Mahain's Grave

Everything felt different. Though I had viewed these sights many times in youth, now, after so many years, the winding lane and sloping hill that led up to Currabinny Wood was strange. A fog shrouded my progress and in the distance the lighthouse of Roche's Point bellowed a low-pitched warning to passing ships at sea. Though the weather was mild, the rhythmic pulse of the Atlantic lapped loudly against the shoreline beyond.

Turning the final bend of the lonely road, I caught the first glimpse of green among the tall branches of oak, ash and beech. The fog clung to the trees in swirling wisps that rose and fell with each summer gust of Atlantic breeze. It was the time of Lughnasadh, when my ancestors had practiced their ancient beliefs on this craggy outpost where earth, sea and sky combined.

My professor, like me a native of this area, had held the belief that here, Druids once practiced their pagan ways, long after Patrick had converted the Gael to the message of the Nazarene. The kindly old man had told me of the writings of Brother Mahain, an ancient monk, whom he believed had been pagan and now lay buried in secret in the neolithic tumulus at the top of the wood. He had expressed a wish to one day return and seek the grave of Mahain at Currabinny.

I had spent long years pouring through Ireland's early manuscripts. Much writing had been lost, but traces of Mahain remained and these pointed to his burial on the hilltop. My research had also led me to another conclusion that within Mahain's grave some ancient secret lay buried.

My professor questioned me, but, in the end, dismissed my theory. When pressed, he mentioned that he had heard of this before, but he and scholars like him had rejected the theory. So it was that I trod on, in search of what many believed could never be found.

The locals called the tumulus "The Giant's Grave,"- a bare collection of moss-covered Neolithic stones at the summit of the wood, a resting place for a giant of ancient folklore. What an ignorant shower the locals were - to be a giant in ancient times was merely to be tall and the manuscripts I consulted alluded to Mahain's height.

Locals - these were the people I had grown up with in this parish, the offspring of hovel cottage dwellers and drunken royal navy seamen stationed at the naval base in nearby Haulbowline. A common, degenerate horde whose only joy it seemed was to make the owners of the local sheebeens richer and themselves and their children poorer. I was glad that I had moved abroad these many years to study at Miskatonic University in New England.

Somehow a few of the older locals had heard of my plan and had visited my lodging the night before. They spoke of disturbing what should not be disturbed and of letting the past go, for what was gone must be let go, for the good of all. But I had greater things on my mind than folk tales.

As I entered the wood the sky darkened. I'd known this outcrop of woodland since I was a boy. Here my family had gathered for picnic lunches, never knowing what treasures lay below. Through the fog that now shadowed the forest path and under the dark green canopy I ventured further.

Within, the wood was oppressive and humid; the sweat that clung to me would grow cold when the evening waned. Mine was not the widened carriage path laid down for a long-forgotten gentry, my path was a narrow, serpentine, mud-covered lane whose putrid detritus made a sickly squelch under my boots. Black roots of ash and oak protruded from the path, coiling and clasping at my feet, like the, grotesque tentacles of some underground creature come to take its prey back to its hidden depths. I passed sick, moss-covered trees whose trunks and branches were twisted and gnarled, whose bark had in places rotted away to reveal the dying flesh beneath.

I smiled, envisioning the harvest I would reap. I would, if my research proved correct, make a discovery that would change all known perceptions of "The Druids." I would uncover their ancient secrets and live the life I had planned for years. I could see it, the books, the lecture circuit, and the TV interviews. It was all so very close.

"Of course, the Druids left no written legacy," I could hear myself telling the TV host. "But this artifact is conclusive proof that not all the Irish converted to Christianity en mass, so to speak." Oh, yes my discovery would change things, that was for sure.

The path turned uphill. I left behind the muddy, root-infested slime for gravel-covered ground that crunched underfoot. In places the path had grass growing through and the trees no longer blotted out the sky. I reached the summit and came upon a grassy clearing, circular in shape, ringed by species of trees old and new. Of all the species present, the oak was absent. At the center of the clearing lay the ancient stones, the grave of Mahain.

Night began to fall. I unpacked my shovel and compass and got to work. I had read in the book of "Lecan" that this wood had been a Neolithic cemetery, a place of burial for the ancients and of course for Mahain himself. It would be a slow dig. The sweat poured from my forehead as I drove the spade into the ancient soil. With each passing load the sky grew darker until I took the camper light from my rucksack. I continued working in almost total darkness.

Surely it was here! The manuscripts had mentioned it, some tableau of gold that the ancients had made pilgrimages to see on this isolated hill. I dug with a frenzy that I had never known before, my shovel making soft cutting noises as it sliced into the earth of the tumulus. Over and over again I threw my body into this act of discovery. Finally I heard a faint crunching, I bent down with my flashlight to look. There lay the long dead collection of sea shells -the midden- for which Neolithic remains in Ireland were noted. I was getting closer.

Above, a harvest moon shone through the canopy and illuminated my work with a pale glow. I saw that I had left a crater-like hole in the mound's side. Nighttime noises filled the wood now. Little creatures shuffled in the undergrowth to my left. Night birds flew through the branches above. A whistle of summer wind caught the heavy limbs and made them sway. I continued to dig.

A strange light glowed pale among the trees, bobbling and bouncing irregularly. Its' glow coated the wood in an atmosphere of fear. The light seemed to move in a circular fashion until it eventually was eclipsed by the density of forest. Something was here in Currabinny and about to disturb my work.

I decided to stop what I was doing and took a few steps to the edge of the clearing to investigate further. I was rewarded for my inquiry when suddenly the light reappeared and I caught a glimpse of white form holding what seemed to be an old fashioned lantern.

Unafraid, I followed this light, this spirit or wraith, whatever it was, along its pathway through the wood. Branches scratched my face. A strange howling filled the wood, I thought I glimpsed in the velvet darkness a pair of yellow eyes. I was sure now that some spirit, some revenant was abroad and set upon disrupting my find.

I have no recollection of how long I followed. In time, my legs ached and I stopped; sweat scalded my cheeks and stung my eyes. My hands were bruised and cut from the broken foliage. Yet through the moonlit trees, I spied a tall figure walking with purpose along a narrow path close to my left. A white glow seemed to surround the figure, whose form I could make out in the distance. It was a tall cloaked figure it's hair braided as was the Celtic custom of old. Mahain was alive! Through some lost Druid knowledge, he walked these forest paths still!

The creature-Mahain- knew the forest, for soon he led me back onto the sloping path to the grave. I followed at a distance. I saw him examine my work and watched him note every detail of what he must have thought was the damage to his tomb. For a while he stood surveying the monument, then he knelt, to do what, I could not see.

What was he? A vampire that could leave his grave and walk among the living at night? Some ancient ghost that projected the image it held in life? Whatever this creature was, he stood between me and the prize, I had so long striven for. I made my decision then. I crept softly towards the unsuspecting ghoul of old, holding my shovel tight. I crossed the grassy clearing in silence, making gentle footfalls as I went. The shovel's edge sparkled silver in the moonlight. Within two feet of him, I raised the shovel above my head.

I must have made some noise, some sound inconsistent with the night sounds of this creature's home, for Mahain turned and raised his head and saw me. He let out a low cry. With all my strength I brought the edge of the blade down on his neck. A wet sickening thud filled the clearing, a gush of blood spurted from the creature's neck, his head bounced gently to earth on one side of the tomb and rolled off into the brambles beyond...

I stooped to look for my prize. But where was this head? Where was the proof that Mahain would never again walk this forest. I searched the area of the tomb where I had dug, and even the entire clearing beyond. Fear coursed through me. Could this ghoul of old rise from his death and replace his head on his very shoulders? I searched the brambles growing more agitated as the moon began to wane. Panic seized me. I ran from Currabinny as fast as the night wind would take me and returned to my lodgings.

Oh, how I tossed and turned that night - such dreams! I dreamt of pagan dances in a fire-lit glade, of ancient tomb builders on a rocky outcrop, of a carriage jaunt with Victorian ladies whose faces grew rotten when gazed upon. I soared in my dreams above the hills of Currabinny. Below, every tree top held the head of Mahain. A forest of severed heads laughed at me as I passed. Such a terrible evil laughter, echoing in the surrounding hills, a perverse derision directed at me. I dreamt I floated upon the ocean with Mahain's headless corpse until we drifted to the shores of Currabinny and on reaching the land the headed treetops whispered again and again, "You have my head but I have the knowledge for eternity now." The creature's corpse beat its fist upon the shore, the sound a reverberation that echoed in my ears. Again and again the carcass beat its fist upon the shore until I woke to the sound of knocking at my bedroom door.

"Mr. Greening? Open up please it's the police."

What did I care? I had killed a ghoul not a person. They had no evidence of my night's wanderings, so I answered.

They wanted to look around my room. For what, they would not say. Why would I stop them? They who would never know the importance of my work or the sights I had seen in my dreams, they who never knew who Mahain was and how I had ended his evil presence in the quaint little wood. You can imagine my shock upon their opening my suitcase and exposing a plastic bag within. But, reader, can you imagine my screams when, on pulling forth the bags grisly contents they drew forth not the head of that demon Mahain but instead the wounded head and agonized face of my old college professor!

They put me in handcuffs and brought me here to St. Anne's Hospital, a pleasant Victorian building overlooking the river Lee. I have heard my doctors mention something about a psychosis. I spend my days in this tiny cell until I can return again to Currabinny. But at night I soar above the hills and valleys of home once more. I soar on the winds of my dreams ever searching, but never finding, that lost ancient knowledge that can only be found within the grave of Mahain.