Only the Stones Survive: A Novel by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

that would be, Joss?—would overflow the central chamber.”
    I lowered my eyes in embarrassment. As the Dagda knew full well, I had made no effort to learn about numbers.
    He continued. “Three small chambers, mere recesses, open onto this one. Each is furnished with a stone basin; the largest has two. Now”—he moved the torch again—“look closely at the ceilings and walls of the recesses. They are carved with symbols from the language of the builders. The room with two basins is the most elaborate. More carvings can be seen in the central chamber and on the standing stones in the passageway. Amuse yourselves by looking for them, but you will not understand what you find. They take a lifetime to read.”
    He sat back and allowed us to explore for ourselves. His wife busied herself with the tasks women always find to do. Melitt had not given us any of her fruit bread yet, but I had faith that some was in her pack.
    Our sanctuary was indeed a place of wonder. But as the Dagda told us, its secrets were not ours to discover.
    We examined the mysterious carvings and made fanciful guesses about their meanings. I was the first to notice a figure by itself just inside the recess at the rear of the main chamber. Three rounded shapes flowed together into a single design. In the flickering torchlight it might have been a pattern of stars.
    I returned to it again and again. Tracing the fluid curves with my fingers and my eyes.
    “Does the triple spiral speak to you, Joss?” asked the Dagda, stepping up behind me. It was an interesting choice of words.
    Was that another adult thought?
    I turned to face him. “You mentioned the people who built this. Were they like us?”
    For some reason my question amused him. “Life comes in many forms, Joss. The invaders from the south are not quite like you and me, and the same is true of the Fír Bolga and the Iverni and many other tribes. Tall or short, dark or fair, clever or primitive, they are branches from one tree, though each is different.”
    “And the temple builders—were they another branch?”
    The Dagda pretended not to hear me. Instead, he said, “There is another triple spiral carved on the great stone that shields the entrance. You may not have noticed it in the dark last night, although it partially blocks the passage. The triple spiral in here and the one on the Guardian Stone are the only examples of their kind on Ierne. Do you suppose they are symbols from a language that existed Before the Before?”
    He knew the answer before he asked me the question. He always did.
    That morning, that evening, whichever it was, the Dagda presented me with a riddle I resolved to solve if it took a lifetime to do it.
    A more immediate problem was that of keeping five active children occupied while we remained inside the mound.
    Five children. Not six. Five children and me.
    Without being asked to, I undertook to entertain the little ones. I suggested they pretend the stone basins were boats and imagine fishing from them or going on a voyage. The game was fun for a while, but the strongest imagination could not overcome awareness of the stone walls that surrounded us. Or make me forget that word the Dagda had used: “desecration.”
    I kept saying “be careful with that” until my small charges rebelled.
    Piriome demanded to know when we were going home. The little girl repeated the question again and again in her high, silvery voice, until her male cousins exchanged superior glances. Boys do not whine, their expressions said.
    When they grew more tired and bored, even the largest whined.
    We ate, we slept, another day dragged past and then another night. At least I think it was night. Then another day. Melitt and the Dagda discussed practical matters—such as how long the food would last. Once or twice I saw her reach out and press her hand on one of his. A tender gesture that touched me, although it was not about me.
    Nothing here was about me. In the shadows beyond the