The Rock

 

The full moon in a cloudless summer sky picked out the ruins of the Chapel, creating the illusion that the white stonework was glistening with an inner fire. In stark contrast, the shadows cast by the remaining walls and the trees along the banks of Loch Cé seemed to take on a preternatural intensity, blacker than black. Nature's colourings, which would have been evident in daylight, were reduced to a chiaroscuro of light and shadow.
Phil checked the aperture settings on his camera to ensure the best possible images on the next roll of film. Satisfied, he set the automatic timer to thirty minute interval shots. He waited for the first click to confirm that the timer had been activated, then unrolled a sleeping bag. He stretched his lanky frame to unravel the kinks of a period of inactivity and crawled into it, falling almost immediately into a deep, natural sleep.
The sun broke free of the treetops: its rays bounced off the placid surface of the lake. From the static tripod he removed the camera which contained special high-resolution night film and replaced it with a wide-angle Pentax loaded with standard ‘daylight' film. Flicking open his notepad, he confirmed what he already knew to be the case. A series of photographs taken in early morning light and shadow conditions were all he needed to have a complete a record: or as complete a record as he thought would be necessary.
He'd followed a long but fairly straightforward trail from his home in Liverpool to his current location in Co. Roscommon, tracing his family history.
Nobody would have called Phil overbearing or arrogant as a result of it, but there was no doubt about it: he was one of the best photographers around, and he knew it. If anyone could make a thorough and professional job of recording on film every aspect of the Chapel on Loch Cé, it was Phil McDermott.
The name certainly helped, he reflected. Although this was his first visit to Ireland, he had always known that his family had its origins in Co. Roscommon, and could trace its roots back to Cormac an Macdairmada, Prince of Coolavin and High King of Tara. So far, the local people he had spoken to about his research had been very helpful, and
particularly so when he introduced himself by name. There was no doubt about it. His family name commanded more than mere respect: it was almost venerated. Everybody had been almost embarrassingly helpful during the two days he had stayed at Michael Ashe's pub (the only guest rooms available in the village, which was not on any major tourist itinerary).

As a successful freelancer who could more or less write his own pay cheques and decide when (and sometimes even if) he wanted to work, he had a degree of freedom of choice which was not possible for many others.
He had asked the innkeeper on his arrival if it would be possible to book two rooms. He was travelling alone, and this brought a raised eyebrow from Michael Ashe until Phil explained that he was going to be doing his own developing of photographs and needed the extra room to use as his darkroom.
"But I'll do my own cleaning in the room: it would be a pity if someone opened the door at the wrong time!" he explained, and this was quickly agreed. The extra room rental was more than welcome, especially considering the fact that the room would never be left untidy or need cleaning.
In the course of the next hour or so he ran off four full rolls of film using a variety of filters, apertures and shutter speeds to capture as many different aspects of light and shadow as he could. When he was satisfied that he had sufficient material to work with, he started to dismantle his equipment, packing it into a long carry-all pouch he had bought from a sports shop. It had been designed with professional tennis players in mind, but he found it ideal for his own requirements. He let his mind freewheel as he performed the routine tasks of packing, something he had done so many times over the years that it had become almost entirely automatic.
At the very edge of his field of vision, he was certain he had detected a sudden flash of movement, something in the bushes along the edges of the island. Immediately, he
refocused his gaze on the spot where he thought he had seen the disturbances. At the same time (and almost as a reflex action) his finger depressed and held the button of the camera he was still holding, trusting that he had followed his professional habit and reloaded when he took the exposed roll out. The movement was not repeated, and there was no obvious clamour or other cry from any bird or other wild animal to indicate alarm. After a minute or so Phil discovered that he had been holding his breath in order to listen more intently: feeling slightly foolish, he filled his lungs with fresh air and completed his packing away.
A five minute stroll through the woods brought him to a tarmacadammed minor road. Not surprisingly, it was at that moment empty in both directions but he turned right, heading north, knowing that once he reached the slight bend in the road ahead of him he would be able to see the inn. In no particular hurry, he speculated as he went along on what his latest crop of photographs might reveal which would prove useful to his research.

When he arrived at the inn - which rejoiced in the imaginative name "Michael Ashe's Inn" - it was immediately obvious that any decisions regarding his latest crop of photographs would be shelved for as long as it might take him to dispose of the "Full Irish Breakfast" which was waiting for him.
"How did you know what time I'd be back from the lake?" he asked, puzzled.
"Sure, there's not much moves or breathes around here that doesn't get noticed by someone or other!" responded Michael, enigmatically. Phil took this at face value. It wouldn't have surprised him if someone from the village had been out in the woods with shotgun or snare, looking for something for the pot. The night sleeping under the stars had given him a healthy appetite, and he was more than ready to do full justice to Michael Ashe's idea of "a decent breakfast".
Michael sat at table with Phil, eating a modest breakfast himself and drinking from a teacup of impressive proportions, which he refilled several times.
"What sort of pictures might you be getting through the night? And did you get any sleep at all?"
Phil smiled.
"I don't know yet what the pictures will be like. I set up an automatic timer, which lets me sleep: I'll know how useful or otherwise they might be once I've developed them."
"Ah! So by doing it yourself you don't have to wait for someone else ... "
Diplomatically, Phil nodded agreement rather than voice his instinctive distrust of the idea of relying on the services of another developer. In his early days, before gaining the experience which had made his reputation, he had had a number of angry encounters with photographic workshops whose work fell well short of what he considered acceptable.
"Michael, thanks for a terrific breakfast! I'll go and get this latest lot of photographs started - with any luck, I should have everything I need now .... "
*****
Setting the night films in chronological order to begin the developing process, Phil took first proofs of the previous day's films out of the darkroom to scrutinise them in daylight.
He had arranged to be ferried out to The Rock - the name which people locally used for the island - and had taken a large number of photographs of the castle remains from every conceivable angle. He also had a selection of shots of the north face of the chapel which was not visible from the bank where he had spent the night. He was particularly pleased to see that the shot he had taken of the intertwined rose bushes around the chapel door had turned out exactly as he had envisaged.

He had been assured that the island had been uninhabited for many years, and the castle remains were completely overgrown. The rose bushes, however, were perfectly formed and shaped. The ground in the vicinity of the chapel door was also surprisingly clear: it was almost as if the bushes had been lovingly pruned and tended, and their immediate environs kept weed-free.
A timer chimed softly, and he laid the proofs aside for later inspection, returning to the temporary darkroom he had set up in the adjacent bedroom.
The first film comprised twenty-four shots taken at three-minute intervals from just before midnight to approximately one a.m. The night had remained clear, and the contrast between the pale, lustrous stone and the deep, impenetrable shadows was dramatic.
Suddenly, Phil's attention was drawn to the third frame on the strip: the time of the shot, 00:24, was printed in the upper corner.
There appeared to be an unexplained smudge or flaw on the celluloid, a white blur in an area of the photograph which was composed entirely of shadow. Checking angles, he  immediately ruled out any reflection from the moon. Could it be a roosting fowl? Hardly likely; it didn't appear in the photographs taken before it or after it. Rummaging in his bag of tools, he pulled out a powerful magnifying glass and a polishing cloth.
The magnification revealed ... something, but what?  It appeared to have definite lines, a regular shape of some sort: this would rule out a chance piece of debris or flotsam. On an impulse he took down the strip from the drying frame and set the central portion of frame three up for greatest possible enlargement without distortion.
While he waited, he glanced through the remaining strips o the drying frame. There was no recurrence of the blemish, and he wondered briefly if he might possibly be mistaken.
There was, however, an ‘extra' frame on the final strip: twenty-five photographs in total. This wasn't the first time he'd had a film with a buckshee frame on it, but as a pro he'd learnt  long ago that it was almost always a waste of time hoping for anything worthwhile out of the frame. On the other hand .....
The time in the upper corner of the frame was recorded as 01:12. Most unusually, the negative image on the frame was almost complete and of surprisingly good quality. The only area of the frame which had not ‘taken' was the lower edge or foreground of the shot.

The shot was centred on the Chapel's door arch, and the entwined rose bushes around it.
These were clear and well defined.
Equally clear and well-defined were the couple kneeling either side of the door. On the left, a young man in hose, and a short blouse or coverlet. Facing him a female figure, bareheaded, in a long dress. Both had hands raised in the traditional attitude of prayer.
Stunned, Phil stepped back for a moment, then bent to look again. There was no mistake on his part. His eyes were not deceiving him - but where had the image come from? What possible rational explanation could there be?
His hands shook ever so slightly as he took the strip of film and transferred it immediately to the final Print processing. He set it to make a dozen copies of the relevant frame and sat back to wait.
Back in the room he had hired to sleep in, sat at the table, he studied the finished prints. He had expanded frames both to B5 and A4 sizes as well as the standard size, in the hope of gleaning further clues. The details were easier to see, but that was as far as it went. There was, quite simply, no way the kneeling figures could possibly be explained.
He sighed, and gathered together all the prints before him into a tidy stack.
"When all else fails .... ask someone!" he thought, and headed off downstairs to find Michael Ashe, whom he assumed would at this time of day be found behind the bar.
Predictably, Michael was holding court in the bar with a number of faces Phil recognised: it was only a small village, after all, and he supposed that the same faces would be present in the pub most days, as it was the focal point of village life.
As he entered the bar, Phil wafted the sheaf of photo prints. Michael raised a quizzical eyebrow and quickly cleared a space on the bar, wiping it scrupulously dry.
In silence, Phil dealt out two sets of prints: enlargements of the detail he had taken from the early frame, and  a full set of A4 prints showing the unexpected ‘bonus' image captured at the end of the roll.
"What d'you make of these?"
Prints flew back and forth across the bar, from one hand to another. Apart from an occasional hiss, or a few mumbled words in a language Phil assumed to be Gaelic, not a great deal was said. Silence settled over the bar. Nobody present seemed willing to make the first comment.

Michael was first to stir.
"Somebody get Hugh O'Gara."
He turned to address Phil: from the corner of his eye Phil was aware of the front door opening and closing.
"Hugh is the oldest resident in the village" he explained. " and he's probably forgotten more about the history of the  region - and its legends - than the rest of us have ever managed to learn. What you seem to have here is ..... no, we'll wait for Hugh: I haven't his way with words!"
Within seconds, the Oldest Inhabitant arrived, propelled through the door in a wheelchair by the young man who had been dispatched to alert him.
Phil had not met Hugh in the short time he had so far been I the village, and Michael therefore introduced him formally.
"You're an McDermott, then" observed Hugh, nodding. "How close are you?"
Phil hesitated, momentarily uncertain of what Hugh was asking him: then, suddenly, he realised he was being quizzed about his family research.
"My grandfather, Tomąs, left at the time of the Famine, and moved to Liverpool for work....." he began.
"He had a large number of younger brothers, if he was the Tomąs my grandfather knew!"
Phil's jaw dropped.
"How did you guess ....... ?"
Hugh snorted.
"No guesswork at all, young man! Tomąs McDermott and his brothers, along with a handful of cousins, were well-known all over Moylurg as a fearsome Rugby team. They were rarely beaten, according to my granddaddy!"
"And your ... granddaddy was ....?"
"He was Head Groom, and groundsman at the Castle until the time it was destroyed by a stray bomb ditched by a crippled Stuka during World War II. He stayed behind, tending
the grounds after Tomąs and his brothers had gone: there was no other work for him, and at least he could feed his family from what was left of the estate."
Phil made a mental note to himself that an in-depth interview with Hugh O'Gara would have to be high on his list of priorities with regards to his family researches: he was as certain as he could be that there was a lead here to an ancestor he had traced by name.

For the moment, however, there were more pressing matters to clarify.
"Hugh, I'd be grateful if you can tell me what you think of this photograph. Michael here told me you were the best person to ask: he thinks your knowledge of local history would be a great help."
He pushed over the print of the frame showing the kneeling couple.
Hugh sipped at the glass of Jameson's which had miraculously appeared at his side.
"Well, well!"
Hugh looked from the print to Phil, and back again.
"Would that be a time and date in the corner, then?"
There was evidently nothing wrong with Hugh's eyesight. Phil nodded confirmation.
" .... and after all this time."
Hugh seemed to be thinking aloud: it was as if he was unaware he had spoken these words as he gave the photograph his undivided attention. Stirring himself, he turned his gaze once more to Phil.
"You've obviously done a deal of digging in your research to get this far. Tell me this: as far as you  know, how close are you to an Macdairmada: Chieftain of the Clan?"
Once again, Phil was almost caught unprepared by the seeming side-step in Hugh's questioning. This time, however, he could answer with more confidence. His research had been thorough, and seemed straightforward.
"I'm the oldest of my generation: all my cousins are younger than me, and I've no siblings myself. To the best of my knowledge I'm directly descended from Tomąs "
Hugh laughed, and raised his glass.
"If I could stand, I'd be proud to greet an Macdairmada properly. Slainté!"
As one, the other men in the bar rose and toasted Phil.
"Slainté!" they repeated. The next minute or two were devoted to a flurry of formal and sincere handshakes. Everyone appeared to accept Hugh's observation as infallible, and Phil felt somewhat embarrassed but at the same time inordinately pleased.
"Sure, there's neither title nor deed of land nor any cash in it, but I believe you'll find you've also call on the title ‘Prince of Coolavin', should you ever wish to pursue it!" Hugh added as glasses were refilled and conversation returned to the matters in hand.
"Coolavin? And - what was the other name you mentioned - Moylurg? They're names I haven't come across so far." Phil said, by way of resuming the discussion.

Hugh took a pull at his Guinness, and explained:
"Moylurg and Coolavin are ancient names and titles, predating written records, and are referred to in the oldest writings we have, the Book of Kells - you'll have come across references to that, at least?"
Phil nodded, not wishing to break Hugh's steady flow of thoughts.
This fair County of Roscommon, now, is a part of the High Kingdom of Tara, the largest of the Seven Kingdoms of Eire. He who could claim to be High King of Tara was effectively also King of all Ireland, and a number of the McDermott clan Chieftains have had that honour."
"One such was Cormac, also known as McDermott Roe because of his flame-red hair.
It is said that he also had the short temper which is supposed to go with the colouring!"
Cormac had a daughter, Una Bhan. She was renowned for her beauty, and had long, luxurious blonde hair which reached as far as her knees."
"Many would-be suitors paid her court, but Cormac could not accept any of them as worthy of his daughter's hand in marriage.
"In particular one of his close neighbours, Tomąs Laidķr Costello, was a sincere, handsome and affluent young man who truly worshipped Una Bhan: yet even he was judged by Cormac to be unworthy."
"Una Bhan returned Tomąs' affections, but Cormac banished him from the estate, refusing him permission even to visit, and had Una Bhan locked up on The Rock.
She fell into a deep melancholy, and was dying of grief. Tomąs heard of this, and attempted to visit, but was turned away.
"Before he left, he vowed that if he did not hear from McDermott before crossing the river at the ford which separated their estates, he would never return again. McDermott repented, and sent word: but the word did not reach Tomąs until after he had crossed the river. Being a man of honour, he could not break his word, and therefore did not return. Una Bhan soon died of a broken heart."
"After her death, Tomąs swam out to keep vigil at her grave every night, and eventually caught pneumonia. On his deathbed, he begged McDermott to bury him alongside Una Bhan, and his request was granted."
"From the graves of the two lovers, rose trees sprang and intertwined: tradition says that they may still be seen today."

A respectful silence marked the conclusion of the tale. Phil shook himself, as a man waking from a long, satisfying, pleasant dream.
"You think it possible that this print shows Tomąs and Una Bhan, kneeling at the Chapel doors?"
"I do: but for a totally other reason."
Moira suddenly appeared at the kitchen door to do a head count for lunch: home made sausage served with colcannon. Nobody refused and Moira withdrew, returning almost immediately with plates and cutlery. Phil used the brief interlude to ensure that all glasses were topped up. One or two decided to stand outside the door and light up their pipes while they waited for lunch to arrive: recent legislation had declared that all pubs in Ireland where food was served were to become non-smoking buildings.
Phil found himself temporarily alone with Hugh O'Gara, and took the opportunity to thank him more fully for his help.
"We O'Garas have always been in service to the Chieftain: since my legs won't let me do more than retell old stories these days, I'm glad that my memories may prove to be useful!"
"But, you know, there's a part of the tale of Tomąs and Una Bhan which isn't known outside this local area ..... "
"Shouldn't we wait for the others .... ?"
"Ach, and they know this part of the story as well as I do! But you won't have heard it - or read it on your famous 'Net, either, I've no doubt, it being a local variation!"
"By ancient Irish custom, any couple who pledged themselves to each other at the Chapel doors were considered "hand-fast" - or ‘engaged', if you like. Bear in mind, however, that at the time we're talking about such things as an engagement ring or other token was unknown. Rings were only exchanged at the matrimonial service itself."
Locally the tale is told that Tomąs and Una Bhan dared to defy her father and pledged themselves in this manner one night at the Chapel doors. They never lived together as man and wife, but they had the consolation of considering themselves betrothed during the last few months of their lives."
"That still doesn't explain last night's picture ... or pictures!" stressed Phil. The earlier photograph in the sequence had aroused little comment as yet, but Phil now placed it before Hugh and offered him his most powerful magnifying glass.

"Just look at that more closely, please!"
With the improved magnification of detail, the white object in deep shadow resolved into the head of somebody swimming. Hugh paled, and all but dropped the glass.
"When I set up the camera last night, I knew nothing of this story: and the camera was set on a timer, so the photographs were taken with no input whatsoever from me!"
At this point, the smokers returned: seeing Hugh's reaction to the photograph they crossed the room swiftly, surrounding him protectively. A swift flurry of Gaelic passed between them: Phil assumed they were making sure that Hugh had not been taken ill.
"Hugh wants us all to go down to the lake side, now."
The wheelchair was already being negotiated out of the door. Phil nodded, and followed: in truth, he had little choice.
A rowboat was already waiting when they arrived at the lake, presumably in response to a request from Hugh and relayed by a younger pair of legs. Apart from the oarsman there looked to be room for three passengers.
Unable to make the short journey himself, Hugh briefly held court at the water's edge, then addressed Phil directly.
"You should look for any signs of someone being on the island last night: prints, footmarks and the like - though I don't expect you'll find any!"
"And assuming we find nothing? How will that help you to explain ....?"
Hugh leaned back in his chair.
"If this photograph is evidence of a pair of ‘unquiet spirits' there's one logical course of action - but  we'll speak of that after you've been to The Rock and seen ..... what you might see." he concluded, cryptically.
Hugh would not be drawn on the details of what he had in mind. There was no option but to make the short boat journey to the island  - Phil judged it to be less than 100 metres -and scrutinise the area immediately below the intertwined climbing roses which surrounded the doorposts. Michael Ashe and Hugh's grandson Damien were nodded into the empty berths to accompany Phil.
Phil was very conscious of the fact that there was no trace of weeds or other vegetation around the Chapel entrance. It was as if the area had been swept and meticulously tended by a gardener: but there was no evidence of any human presence anywhere on the island, and certainly no signs of anyone either standing or kneeling in the vicinity of the chapel as recently as the previous night.

Neither Michael nor Damien appeared surprised by this: it was evidently what they had expected to find. During their silent return to where Hugh waited for them on the bank of the lake, Phil had time to reflect on the fact that both his companions and also Hugh O'Gara had expected this to be the likely outcome, as if the lack of evidence was some sort of  ... what? ... confirmation of what they suspected?
Damien appointed himself spokesman and reported their findings - or, more exactly, lack of findings - to his grandfather. Hugh nodded, evidently not surprised.
"Thank you, Damien. I thought as much, and I'd be obliged if you'll run off and fetch Father David. Tell him it's unfinished business he'll have to attend."
Damien left immediately, and Hugh turned to Phil.
"I told you a local variation of the tale of Tomąs Laidķr and Una Bhan back in Michael Ashe's pub." he began. Phil nodded, unsure where this was leading.
"The fact o' the matter is" Hugh continued "They never managed to persuade a priest to witness their ‘handfast' agreement, which would have given it an official status."
"It's my belief that Tomąs Laidķr and Una Bhan will rest easy if I ask our local priest, Father David Costello, to perform a ... a rite of what you might call either blessing or exorcism at the Chapel doors."
"Completing the ceremony they themselves would have wished!" Phil added, completing the sentence Hugh had apparently left hanging. He was still thinking about the beauty and simplicity of this solution when a young man in soutane and stole raced up to them on a bicycle, all but falling off it in his haste to dismount.
Hugh spoke to him briefly in Gaelic: from the nods and gestures in the direction of The Rock, Phil assumed that the priest was being told the relevant details of the legend. Phil was slightly surprised, however, at the unquestioning manner in which the priest seemed to accept a story which was surely as much local superstition as proven historical fact. In any event, Fr. David nodded, and went to take his place in the waiting ferryboat.
The ceremony was brief, and although the words used were spoken too softly for Phil to hear them, he could see the blessings and Signs of the Cross which the priest performed in the two or three minutes he spent on the island.
Hugh thanked Fr. David, promising a generous extra donation on the collection plate for his troubles. Phil offered to help the ferryman carry his rowboat back to wherever it was normally stored, but was told this wasn't necessary.

He contented himself, therefore, with pushing Hugh's wheelchair back to the pub.
"The circle is now, so to speak, closed," observed Hugh when they were alone on the fairly short forest path leading back to the village. "Father David can trace his family line directly back through the years to Tomąs Laidķr: or, to give him his full title, Tomąs Laidķr Costello. It seems fitting, somehow, that this sad story be brought to a less tragic conclusion by a priest with some family connection ..... "
*****
That night was as clear and cloud free as the previous one. The moon was now at its fullest, and the Chapel on Loch Cé was a scene of peace and tranquillity. Midnight approached, but this evening there were no witnesses to the tryst at the Chapel doors.
"Una Bhan, my love! Come, come to me!"
"Tomąs! Can it really be true? Are we truly free?"
"The priest's blessing was all we pleaded for, all we have wanted for so many years ..."
"And my father ...?"
"Would he defy the blessing of the Church? I think not!"

 

Back at Michael Ashe's pub, Phil read again the item he had found from surfing his favourite search engine on the Internet. There were several pages, but he opted to highlight and save the kernel of the tale for future reference: after all, he had taken the holiday first and foremost to research family history, and this was undoubtedly going to prove invaluable:
"Castle Island is referred to in some records as The Rock, also as Macdermott's Isle. At the southern tip of the island, which is very close to the shoreline of Loch Cé, the remains of a Chapel can be seen. According to legend, the chapel entrance is surrounded by the branches of two intertwined rose bushes which are supposed to spring from the graves of the Clan Chieftain's daughter, Una Bhan, and her suitor Tomąs Laidir, who were refused permission to marry."

 

                                [  Extract taken from the Clan McDermott website ]