and I couldn’t tell you what not but it wasn’t until the young fella took the throne that we felt we had the chance.

Do you mean Conor Mac Nessa? Titus asked, a quickened note of interest in his voice,

Breoga stopped and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulder as he inched closer to the brazier. A mottled hand hooked the beaker of Falernian wine closer to him and not until its position was adjusted to his satisfaction on the low table before him, did he look up at his interlocutor.

Aye, he nodded. Conor Mac Nessa, and yer man, the real power behind the throne, the draoidh, Cathbad the seer. A quare ould’ bollix he was, always there when you didn’t want him and never there when you did.

The Taking of the Kingship

The Ulaidh

The immensity of the sacred mound at Brúgh na Bóinne dominated the landscape of the valley of the wide, slow flowing river Boann. The moon broke through a gap in the lowering clouds clearly showing the huge quartz and granite stones used to create the impressive white façade nestled in the bend of the river where the ground rose to form a long hill commanding a panoramic view of the valley. The draoidh, Cathbad, paused by the outer ring of stone henges to catch his breath, for the journey from Tratraige of Magh Inis had been long and wearying. Squatting down in the shadow of the henge, he laid aside his wooden stave and fumbled in his leather pouch for some of the dried mushrooms he had collected some days earlier when the moon was on the wane. Breaking them into smaller pieces he chewed them thoroughly, washing them down with the cold spring water in the dried gourd he had slung over his shoulder. The féis of Samhain was long past and the now was the time, he knew, when the following dawn’s sunlight would pierce the inner chamber of the mound, marking the continuing of the cycle of seasons and the safe rebirth of Lugh Mac Eithliu - god of the harvest, a sun god of the Tuatha Dé Danann - after the long dark days of winter. Great portents were on the rise and kings would come and go but more than all this, it was clear that his hand was involved and the events that were foretold were now imminent.

With a grunt, Cathbad heaved himself to his feet and approached the huge kerbstone before the entrance passage to the inner chamber of the drum shaped mound which towered above him. Running his hand over the elaborately carved spirals, lozenges, coils and swirls which decorated the entrance stone, he marvelled at the three perfectly carved spirals etched into the stone before clambering over the chest high kerb stone and, stooping, entered the passage behind it, lined on either side with large standing stones. Waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the pitchy blackness in the passage, Cathbad fumbled in his shoulder bag for his flint and kindling before managing to light his pine-resin torch. The light flared briefly before the firebrand settled down to a crackling glow showing the passage ahead bending slightly to the right. Holding the light ahead of him, the draoidh slowly made his way along the passage to the chamber at the end, small in comparison to the size of the covering mound yet wondrously dome roofed with interlaced slabs of rock. Ignoring the two small recesses at the back and to the left of the chamber, Cathbad entered the larger recess to the right where two stone basins stood. The upper basis had been painstakingly fashioned from a lump of granite and sat on a large slate stone and was partially filled with charred bones and ashes of those long dead. Squatting down with his back to the lower basin, he propped up his torch and let the cool stillness envelop him with its aura of calm and peace.