A Scream From The Sepulchre

A SCREAM

FROM THE SEPULCHRE

by Peter Tremayne

It was the evening of All Saints' Day and Tressach, a warrior of the guard of the royal palace of Tara, home of Sechnassach, High King of Ireland, was unhappy. That evening he had drawn the most unpopular duty, which was to act as sentinel in that area of the palace complex where generations of High Kings were buried. Rows of carved granite memorials marked the mounds where many of the great monarchs were interred, often with their chariots, armour, and such grave goods as were needed to help them on their journey to the Otherworld.

Tressach felt uncomfortable that this duty fell to his lot on this night of all nights. The evening of All Saints, or All Hallows, as some now named it, was an ancient observance which many still called the Samhain Festival even though the five kingdoms had long accepted the new Faith of Christendom. Samhain, according to ancient tradition, was the one night of the year when the mystic realms of the Other-world became visible to the living and when the souls of the dead could enter the living world to wreak vengeance on any who had wronged them in life. So strong was this belief among the people that even when the new faith entered the land it could not be suppressed. The Christians therefore incorporated the ancient festival by creating two separate celebrations. All Saints' Day was set aside as a day when the saints, known and unknown, were glorified, and the following day, All Souls, was given to the commemoration of the souls of the faithful dead.

Tressach shivered slightly in the cold evening air as he approached the walled-off compound of graves, far away from the main palace buildings which made up the High King's capital. Autumn was departing with rapidity and the first signs of winter, the white fingers of a creeping evening frost, were permeating across the sacred hills of Royal Meath.

Tressach paused as he contemplated the path that he had to take between the darkened mounds with their granite stone portals. They called this 'the avenue of the great kings,' for here were entombed some of the most famous of ancient rulers. There was the imposing tomb of Ollamh Fodhla, the fortieth king, who gathered the laws of Ireland and established a feis, or convention, which sat at Tara every three years at the feast of Samhain. This was when judges, lawyers, and administrators gathered to discuss the laws and revised them. Indeed, Tressach knew that hosts of judges and lawyers had already descended on Tara, for the convention fell this very year. They would start their deliberations in the morning.

Here, also, was the imposing tomb of Macha Mong Ruadh, Macha of the Foxy Hair, the seventy-sixth monarch and the only woman to have ruled all Ireland. Beyond were the tombs of Conaire the Great, of Tuathal the Legitimate, of Art the Solitary, of Conn of the Hundred Battles, and of Fergus of the Black Teeth. Tressach could reel off the names of those who inhabited the graves like a litany. How were the mighty laid low.

Yet, why a warrior needed to waste his time patrolling this resting place of the dead was a mystery to Tressach. What need was there to guard this desolate place; and why this night, of all the dark autumnal nights? Tressach would have preferred to be somewhere else .. . anywhere else.

At least he had a lantern, but its light gave him little comfort. He began to walk with a quick pace as he passed down the darkened aisle between the tombs. The quicker he completed his task, so that—in good conscience—he could report to his commander that he had walked through the compound, the better. The thought that, at the end of his vigil, there would be a mug of cuirm, a strong mead, acted as an added incentive.

He turned a corner and conscience made him pause near a row of tombs for an inspection. He held his lantern before him. He owed it to his commander and his pride as a warrior to make a cursory check at each vantage point. His eyes fell on a newly dug grave and he found himself suppressing a shiver. He knew that Garbh, the keeper of the cemetery, whose duties included the maintenance of the graves and the digging of new tombs, had been working here over the last two days. Although the grave was unfinished and empty, Tressach felt a morbid fascination as he stared at the yawning black hole with its piled dark earth around it. His imagination began to run riot and fearful childhood fantasies clutched at his mind. Any moment something fearful could raise itself out of that black pit! He genuflected and turned abruptly away.

Here, at the end of the row of more modern tombs, stood a mound set slightly apart. This type of grave was ancient and called a dumma. It was surrounded by a circle of granite pillar stones notched in Ogham, the ancient Irish writing which was falling into disuse since the new faith had brought Latin script into the land. Had it not been so dark, Tressach knew that one would have seen that this tomb was more richly endowed than the others. Under its grey stone portals were heavy oak doors, panelled in copper and bronze and reinforced with iron. The panels were studded with patterning of gold and silver.

It was one of the oldest of the graves at Tara. In fact, according to the chroniclers, it was some fifteen hundred years old. It was the tomb of the twenty-sixth High King, Tigernmas, known as 'Lord of Death,' for he was one of the most warlike of the ancient kings and had won thrice-nine battles in a single year. During his reign, so the old storytellers claimed, the first gold and silver mines were discovered and worked in Ireland. Tigernmas had become a rich and powerful king. It was he who had ordained that the people should wear clothes of varied colours to denote their clans and social status.

Of all the tombs that Tressach would have to pass this fearsome evening, he was most apprehensive of the tomb of Tigernmas. The old annalists had it that Tigernmas had forsaken the ancient gods and turned to worship an idol dedicated to blood and vengeance. Sacrifices were made at the feast of Samhain on the plain of Magh Slecht. Because of this, a terrible disaster had overtaken Tigernmas. He and all his followers died of a strange illness and his body was then returned to Tara to be interred in this last resting place of kings.

Tressach knew the story well and wished, for at least this night, that he could expunge it from his imagination. He clasped his sword hilt more firmly with one hand as he held the lantern high with the other. It gave him comfort. He was about to hurry on past the tomb of Tigernmas when a scream poleaxed him. His limbs lost all form of movement. It was a muffled cry, a strangled cry of pain.

Then an agonised voice distinctly cried: 'Help me! God help me!' Tressach broke into a cold sweat, unable to move, unable to make a sound from his suddenly constricted and dry throat. There was no question in his mind that the cry had come from the long-sealed tomb of Tigernmas.

The Abbot Colman, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland, a thickset, ruddy-faced man in his mid fifties, rose to greet the young religieuse who had just entered his chamber. She was tall, with grey-green eyes and rebellious strands of red hair escaping from under her headdress.

'Sister Fidelma! It is always good to see you here at Tara. Alas, you do not often bless us with a visit.' He came forward with both hands outstretched. 'Dominus tecum,' replied the religieuse solemnly, observing protocol. But the smihng abbot shook his head, gripped her hands warmly, and guided her to a chair beside the fire. They were old friends but it had been some time since their last meeting.

'I was wondering whether we should see you here this year for the convention. All the other judges and lawyers have already arrived.'

Sister Fidelma, of the house of Brigid of Kildare, grimaced wryly.

'It would have been remiss of me to fail to attend, for there are many contentious matters that I want to debate with the Chief Brehon.'

Since the reign of the High King Ollamh Fodhla, twelve hundred years before, the feis of Tara had met every three years to discuss the law of the land. Judges, lawyers, and administrators gathered to debate the workings of the law and whether, in the light of changing society, any amendments or changes needed to be made.

Abbot Colman smiled happily and offered Fidelma a drink of mulled imported Gaulish wine. When she indicated her acceptance he took down a pottery amphora, emptying some of the red wine into a jug, then, taking a red-hot poker from the fire, he dipped it into the sizzling liquid. Then he poured a measure into a silver goblet.

The evening was chill and Fidelma appreciated the warm liquid.

'Is it really three years since you were last at Tara?' inquired the abbot, shaking his head in mock disbelief as he seated himself in a chair opposite her.

'It does seem a lifetime ago,' agreed Fidelma.