Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

Nora stirred beside him. “Are you getting warm now?” he asked, inhaling the clean scent of her, enjoying the weight of her hand as it rested lightly upon his chest.

“Mmm” came her reply. Could it be that she was already drifting off? He deeply envied Nora’s genius for sleep, and often lay awake beside her, admiring the seeming ease with which she became steeped in slumber. He wondered whether Hugh Osborne was in his bed at this hour, or still busy in his workshop below. Cormac tried to fathom the fate of the two men who lived in this house, each of whom had returned from a journey to find his future vanished.

Cormac looked down at Nora’s peaceful face. He would tell her tomorrow how Hugh planned to request that the remains of the red-haired girl and the infant be returned to him for reburial at Drumcleggan Priory. And how Hugh had asked for his help in convincing the National Museum. He hadn’t given an immediate answer, and though he might normally argue against such a course of action, the scientific reasons for preserving the cailin rua had to be weighed against the human need to lay the past to rest. Of course, there was no real rest, only the reassuring constant of mutability. Even the strange suspension of time in a bog was only an illusion, a lingering extension of continual, inevitable decay. The opening stanza of an old poem kept circling through his mind:

The image of the red-haired girl intruded upon Cormac’s thoughts once more, only this time he did not see her as he had out on the bog, in that terrible, wrenching vision that had plagued him so often in the past few months. This time he saw her features arranged as they might be figured in repose: lips together, brow tranquil, eyes closed. It was hard to conceive how a single act could have such far-reaching effect. Where would he be at this moment, if that tormented, despairing girl had not taken to the roads, and had given up her child without protest? Where would she be? There was only one thing he knew for certain: now that the cailin rua was removed from her airless, liquid vault, she had reentered the normal flow of time: her cell walls had begun to break down at an accelerated rate, opening to accept the spread of invading mold and bacteria that would gradually, imperceptibly transform her, as they did all things, living and dead. Cormac felt strangely comforted by the thought. Lulled by the crackling of the fire, the random gusts that buffeted the windows, and Nora’s warm breath against his neck, he closed his eyes and let himself be pulled down, rocked, and finally swallowed in the watery darkness of sleep.

I thank the many people who contributed to the writing of this book: my friend Daithi Sproule, for a long-ago invitation to visit his family in Donegal, and for his indispensable and ongoing assistance with questions about Irish language and literature; Eilis Sproule, who first sparked my imagination with the tale of a nameless, beheaded red-haired girl; Dr. Barry Raftery, of the Department of Archaeology at University College Dublin, who generously shared his firsthand experience with the real-life cailin rua, and who, in addition to providing invaluable advice and information on archaeological matters, was kind enough to offer introductions to many of his colleagues; the late Dr. Maire Delaney, of Trinity College Medical School, for sharing her expertise and experience with rare bog remains; Garda Siochana officers Patrick J. Cleary and the late Vincent Tobin of the Collator’s Office in Cork City, and Detectives Frank Manion of Tralee, County Kerry, and Michael Ryan of Loughrea, County Galway, for essential background and assistance on police procedure; Dr. Raghnall O Floinn, of the Irish Antiquities Division at the National Museum of Ireland, for help with museum information and procedure; Rolly Read, Keeper of Conservation at the National Museum of Ireland, for allowing me access to the conservation lab at Collins Barracks; archaeologist Malachy Conway, who generously offered a guided tour of his excavation work at a medieval ecclesiastical site; Terry Melton of Mitotyping Technologies, for information on mitochondrial DNA; Angela Bourke, Thomas O’Grady, Anne Kenne, Peter Costello, and Donna Wong, for much-needed assistance with literary and historical sources. Many thanks also to Mary and Sean O’Driscoll, James Kelly, John and Mary Kelly, Susan McKeown, Niamh Parsons, Dolores Keane, and the many other wonderful traditional players and singers who inspired the music in this book. The help of these people undoubtedly prevented many factual errors; any that remain are solely my responsibility.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to Susan Burmeister-Brown and Linda Davies of Glimmer Train, for publishing my first short story, thereby setting this book in motion; to Vickie Benson of the Jerome Foundation, and to the Dayton Hudson, General Mills, and Jerome Foundations, for their generous support of the research for this book; to Paulette Bates Alden, for her kind and thoughtful critique; to Susanne Kirk at Scribner, for expert and judicious editing; and to my agent, Sally Wofford-Girand, for making a leap of faith and for her colossal patience through many rough drafts. To the many friends and colleagues who cheered me on, most especially Susan Hamre, Lynda McDonnell, Cheryll Ostrom, Claudia Poser, Liz Weir, Eileen McIsaac, Bonnie Schueler, Pat McMorrow, Jane Fallander, and Jo Coffman, I offer sincere thanks. Finally, for their unflagging support and encouragement, I am most deeply indebted to my remarkable family (especially my mother, for her insightful plot and character analysis) and to my beloved husband, Paddy O’Brien, whose fiercely creative spirit infuses my life with joy and inspiration. Of all those whose contributions I may have neglected, through failure of memory or character, I most humbly beg forgiveness.

This story makes mention of many real institutions and localities in Ireland. And although Drumcleggan Bog, Drumcleggan Priory, Bracklyn House, and the villages of Kilgarvan, County Clare, and Dunbeg, County Galway, are based in part on real locations, and may in fact share the names of places that can be found on a map, they exist nowhere but in my own imagination.

Erin Hart is a Minneapolis theater critic and former administrator at the Minnesota State Arts Board. A lifelong interest in Irish traditional music led her to co-found Minnesota’s Irish Music and Dance Association. A theater major from St. Olaf College, she has an M.A. in English and Creative Writing from the University of Minnesota, Minneapolis. She and her husband, musician Paddy O’Brien, live in Minneapolis and frequently visit Ireland. Haunted Ground is her first novel.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 2003 by Erin Hart

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