Exile to Érenn - 10. Chapter 10

They left Trinity College in the early afternoon, the weight of the Long Room and the glowing pages of the Book of Kells still lingering in the air between them. The city felt louder after the hushed reverence of the library, but Cianán moved more slowly than usual, his steps measured as though each one cost him something small and unseen.

“I’d like you boys to see Newgrange,” Declan said as they reached the car. “Carrowkeel has more tombs, but none of them match the size and grandeur of Newgrange.”

The drive north toward the Boyne Valley passed in near silence. Rowan occasionally pointed out a landmark, but the conversation stayed light, careful. Aiden sat beside Cianán in the back seat, their shoulders close, occasionally touching. He could feel the faint coolness of Cianán’s arm against his own, the subtle weariness that had been growing since Dublin.

When they finally turned off the main road and approached the Brú na Bóinne Visitor Centre, the landscape opened into wide green fields. Newgrange waited beyond, its great grass-covered mound rising like an ancient sentinel against the sky.

Declan parked and glanced in the rearview mirror. “We take the shuttle from here. The monument is closed to private cars.”

They boarded the small electric shuttle with a handful of other visitors. Cianán sat beside Aiden, quiet, his auburn hair catching the weak sunlight through the windows. The shuttle glided along the narrow road, the green countryside rolling past. Aiden felt Cianán’s sitting close beside him.

When the shuttle stopped near the monument, the group stepped out. Newgrange rose before them, a vast, grass-covered mound ringed with white quartz stones that gleamed even under the overcast sky.

Declan spoke softly as they approached the entrance. “This is Newgrange. One of the oldest passage tombs in the world, built around 3200 BCE. The people who built it aligned it so precisely that on the winter solstice the rising sun shines straight through the roof-box and lights up the central chamber.”

Cianán stopped a few paces from the great kerb stones. His voice was low, almost reverent. “Sí an Bhrú,” he said. “The mansion of the Boyne. Aengus Óg lived here once. He claimed it with a single day and a single night, and no one could take it from him.”

Declan turned, surprised but intrigued. “You know the old name. The medieval texts, the Book of Leinster and others, mention Aengus and the Brú.”

Cianán nodded, eyes on the mound. “The monks recorded the stories, but they were already ancient when they wrote them down. Aengus was always youthful and beautiful, the eternal young one. Even eternal youth could not save him. He grew tired and faded like the rest.”

The tour guide led them inside the narrow passage. The air grew cool and still. Stone after stone rose around them, each one massive and precisely placed. They reached the central chamber with its three small alcoves, each containing a stone basin.

Cianán paused beside one of the basins, his fingers hovering just above the carved surface. The guide activated the simulated solstice lighting. A narrow beam of warm light entered through the roof-box above the entrance and slowly travelled down the passage, striking the far wall of the chamber. The carved spirals and concentric circles on the stones seemed to come alive in the moving light.

Cianán’s breath caught. “The light still finds its way,” he whispered. “Even after all this time.”

Aiden felt Cianán’s hand brush his own. The touch was cooler than usual. He squeezed gently, saying nothing, but his chest tightened at the quiet sadness in Cianán’s voice.

Declan watched Cianán carefully. “The winter solstice alignment is exact. The sun enters the chamber only on those few days each year. The builders knew the sky better than we give them credit for.”

They stood together in the ancient chamber as the simulated light slowly faded. The weight of centuries pressed gently around them, and for a moment the spirals on the stones seemed to whisper of things that had once been bright and were now only remembered.

The shuttle ride back to the visitor centre was quiet. Cianán leaned his head against the window, eyes half-closed. Aiden stayed close, offering what little warmth he could.

During the drive back to the farmhouse Cianán was quiet and still. He didn’t sleep, but he seemed somewhere else, his eyes dull and distant. Aiden moved closer on the back seat and put an arm around his shoulder. Cianán leaned into the touch without speaking.

When they parked in front of the farmhouse, Rowan and Declan disappeared inside to give them space. Cianán turned to Aiden, voice barely above a whisper.

“Help me back to the cairn. I can’t make it on my own.”

A tear slipped down Aiden’s cheek. He nodded, throat too tight to answer.

The track up the hill was difficult in the fading light. Aiden practically carried Cianán, one arm around his waist, the other supporting his weight. By the time they reached the entrance to the passage tomb they were both breathing hard. Aiden’s lungs recovered quickly. Cianán’s did not.

They stood together at the threshold. Cianán’s auburn hair looked duller in the twilight, the warm copper tones almost gone. His skin had taken on a faint, almost translucent pallor.

“Don’t be frightened, Aiden,” Cianán said softly. “I will sleep in another place and return to you when I am better. I have a reason to get stronger now.”

They embraced. Aiden held him tightly, tears streaming down his face. Cianán’s arms were gentle but weak around him. For a long minute neither of them moved.

When they finally separated, Cianán looked at Aiden one last time. His blue-green eyes held a depth that seemed to go back centuries, but there was also a small, determined spark.

“I will come back,” he said. “Three days. Wait for me.”

Cianán turned and entered the passage. Aiden followed a few steps behind. At the edge of the stone basin Cianán paused. A faint, silvery light rose from the basin, soft and ancient, like moonlight filtered through water. Cianán stepped into it. The light touched his skin and seemed to sink into him, gentle and welcoming.

His outline softened for a moment. Aiden saw the faint silvery scars on his shoulder glow briefly like living silver. Then Cianán simply faded, not dramatically, but quietly, like mist dissolving at dawn.

The basin was empty. The light slowly faded back into the stone.

Aiden stood alone, breathing hard, tears still wet on his cheeks. He whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

“I’ll wait.”

The tomb gave no answer, only the quiet echo of his own words against the ancient stone.

He turned and made his way back down the hill, the weight of everything they had shared pressing on him. But beneath the fear was a small, stubborn hope.

Cianán had promised. Three days.

He would wait. He would wait a thousand days if he had to.

Aiden kept that promise close as he and Declan worked in the second chamber of the new cairn the next morning. The air inside the passage was cool and still, carrying the faint mineral scent of ancient stone. Aiden’s trowel scraped gently against the earth while Declan carefully mapped the next layer of fill.

Neither of them spoke much. The silence felt heavier than usual.

Rowan had stayed at the farmhouse, but his worry had followed them up the hill. Over breakfast he had asked again, voice careful, “Any word from Cianán?”

Aiden had only shaken his head. “He said three days.”

Declan had looked up from his coffee, brow furrowed. “Three days seems a long time to rest for a healthy teenager.”

Rowan had nodded, stirring his porridge slowly. “He has been looking peakish the past few days. I thought he was just overwhelmed with Dublin.”

Aiden had known better, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t tell them what he had seen in the chamber, the silvery light, the way Cianán had simply faded into it like mist at dawn. They wouldn’t believe him. He barely believed it himself.

So he had only murmured, “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

Now, as he worked beside Declan, the questions turned over and over in his mind.

Was Cianán really one of them? One of the Tuatha Dé Danann that Declan had told him about in passing, the old gods, the people of the mounds? It sounded impossible. But it would explain so much: the way Cianán moved, the strange knowledge in his eyes, the way the solstice light had seemed to recognize him.

And yet… none of that mattered as much as the simple ache in Aiden’s chest.

He just hoped Cianán was okay. He just wanted him to come back safely from wherever he had gone.

Declan paused, trowel hovering. “You’re quiet today.”

Aiden shrugged, not looking up. “Just thinking.”

Declan studied him for a moment, then returned to his work. But Aiden could feel the older man’s concern, quiet and steady, like the weight of the stones above them.

The wind outside shifted, carrying a new sound across the bog, distant voices, many voices, rising and falling in unison. It sounded like singing, or chanting. It was far away, but unmistakable.

Declan straightened, listening. His face tightened. “Father Michael,” he said quietly. “They’re at the main tombs. I need to go down there and make sure everything stays peaceful.”

“I’ll go with you,” Aiden said.

Declan shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t. Go back to the house and let Rowan know what’s happening.”

Aiden hesitated, then nodded. He watched Declan stride down the hill toward Cairn G, his boots kicking up small clumps of heather.

The Saturday sun hung low but bright over the Bricklieve Mountains, turning the heather a dusty gold. Declan climbed the familiar rise, the wind sharp with the scent of peat and sheep-worn grass. He knew every stone of the Carrowkeel complex, every spiral, every cupmark. Which was why the crowd startled him.

Nearly a hundred locals stood gathered in a broad semicircle around the entrance stone. Farmers in heavy jackets, teenagers in trainers, older women with scarves tied under their chins. Many held rosaries or small palm crosses. A few had tucked sprigs of dried lavender or bog myrtle into their coat pockets, an old folk habit Declan hadn’t seen since childhood.

At the center, kneeling beside a wooden bowl of salt, was Father Michael.

Declan stopped short.

“Michael… what are you doing?”

Father Michael didn’t look up. He pinched a measure of blessed salt between his fingers and let it fall in a thin, deliberate line across the threshold of the tomb. The grains sparkled briefly in the sunlight before settling into the grooves of the Neolithic carvings.

“Sanctifica, Domine, hoc habitaculum.”

Only then did he rise, turning with the slow, deliberate calm of a man who had expected this confrontation.

“It’s Father Michael to you, Declan.”

Declan let out a short, humorless laugh. “Then you can call me Doctor MacDonagh.”

A ripple passed through the crowd, discomfort, recognition, maybe even anticipation. Most of them had known the two men since childhood. They had gone to school together, played football on the same muddy pitch. But that was a long time ago.

Declan stepped closer, boots sinking into the soft turf. “You can’t do this. This is a protected archaeological site. You’re scattering salt across a five-thousand-year-old passage tomb.”

Father Michael dipped the aspergillum into a brass bowl of holy water. “We’re here to pray for peace. Nothing more.”

“Peace?” Declan gestured sharply toward the kerbstones. “Someone carved fresh gouges into these stones last week. Deep ones. You can still see the white of the exposed rock. It was someone who knows the site. Someone who’s been up here at night.”

Father Michael sprinkled holy water along the lintel stone, droplets running into the ancient spirals.

“Domine, lumen tuum hic maneat.”

Lord, may Your light remain in this place.

The congregation murmured a soft amen. A few clutched their palm crosses tighter.

Declan scanned the faces. Some looked earnest. Some frightened. A few, especially the younger ones, looked guilty. He recognized the Bresnahan boys among them.

“You think this is going to fix it?” Declan said, voice low but sharp. “A blessing? Salt? Holy medals? This isn’t a parish boundary, Michael. It’s a Neolithic monument aligned to the midsummer sunset.”

Father Michael’s jaw tightened. “And yet someone has disturbed it. Someone has stirred fear in this community.”

“Fear?” Declan repeated. “Fear of what?”

Father Michael didn’t answer. Instead, he took another pinch of salt and cast it gently toward the entrance.

“Fuge, omnis nequitia, in nomine Dei.”

Depart, all wickedness, in the name of God.

Declan stepped beside him, close enough that only the priest could hear.

“You know as well as I do that these tombs aren’t haunted. They’re burial chambers. Passage graves. The bones we found in Cairn K were from at least three individuals, two adults and a child. They weren’t spirits. They were people.”

Father Michael kept his eyes on the tomb. “And people can leave things behind. Not just bones.”

Declan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. “Michael… what are you saying?”

The priest finally looked at him, and for a moment Declan saw the boy he had grown up with, earnest, stubborn, always caught between faith and fear.

“Some of the parishioners have heard things,” Father Michael said quietly. “Voices. Footsteps. Lights moving inside the cairns at night.”

Declan shook his head. “Lanterns. Teenagers. Maybe it was someone trying to scare them.”

“Maybe.” Father Michael’s voice was soft. “But the vandalism started after you started to excavate the new tomb.”

Declan swallowed. “So you think someone damaged the stones because they were afraid?”

“I think someone damaged the stones because they were trying to stop something.” Father Michael’s gaze drifted toward the dark entrance of the tomb. “Or provoke it.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of wet stone and peat. Deep inside the passage tomb, the darkness seemed to shift, not moving, not alive, but aware. As if the ancient chambers were listening.

Declan exhaled slowly. “Michael… if someone in your parish is responsible, you need to tell me.”

Father Michael turned back to the tomb.

“And if someone in my parish is afraid of what’s been awakened… then I need to finish this.”