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

torchlight lurked the unguessable.
    Of my own volition I restricted my meals to only half of what I had eaten in the beginning. I was aware that our food stores were running out.
    The stones began to press in on us. The walls around us drew closer, with all the weight of the earth behind them. The dome above us sank lower. “It drops down in the night when we’re asleep,” fearful little Piriome confided to me.
    The air became chokingly thick with torch smoke. The stench from the passageway where we relieved ourselves was dreadful. When the Dagda went to try to clean it up, I followed him. “What do you think you’re doing, Joss?”
    “I want to help you.”
    “This is no task for a child.”
    “I’m not a child,” I insisted. Without waiting for him to offer, I took some of the bundled sticks and dead leaves he carried. We crouched side by side, scrubbing away the filth and parceling out a little of our water for rinsing. It was an unpleasant task. To distract myself, I said, “Can you tell me any more about the people who built this?”
    For once the Dagda gave me a straight answer, but it was not enlightening. “Only the stones survive,” he said. He dropped his few remaining sticks and straightened up to massage the small of his back. “Now—shall we see if my wife has any fruit bread left?”
    As I followed him up the passageway, my attention was caught by a sound from outside. A distant roar, like the voice of an angry sea. I caught hold of the Dagda’s elbow. “Do you hear that?”
    He turned to face me. Cocked his head for a moment. “The question is, Do you hear something, Joss?”
    “Of course I do. It’s…” I struggled for words. “It’s coming from far away and it’s terrible, like hundreds of voices all screaming at once. What is it?”
    He did not answer. But his shoulders slumped as if receiving a blow.
    When we entered the chamber, I could still hear the roaring, even through the embrace of the earth. No one else appeared to hear anything unusual. Neither the Dagda nor I mentioned it again. Gradually the sound faded away.
    That night everyone was restless. To lull the little ones to sleep, Melitt sang the songs of a gentler time. Listening to them, I tried to hear my mother’s voice.
    The Dagda made several trips down the passageway and returned without saying anything. At last, he lay down and took his wife in his arms. I presume they slept.
    A cry of alarm roused me from a troubled sleep. I pulled my blanket around me and ran into the passage. In the dark I collided with one of the standing stones and bumped my forehead very hard but felt no pain until days later.
    The entrance to the passageway was shielded by the boulder the Dagda had referred to as the Guardian Stone. For all its size and bulk, it was not sufficient to protect my bare legs from a chill wind blowing up from the river.
    I stepped outside with no idea what to expect.
    The stars were dimming with the promise of dawn. The Dagda was holding a torch aloft. By its light I saw my father coming up the slope toward us, carrying a large bundle in his arms. Mongan staggered as he walked; his unsteady feet slipped on the grass. The old man hurried to help him, but Mongan warned him away. “Mine,” said my father in a shredded voice. At first I thought he was carrying a bundle of robes with the sleeves hanging down. Then I saw her white hands. And a familiar bracelet on one slim wrist. The middle of the bundle was soaked with blood.
    Mongan stopped in front of me, breathing like an ox that had been ploughing stony ground. His reddened eyes burned into mine. With a trembling hand, he uncovered her face long enough for me to see it. “Remember,” he commanded.
    The word sank into my flesh and crystallized in my bones like an early frost.

ELEVEN
    “O NLY THE STONES SURVIVE” was one of the many sayings the Túatha Dé Danann passed on to their children. The words hid a deeper truth. Staring down at my mother’s dead face