Stay in the light, p.4
Stay in the Light, page 4
Ash brought the radio to her lips. ‘Ian, did the reporter say why they’re so late?’
She locked eyes with Sean as they awaited some response.
‘Apparently they’d some trouble finding our ground base,’ he replied, his words fizzling with distortion. ‘They’re Dubs, God love them. Their GPS probably doesn’t work beyond the Pale.’
Ash giggled. ‘Cheers, Ian. Tell them we’ll be out in five.’
The lilt of her laughter was music to Sean’s ears. She was a slender woman of thirty-odd years with a face as sharp as her focus; the bone structure of which was forever catching the light in ways that artists only dreamt of. The woman’s eyes were the palest blue he’d ever seen, oceans under ice, and her blonde ponytail whipped around like golden wheat whenever the wind blew. Aside from archaeology, she moonlighted as a part-time folklorist and had been an avid fan of his father’s research since her university days. At least Sean had good genes on his side if wooing her ever became an option… and who knew what the future held for them once the dig was over. This find had the potential not to merely change how the academics viewed Ireland’s past, but also to shape how Sean viewed his own future.
‘Trouble finding our ground base?’ he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘There couldn’t be any more lights down there. I swear an astronaut could see it from space.’
Ground base was at the foot of the western slope, where jagged terraces of rock rolled down toward the wild Atlantic and Sean’s team slept in mobile trailers and occasionally ate breakfast together. It was there that the generator grumbled twenty-four hours a day, like a beating heart keeping the operation alive. The ascent to the site was slow and steep, and there was only so much gear they could establish there without upsetting those who’d rather the Burren remain untouched, unchanged, and ultimately undiscovered.
The walkie-talkie disturbed the peace again. ‘They’re asking if they can do it inside your tent,’ Ian said. ‘They’re complaining about the wind out here.’
‘Do what?’ Sean replied, looking to Ash. ‘The interview?’
She pressed in her radio’s button and bit down on her lip. ‘I don’t think that’s going to work, Ian.’
‘Fair enough,’ he replied. ‘I’ll let them know but they aren’t going to like it.’
Ash swivelled in her chair to face Sean. ‘Don’t blame me if they ask you a few sticky questions out there. The preservationists are already up in arms because of your drill and these news reporters lose their shit if they’re caught on camera with a single hair out of place.’
‘I’ll just blame you,’ Sean said, to which she frowned. ‘It was you who discovered it.’
‘Don’t you dare tell them that. If we’re going to pull this off, then we need your name to convince them that what we’re doing might actually be worth it.’
‘You need my father’s name.’
‘It’s as much yours as it was his, Sean,’ she said, ‘and after this, when we find out what’s down there, it’ll be you who they remember.’
*
Professor David Kilmartin had been a luminary in his field, an academic whose zeal for knowledge surpassed peers both past and present, and most likely any future kindred minds to come. And yet, convincing the other, more orthodox scholars had proven an exercise in futility. The act of marrying what they knew with what they refused to accept was like attempting to mate two incompatible species, vicious ones at that. Much to the old man’s dismay, rather than laying bare their bullheadedness, it was his own reputation that was left irreparably wounded. Even the bravest voice could be silenced if no one was brave enough to listen.
Sean had learned from his father’s legacy that there was but one way to continue their research without undue interference, and that was to do so in secrecy. And so, until this night, few were acquainted with his existence, never mind the discoveries he’d made in his family’s very particular sphere of academia. But that was about to change.
‘I’m here atop the Burren in County Clare,’ the reporter began, standing at Sean’s side as she spoke directly to the camera, ‘one of Ireland’s most breathtaking natural landscapes.’
This was why he’d wanted to conduct their interview in daylight – to capture the evening sun streaming across the ocean and glinting like windswept sand on the petals of all those wildflowers seen by so few. If an artist’s brush had created such a place, most eyes would doubt it to be real – a world of sky and stone. But now, bathed in a blanket of white light, it more resembled a frozen planet, hinting at the kind of discovery that science-fiction writers would warn humankind against ever disturbing.
‘Three hundred and sixty square kilometres of natural limestone,’ she continued her introduction, ‘home to untold secrets and the fossilised mementos of our ancient past. And now, the site of a truly remarkable archaeological excavation organised by this man, Sean Kilmartin.’
He’d stared down at his shoes as he leant in to listen, but the reporter’s first question was coming and so he lifted his head, realising in that moment that everyone with a reason for being there had huddled around to spectate – a floodlit flock of sheep all gathered around their shepherd. He picked out Ash at the front, closing the belt of her coat, tightening her body into an hourglass.
‘Sean,’ the reporter said, snapping his attention back to the job at hand, ‘what can you tell us about all that’s happening here?’
He wasn’t sure where to look – at the camera lens, at the woman beside him? – and all those watchful eyes made him uneasy. He wasn’t like his father in that sense, the natural born lecturer; Sean couldn’t stand facing a crowd and their silent expectations. He’d never given an interview before that night. But no doubt those who had known his father – be it as a past friend or foe in the contentious arena of academia – would mark the familial similarities between them.
Already at the tail end of his twenties, Sean’s hairline had receded to the crest of his skull, eloping with any affections of vanity. He’d grown out a beard to compensate, and only now did he wish he’d tidied it up before appearing on camera. Its black hair concealed a knobbly nub of a chin identical to his father’s – an heirloom as unsolicited as the male pattern baldness but one he’d learned to live with. His mother’s side of the family held all the attractive genes. It was a shame that all he inherited from her were her blue eyes and skinniness, but he’d happily take these over nothing at all.
‘Well,’ he began, clearing his throat, calling to mind the lines he’d rehearsed throughout the day, ‘as you know, the Burren is a site of great historical and archaeological significance. The first farmers were believed to have settled here some six thousand years ago, and it boasts an array of megalithic tombs and forts which, I guarantee you, will be around long after we’re all dead and gone. You could say it’s a place where the past, the present, and the future collude to inspire us. For example, running under its stone there exists a system of caves that have yet to be explored in their entirety, caverns whose shadows have never been stirred by the light of man. Naturally formed or otherwise, there is mystery here, and questions that have patiently waited until now to be answered.’
It was Ash who’d thought to comb the Burren for curiosities. She’d brought a small team, mostly students on loan from the university – free and willing, if perhaps not the most useful. Extra credits for a cold hike. Despite Sean’s low expectations for their expedition, the lack of any findings would, at the very least, have removed it as a point of interest for further research. How wrong he had been.
‘And what we’ve identified beneath our very feet,’ he continued, ‘could possibly date back even further than all of our recorded finds thus far. It truly is an astonishing discovery, and one that I’m exceptionally proud to be a part of.’
A sudden rush of wind lifted the reporter’s hair high above her head, and Sean couldn’t help but chuckle as she hastily patted it back down.
‘And what exactly have you discovered?’ she asked, the frustration hardening her tone.
His eyes tarried on Ash’s before he answered.
‘I’ve discovered a vertical shaft, perfectly persevered, that connects the surface to a hidden cavern beneath us. And I can say with absolute certainty that human hands – not those of Mother Nature – are responsible for its creation.’
‘How can you be so certain that this shaft, as you call it, was man-made?’ the reporter asked, an obvious question that Sean had anticipated.
‘The interior of its throat has been reinforced with a thin casing of granite – an igneous rock not native to the area. Its purpose, I assume, was to hold the shape intact and to prevent the passage from crumbling inward from erosion.’
‘And this, as you said, is a unique find?’ the reporter asked.
‘Most certainly, it’s a one-of-a-kind in every way. And would you believe that the oddity of its construction isn’t even the strangest part of it. You see, I believe that whoever sealed it up didn’t want it to be found.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The entire shaft was filled in with limestone,’ he replied, permitting himself the pleasure of smiling now that he’d found his groove. ‘A taxing and time-consuming labour unlike any I’ve encountered before. And near the surface, where it opens out – leaving a cavity approximately two metres in depth – more of the Burren’s indigenous stone was laid in place as a means to keep it hidden from any wandering eyes. Over the centuries, this eroded from the elements, leaving the pit that led me to making this discovery. As cruel as time can be, sometimes it does do us a kindness.’
He felt like a charlatan claiming it as his own. But maybe Ash was right. Sean had no credentials and no scroll to vouch for his expertise, but the Kilmartin name was still respected enough to make a difference.
‘How deep does this shaft go?’ the woman asked.
Sean glanced over at the drill, safely tucked out of the camera’s sight. ‘It’s too early to tell just yet but I should know more within the next twenty-four hours.’
He hoped to reach the cavern much sooner than that, but Sean didn’t want the camera crew hanging around after the interview. Once that drill started up again they might come to question his methods.
‘And what do you believe might be down there?’
The million-dollar question – the one he’d been waiting for.
‘Do you want the honest truth?’ Sean asked her, dramatising his solemnity, making the moment count. ‘I believe that what I’ve discovered is the last great vestige of our ancient history: proof that what we have treated for centuries as lore and fantasy is in fact more a part of our reality than we could possibly imagine. This is the missing link. This is what I’ve dedicated my life to finding, as did my father.’
‘Yes,’ the reporter said, visibly pleased that he’d segued into her last question. ‘You are, of course, the son of the late Professor David Kilmartin, a noted academic whose life’s work he dedicated to our nation’s rich cycle of history and myth. What do you think he would say if he were here to see you now?’
This question Sean had not anticipated.
He looked to Ash who simply shrugged her shoulders, comically flinching as if this were the sticky question that he’d brought upon himself. Sean was his father’s son in more ways than mere flesh and blood. Those same obsessions had led him to this moment. And had his mother been alive to see it, her heart would have surely broken.
‘I guess we’ll never know.’
4
MINA
Sean, what can you tell us about all that’s happening here?
The room around her faded into a fog of irrelevancy, leaving only that interview. A flame could have curled through a fresh crack in the stove, sparking alight her wall of papered tinder, and she’d have been none the wiser. Moving, breathing, thinking – the most rudimentary of functions shut down like a full body blackout. She wasn’t even cognisant of their absence. And when all was said and done – when Sean Kilmartin had spoken his piece and smirked at the camera like a loner enjoying the limelight for the first time, all proud of himself and his fucking discovery – Mina had risen to her feet, beckoned elsewhere by some soundless bell in her subconscious. She didn’t know where she was going until she was stood staring blank-eyed at June’s lasagne and the best of mince. Her fingers closed around the bottle beside it.
…whoever sealed it up didn’t want it to be found.
Glass and ceramic chimed as more whiskey sploshed into her mug; a familiar motion, one of the few that her body could still perform on autopilot. Drinking was a terrible idea – Mina knew that, though she’d made no attempt to prevent what was happening – and her body rejected it the second her throat got wind of what was coming.
…more a part of our reality than we could possibly imagine.
She turned in a panic to the sink, retching up every drop until only bile and regret remained, leaving her to stare teary-eyed at the whiskey foam pooling around the plughole.
‘Fuck it,’ she gasped, holding on to the counter for support. ‘This can’t be happening.’
Mina had read every article she could find online about Professor David Kilmartin. There’d never been any mention of a son. Biographies praised his darling wife and past mentors, punctuating his life with the most pedestrian of landmarks: conferences and guest lectures where he’d been treated like some kind of fucking pseudo-rock star playing his back catalogue of fairy hits. Surely the birth of a child – and heir to the man’s legacy – merited some acknowledgement, but there hadn’t been so much as a footnote.
This is what I’ve dedicated my life to finding, as did my father.
Weak and dizzy, with her throat blistering from the whiskey’s burn, Mina lurched back to the couch where the yellow one was chirping away, guiding her towards him. He’d seen her in some bad states before, but this was different.
‘I’m okay,’ she whispered as she eased herself back down. ‘I just need a moment.’
She couldn’t live like this anymore – burying the past with her bare hands while some smarmy fuck was digging it up with a full team of archaeologists. But there’d been something so eerily comforting about borrowing another’s identity, if only for a while, and Caroline’s had come with so much. The seaside home. The doting parents. A comfy pair of slippers. If the watchers were combing the country in search of her, would they be able to see past her disguise? Once Mina’s hair had grown out, there’d be no telling them apart at a distance. But there was one glaring problem – that which made Mina scrub the skin from her hands whenever she thought about it.
It’s the woodland. It’s on you.
‘Thanks a lot, Madeline,’ she muttered, holding her head in her hands.
No shower was ever hot enough. Steaming water rosed her skin and fogged the cottage like a trapped cloud but it couldn’t wash the woodland away. The watchers’ excretions had flooded the soil and dripped like sap from the branches above. It was in the air they’d breathed. It glistened atop the spring water they had drunk; bottled and divvied out like the last of a lost vintage. She cringed at the memory of her bare feet sinking and sliding through the black earth. And the thorn that pierced her skin – a syringe spitting some ancient virus into her bloodstream. Mina saw stains where there were none. It was as though the soil had soaked inside her bones, inhabiting them like a parasite, expelling a scent that would lead the monsters to her door.
She looked to the laptop screen – to the son of David Kilmartin, with his wiry arms crossed like cheap shoelaces, utterly clueless as to what dwelled beneath Ireland’s innocent surface. He couldn’t have known how his father met his end if this was the harvest of his ambitions. Mina had scattered the breadcrumbs he’d left behind him – those tangible traces of the man’s ruin. But what if his son had had access to so much more? Could he be so blind as to follow the echo of the dead man’s footsteps?
‘The fucking Burren,’ she groaned as a wave of blood rushed behind her eyes. ‘How is that even possible?’
It was too close to home – only on the south side of Galway Bay. She used to gaze out at it from the top window of her old apartment, rising amidst the rooftops where the gulls perched like little alabaster gargoyles. Mina had been dragged there on a school tour once. She’d never forgotten the sheer terror on her teachers’ faces as they watched their fragile responsibilities clamber over its rocks, listening out for the shatter of tiny ankles on the wind.
After a flurry of clumsy stabs, she’d dialled Ciara, pressing the phone hard into her ear to keep it steady. The cottage felt a short keel away from capsizing. Those old doubts and fears were simmering inside her again, hottest around her cheeks. She needed to talk to someone – to vent the pressure before her eyeballs popped out against the gable wall; the thought alone of which made her squinch them shut.
‘Come on,’ she whispered, feet tapping frantically on the floor, ‘pick up.’
It rang, and then it rang some more. But no answer came.
‘She can’t still be eating her fucking vegetables,’ she growled, squeezing the phone so hard that she’d heard its plastic creak.
There was no one else. Calling her sister only carved out the chasm that stood gaping between them, and – from what Mina could remember – their last conversation hadn’t exactly ended on the friendliest of terms. She often wondered what Jennifer would make of her now, this new iteration of an already unpopular model. Her sister never cared for who she was before. She’d probably like her even less now.
‘No,’ Mina said, placing her phone back on the coffee table and meeting the watchful eyes of the yellow one, ‘she’ll only make it worse, won’t she?’
It’d been so long since she’d seen Jennifer in person. Whenever Mina recalled old family photographs – when someone mashed their bodies into a shape resembling two happy siblings – she was often surprised by how convincing it all seemed. The homely backdrop was her mum’s making. So, too, was the warmth, even if it dissipated after the camera flash, when they’d push each other away and storm out of the room, and that was before the incident.
