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Her response is a cryptic smile as she squeezes my hand. "I’m not one hundred percent sure how it will work out yet, but I’ll keep you updated."
Now, our hands are linked again, our arms swinging in unison as we navigate the path. The connection feels grounding, a silent affirmation of our shared journey. I don’t press further. The landscape around us is a mix of shadow and soft light, the ancient stones of Newgrange casting long, solemn shadows that feel like they stretch back through millennia.
The early December day had been unusually warm, a brief respite that felt almost like a tease when the night brought with it a sharp, biting cold front. Temperatures plummeted, transforming the day’s leftover dew into a crisp layer of frost that crunches underfoot as we make our way through the field. The stark chill seeps through my boots, numbing my toes.
Above, the stars blaze with an intensity that illuminates the landscape in a celestial glow, allowing me to just discern the lazy meander of the River Boyne beside us. Ahead, the ancient silhouette of Newgrange rises, a stark outline against the dark sky. We approach from the back, the front hidden from view, but a mysterious glow hints at activity on the other side of the tomb, its source unseen but deeply felt.
The air here is charged, almost electric, as if the very night itself whispers secrets of ages past. The countless stars, eternal witnesses, seem to watch us with silent, knowing glances, their twinkling almost conspiratorial.
As we reach the circle of large stones that encircle the site, the supernatural feeling intensifies. Each monolith is carved with symbols—spirals that seem to dance in the moonlight, diamonds that catch the frost, turning them into glistening jewels in the night. The frost adds a delicate sheen, making the carvings stand out starkly against the rough texture of the stones. I can't resist; I extend my hand, tracing the cold, intricate swirls, feeling the pulse of history under my fingertips.
These symbols, debated endlessly by historians, speak of an ancient wisdom, perhaps a purpose long forgotten. What did this place mean to those who built it? A temple? A tomb? A calendar? The stones hold their secrets tightly.
As we circle to the front, guided by Diarmuid’s confident step and Niamh's quiet awe, the outer facade of Newgrange comes into view, bathed in the otherworldly glow from the other side. The photo in my file doesn't do justice to the imposing beauty of these age-old stones under the cloak of night. The tomb's grandeur is humbling, its presence a heavy weight in the silent night.
Lorcan's words at the Harvest Moon ceremony echo in my mind. The Hands of Kings has been in existence since Mesopotamia. A civilization dating back to 10,000 BC, where no written evidence could have survived to tell us of their secret societies, their covert practices. Yet here I am, touching a relic just as enigmatic, just as ancient, wondering if those reaching out from the past had grasped the same truths we seek today.
What did they know? What whispers lay hidden in the stone and frost? These questions swirl through my mind as my fingers glide over the cold patterns, each one a potential key to unlocking the enigmas of the past.
As I trace my fingers along the cool, smooth surface of the tomb, a stark realization dawns on me—I feel utterly small against the backdrop of such monumental history. This place, with its profound connections to a past so grand and mysterious, seems so far beyond the simple life I was raised for, meant only to be a wife, not a seeker of hidden truths.
Lifting my gaze, I find Diarmuid watching me. His expression is intense, as if he is trying to decipher my thoughts. In his eyes, there's a recognition of something more, an acknowledgment of the person I am beneath the surface.
Near the front of the tomb, under the shadowy glow, stands a nervous-looking man. His figure is silhouetted against the light, barely revealing the famous entrance stone, its presence a silent testament to the ages. I must remind myself to temper my excitement; I am here as an investigator, not as a tourist enamored by the allure of history.
"Have all the arrangements been made?" Diarmuid's voice breaks the tension, directed at the man who looks like he wishes he were anywhere but here.
"Yes," the man replies, his voice barely a whisper. "I've called off the security guards who usually patrol at night." His eyes dart nervously toward the equipment Diarmuid has brought, the implication of our intentions weighing heavily on him.
Without wasting another moment, he leads us through the light bathing the entrance, into the heart of the tomb. The interior is illuminated by strategically placed artificial lights, designed to be invisible from the outside, casting eerie shadows on the ancient walls. As we step inside, the air shifts, cooler and somehow more alive with whispered secrets of millennia. My breath catches in my throat, the weight of what we might discover pressing down on me with exhilarating fear.
The familiar coolness of the stone, the earthy scent of the soil mixed with ancient dust, and the peculiar acoustics that amplify our every whisper remind me of my girlhood explorations, me an ignorant yet fascinated child.
Now, with knowledge as my guide, the enormity of the tomb's history wraps around me, stirring a blend of reverence and excitement. This isn't just a return; it's a journey to unearth secrets that have whispered through these stones for centuries.
I'm brought back to the present by Diarmuid's gesture, a nod that thrusts me into a role I hadn't anticipated tonight. With everyone’s eyes on me, I assume the mantle of leadership, feeling a surge of responsibility as I instruct our guide. "Take us to the tunnel discovered by O’Kelly."
The guide stops, turns; his face is a mix of surprise and caution. "The tunnel doesn’t exist."
My response is immediate, my voice firm with the weight of research. "In 1893, Captain Henry Keogh reported the existence of a tunnel on the immediate right upon entrance to the tomb. O’Kelly felt that the tunnel might be connected to an older mound that was made here before Newgrange."
There's a moment of tense silence before the guide replies, "That tunnel is narrow and dangerous. It is also blocked."
A flicker of frustration crosses Diarmuid's face, mirrored by a sense of urgency in Niamh’s eyes. I step closer to the guide, lowering my voice to a persuasive whisper. "We've come a long way based on solid research. There's history here that hasn't been fully explored, and we believe it's crucial. Can you help us access it?"
The guide looks between us, the weight of our determination pressing against his concerns. He hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "I can take you to where the entrance is, but we've sealed it for safety. You can see it, but going through it isn’t possible without proper clearance and preparation."
"Show me," I say, a note of determination cutting through the uncertainty that ripples beneath my words. Nerves bubble in my stomach, a turbulent mix of excitement and fear. If I'm wrong about this, I'll not only embarrass myself in front of this reluctant guide but also in front of Diarmuid. When we first met, his opinion barely mattered to me, but now, things have changed significantly. He cares about me, genuinely, and I find myself caring about his thoughts and feelings in return. Love, I realize, is both a blessing and a burden.
The guide leads us to a pillar just to the right of the exit. Diarmuid, sensing the shift in momentum, drops his bag and quickly distributes flashlights among us before picking it back up. Behind the pillar, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it, is a narrow opening—a tunnel that disappears into the darkness at a sharp angle.
It’s daunting, smaller than the main passage, requiring us to move sideways to navigate through it. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the cramped, claustrophobic journey ahead.
I thank the man with a nod.
“Keep watch outside, ensuring no one comes to interrupt our exploration.” Diarmuid, ever vigilant, instructs the man. It feels like there is a moment of uncertainty in the man's posture before he dips his head in response and leaves.
We watch the man leave, and once he is out of sight, Diarmuid speaks. "That could lead to nowhere." His voice is tinged with concern as he eyes the narrow entrance.
