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SCOTIA'S GRAVE

Nell Sullivan

         The equinox moon lit the way in silver patches. The dogs forged ahead sniffing the night air, oblivious of their final destination. To our right a stream gurgled along a journey that was once hers. Once upon a time. 
         Deeper into the catacomb of undergrowth we crossed one bridge and then another. The moon buried herself in clouds shrouding the landscape. In the space of a moment our worlds shrank to the crunching of twigs underfoot and distant nocturnal sounds that fuelled our imaginings. 
        "I knew we shouldn't have come in the dark," moaned Rachael whose ghostly petulant face scanned mine for guidance. 
        "It's better in the dark", I mumble as I take the lead. I want to tell her that only the night would release her secrets but the words implode in my mouth as I exhale. 
         Without warning the stream peters out at the foot of the grave, Queen Scotia's resting place. 
        "So this is it," says Rachael as she gazes at the stone slab, "don't tell me we came all the way just to see this?" She sits down on the grave and hugs her knees to herself. I will her to stay silent. 
        According to a 1700 BC legend Scotia, wife of the former Milesius and mother of six sons was killed in battle with the legendry Tuatha De Danaan on the nearby Slieve Mish mountain. Scotia had come to Ireland to avenge the death of her husband, the King who had been wounded in a previous ambush in South Kerry. 
        A single solitary grave from Pagan Ireland. Raw primitive beliefs fed by the purity of imagination. Unfettered by our later allegiance to a dead man on a cross. Bodies buried with ceremony, eyes turned to the sky for consolation and inspiration. Scotia whose valour and courage matched the great godlike De Danaans was laid to rest in a grave fit for a Queen. 
        Daughter of an Egyptian Pharoah, hieroglyphics mark her mound like tomb. We lay on the grave my sister and I and soak up the ancient energy. Nebulous facts make for fiction and ignite our sense of wonder. Was she given gifts for her journey? Food perhaps, flowers, precious metals? Intuited by her primitive soul she would go to the great kingdom in the sky to meet with her beloved. I envy her certainty. 
        The legend of Scotia enlarged by time slowly becomes part of our consciousness. A woman following her inner laws avenging the man she once loved, the precious father of her sons. Sons who in time would avenge her death and fight the De Danaans to become leaders of this Green Isle. She now rests in peace, assured of her lineage, confident of her place in history. 
        At Rachael's instigation we take leave of the sacred site. On the nearby hills, lit by a tapestry of stars I see sheep kneeling, some genuflecting, their silent figures caught in this vortex of ancient energy. Do they perhaps sense the gossamer thin veil between this world and the next and are momentarily transfixed? 
        Back home I am eager to learn more. The name O'Sullivan, my mother's maiden name is allegedly linked to the Milesians. Could it be that I owe this life to Scotia's brave heart and scattered seeds? Or perhaps the Myths that spew up magic are embroidered by later generations and the truth is still waiting out there.