A carol for the dead, p.23
A Carol for the Dead, page 23
I laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you. We’re at Monashee.’
Finian drew back from the gate. ‘Monashee, where…?’
I nodded.
He looked up at the sky, then into the field once more. ‘Jesus, it’s pitch-black in there,’ he said.
‘An anomaly, as you said bef–’
We both heard it at the same time: a distant moan. We glanced at each other, then peered in the direction from which it had come – across the river.
We waited.
‘It was a fox,’ whispered Finian.
We heard the noise again.
‘It’s a cow,’ he said.
‘What is it with you and cows tonight?’
He was about to answer, but I put up my hand. ‘Shh, listen …’ This time it was louder: a plaintive, bleating sound that put me in mind of Chewbacca.
‘It’s human,’ I said.
‘No, I know what it is. It’s a deer. They raise them somewhere near here.’
‘For God’s sake, Finian, are you going through some kind of wildlife directory?’
‘If it’s human, then where is it coming from?’ His question was oddly put but still required an answer.
‘Newgrange.’
I checked for any movement in the fields sloping up from the far riverbank to the mound: nothing. I stared for what seemed like an age at the quartz façade. Then I noticed a shadow that hadn’t been there before.
‘Quick, look!’ I said, pointing. ‘Do you see that shadow to the left of the entrance?’
Finian squinted into the distance. ‘I think it’s being cast by one of the standing stones,’ he said, with the air of an astronomer correcting an over-enthusiastic stargazer. He seemed to be sobering up.
I peered at it. Maybe he was right.
We heard the bleating again, louder this time. For a second I saw a pinprick of light in the recessed entrance area. When I looked back at the façade, the shadow had disappeared. And then for a brief moment we saw, standing in front of the darkened entrance, a figure dressed in white.
‘And you did see it?’ I asked Finian as we got into the car.
‘I’ve told you several times now, Illaun: yes, I did. OK?’
‘And you think it was a Garda in forensic overalls.’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? Combing the area around Newgrange after the murder.’
It was a reasonable conclusion. ‘What about the strange noise?’
‘I have no idea. It probably came from somewhere else along the river.’
I said nothing.
‘You think whoever was up there was making that sound?’
‘Yes. And I also think we were looking at the same individual I saw that night in the fog.’
‘How can you be sure it was the same person? Whoever we saw just now was very far away.’
‘The headgear – some kind of veil. Couldn’t you see it?’
‘I couldn’t make out any details, not at that distance. But don’t those forensic overalls have hoods as well?’ That was true. ‘It wasn’t a water sheerie, at any rate,’ he added.
‘Speaking of which,’ I said, turning on the engine, ‘remember what Jack Crean was telling us about sheeries, children’s souls and so on?’
‘Sure.’
‘I think it points to Monashee being an infant burial ground, a cillín.’
‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘I think the Grange Abbey nuns used to quietly bury dead babies from the maternity home in there.’
‘Which could mean it was used for centuries.’
‘That’s possible.’
‘But, if that’s the case, why did Seamus Crean only unearth the remains of one infant? You’d imagine there’d be hundreds of them.’
‘I think I know why.’ I told him about the items found in the illegal dump.
‘Are you saying they cut up the bodies, kept parts of them in jars?’
‘I think so. Presumably for medical research. And I think Traynor discovered that – and something else about Monashee.’
‘But, if they weren’t burying babies there, then it’s not a cillín after all.’
‘They buried some of the babies there. But it had another function – as a place of execution for people like Mona.’
‘Then surely that’s the real story: ritual execution of the living, as opposed to random burial of the dead. And two men ending up dying in a similar fashion.’
‘It should be, in theory. But Traynor had no interest in Mona, only in the infant. We’re being made to think that it’s all got to do with Mona in order to lead us away from the child. That’s the reason for the copycat injuries.’
Finian ran his hand through his hair. ‘Illaun, that’s so convoluted it’s giving me a headache just thinking about it.’
‘No, Finian, that’s just your hangover starting to kick in.’
‘Let’s go home,’ he groaned.
‘No – let’s go up to Grange Abbey,’ I said, pulling out onto the road.
Finian laughed. Then he realised I was serious. ‘This is an absurd idea, Illaun.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ I saw him looking at the clock on the dashboard. ‘It’s after twelve; they’ll all be in bed.’
It was my turn to laugh. ‘Even better,’ I said, making a sharp left turn and heading uphill.
‘But why go there – for what? To ask them to own up to pickling babies in jars?’
‘There’s something about the place that doesn’t ring true. In fact, I’m finding it hard to believe I was actually there at all. It’s like a dream.’
‘They’ll have the place locked, you’ll see.’
But the gate was open, and the avenue snaked downwards like a sequinned white ribbon into the dark wood below. There were no tyre-marks in the frost, a fact I found surprising for some reason.
‘Well?’ Finian was half-hoping I would abandon my plan. And if I had been on my own I would have.
I drove through the gates.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered.
‘Watch this,’ I said, and turned off the lights of the car. Finian sank into his seat and closed his eyes. But the light of the moon was sufficient to drive by.
The abbey was there, all right, but there wasn’t a single light on, outside or inside. And the Land Rover was nowhere to be seen. I pulled off the drive and parked on grass under some leafless lime trees about thirty metres from the edge of the gravel forecourt.
‘Happy?’ said Finian, anxious to leave.
‘There’s no sign of life whatsoever,’ I said.
He sighed heavily. ‘Illaun, it’s half-twelve on a winter’s night. What were you expecting, a garden party?’
‘Shh,’ I said. ‘I can hear something.’
I let down the window on my side. Two, maybe three voices. Outdoors. And I knew, from the way sound was behaving on this crystalline night, that they were not as close as they seemed.
‘I think those voices are coming from somewhere around the church,’ I said.
‘Probably the nuns coming back from matins or whatever they sing at midnight. Can we leave now?’
‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘You’re crazy, Illaun.’
‘Are you coming?’
Finian’s cautious nature tended to spur me in the opposite direction, and the more uptight he was about what I wanted to do, the more daring I would often become. It had been a feature of our relationship since our teacher-and-student days, and tonight a certain amount of schoolgirl giddiness had entered the picture as well – perhaps because I knew that all he wanted to do was get home to bed.
Finian swore and reluctantly climbed out of the car. We squeezed the doors shut, and I led the way towards the archway into the abbey close.
The sharp outline of the moon was blurred by an inner halo that had formed around it, the orb within looking like the core of a vast galaxy. Reaching the side of the archway, we hugged the wall and listened for any sound from the area around the church. In the minute or so it had taken to get there we had heard the voices once or twice, but now there was silence.
I peered around the side of the arch. The moon was just above the battlements of the tower, carving the square into angular sections of shadow and light. I thought the square was empty until I noticed the moonlight glinting off something, which turned out to be the abbey’s Land Rover. It was parked between the church and the side of the walled garden.
‘There’s nobody around,’ I whispered, trying to sound convincing. ‘They must have been parking their Land Rover for the night. Probably went into the residence by the cloister.’
‘So, once again, what the hell are we doing here?’ As Finian returned to complete sobriety he was becoming a little cantankerous.
I had brought the flashlight from the glove compartment. ‘I want to show you the west door and some of the other carvings, to see what you think.’
‘I’ll arrange a tour for myself with the abbess – preferably during daylight.’
I turned the flashlight on my face so that he could read my expression. ‘I’m serious about this, Finian. I don’t think people get to see this place unless they drive in here by accident. I think they had their own reasons for letting me come here.’ I turned off the light again.
He breathed deeply a few times through his nose. It was his way of de-stressing. ‘All right. Let’s do it.’
We walked through the arch, keeping to the shadows until we were standing opposite the west end of the church. The entire façade was pitch-black, so I switched on the flashlight.
The shock made me grab Finian’s arm.
The door was wide open. Both leaves of what had been a seldom-used entrance were agape, and I could see the circular beam from my flashlight playing on the wooden ceiling inside the church.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Finian under his breath. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
I had already switched off the flashlight and was on my way when something made me turn around, like Lot’s wife in the Bible.
‘Look,’ I said, pulling Finian about by the arm.
We could see a glow deep inside the church.
‘Come on,’ said Finian, grabbing my hand.
‘Wait …’ I didn’t believe the light in the interior had just come on. So why had it been invisible as we approached the doorway? I remembered the uphill slope back to the west end.
‘I know why we couldn’t see it until now,’ I whispered.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The floor slopes downwards – they had to follow the contour of the bedrock. So the east end isn’t visible until you come close to the doorway.’
‘Fascinating. Now get your ass in gear.’
‘OK, let’s go.’
Then we heard a sound that froze us to the spot. It was the sound of applause, like a small audience welcoming someone on stage.
The clapping subsided, and far inside the church a lone voice started to sing.
O the holly she bears a berry
As red as the wine
And we worship Lord Sol
Our saviour divine …
‘What the hell’s going on in there?’ whispered Finian, just as astonished as I was – and not just because it was an unlikely choice of material for whichever of the canonical hours was being observed.
Several voices began to harmonise, in the robust, nasal style of English folk singers.
And we worship Lord Sol
For our saviour is he
And the first tree that’s in the greenwood
It was the holly …
Finian gripped my arm and propelled me away from the church. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
Neither did I. Because all of the voices were male.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We drove at speed up the avenue, saying nothing to each other until we had passed through the gates and out onto the road.
Finian was the first to speak. ‘That was so weird. Maybe it’s just the shock of the unexpected – men singing in a convent chapel late at night. What did you make of it?’
An annual fertility rite was the first thing that entered my head. The order had become self-perpetuating by breeding its own members. Never having to openly recruit, thereby drawing no attention to itself … that was how it had managed to survive. But what did they do with the male offspring? They must be sent for adoption through the same channels as the children born in the order’s maternity hospital – but not all of them: some were kept for mating purposes. And that would result in inbreeding – guaranteed to produce defective births. Which was why they needed outsiders to join from time to time …
‘Illaun, that silence tells me your mind is working overtime. Share your thoughts before your imagination runs away with itself.’
He knew me well. I was on a roll. Then a slightly less lurid idea occurred to me. ‘When the abbess talked about the vows taken by the order, she said they were free of them for one day in the year …’
‘And you think they were getting up to something naughty on their day off. A midnight orgy, possibly?’
I avoided mentioning my wilder speculations. ‘A celebration. The abbess said Henry II issued his charter at Christmastime; maybe they mark it in some way.’
Finian chuckled. ‘Imagine if the good Sisters were simply holding a carol concert with invited guests. Raising funds for the restoration of the church roof, perhaps. For all we know there were even posters in the pub tonight advertising it.’
‘Finian, as you said yourself, it was half-twelve on a winter’s night. On the night of the solstice, as a matter of fact. Fundraising? I don’t think so. Whatever it was, it had something to do with the turning of the year – and nothing to do with Christmas.’
‘I guess I agree. Just trying to see it from a different perspective, that’s all.’ He sat in silence for a while, then said, ‘That carol had more than a whiff of paganism about it, I’ll admit.’
‘That about describes everything in that place. And the idea that holly might be playing a prominent part in their rituals is really scary, considering what I saw stuffed in Traynor’s mouth.’
‘Look, let’s not go too far with this. It’s been a long evening; give your brain a rest.’
‘It’s been a long day, but it’s not finished yet. You’re coming home with me.’ Just in case there was any chance of him misinterpreting my intentions, I added, ‘To help me decode the enigma of Grange Abbey.’
Finian groaned again.
While he made tea, I went to the office to print off some of the images I had loaded into my laptop. Having chosen a high-resolution setting, I was able to enlarge segments of the west-door shot while maintaining perfect clarity.
I took the A4 sheets into the kitchen along with a magnifying glass. Finian had poured out two cups of tea and was sitting at the table, reading Saturday’s newspaper and idly stroking the cat.
‘Let’s look at these under the light,’ I said, sitting down at the dining table, pushing Boo out of the way and spreading out the prints. I have a yellow Tiffany-style lampshade featuring green-winged dragonflies with glowing red carbuncles for eyes, and they seemed to be peering over our shoulders to examine the photos.
‘You’re the expert on this stuff,’ Finian said, sifting through them. ‘I can see the reliefs are in good condition, but don’t ask me to interpret them.’
‘It helps me to think a bit more clearly when I have someone to bounce ideas off. Just bear with me for a while.’
‘I’m all yours.’
Tracing my finger along the curve of the outermost of the three arches, I began to point out various reliefs. ‘We’re into the medieval bestiary in this frieze,’ I said. ‘This fellow that’s part lion, part eagle is a griffin; that two-legged dragon is a wyvern; here’s a cockatrice – also known as a basilisk; and here’s a manticore, with its scorpion’s tail.’
Finian peered through the magnifying glass. ‘What are they doing outside a church?’
‘These guys probably had what’s called an apotropaic function – warding off demons on the principle of meeting like with like. They made sure nothing evil came into the church.’
‘There seems to be what looks like an actual scorpion in the middle of them.’
I took the glass from him and confirmed his opinion. ‘Moral finger-wagging. As far as I recall, the scorpion was equated with lust. See – it has a female face, the idea being that it seduced you with its beauty only to poison you with its sting.’
‘Carvings like these would have been painted, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes – and brightly, too. Probably a bit like the colours on the lampshade.’
Finian studied the dragonflies for a moment and gave a noisy yawn of approval.
‘Now let’s look at the two innermost arches,’ I said. ‘They’re the best preserved from the weather; the carvings are still nice and crisp.’
‘What have we here?’
‘Products of the medieval imagination again: the fabled inhabitants of far-off lands. I haven’t had time to study them carefully, but I recognise several more than I did at first glance. Here’s a representative of a monstrous race called the blemmyae – men with no heads, or, to be more precise, with their mouths and eyes on their chests. Next to him there’s a cyclops, and then some others I have no names for: a thing that looks like an octopus; a man with claws for hands, another with the head of a lion. And see this almost-human fellow here, with the wide division between his eyes and the long snout? That’s a cynocephalus, a dog-headed man. There’s a mermaid here as well …’
‘These were all meant to be different races?’
‘Yes. Now, here’s something I’m only seeing properly for the first time myself – the designs on the capitals supporting those arches …’
‘They’re not in high relief like the other carvings.’
‘No. They’re incised, a little more difficult to make out. Foliage of some kind on one pair of capitals … and winged insects on the other.’
I shared the picture with Finian and we peered at it together.
‘Look closely at the insects. See – they’re striped,’ I said.
