The Burial of Diarmuid

This story is by Susan Imbs and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Grainne darted from the shadows to the side of the road, the hood of her deep green cloak hiding her auburn braid and borrowed wedding gown from any spying eyes. Stars blazed overhead without interference on the dark night of the moon. The road markers pointed to Maryboro and Trim, Tullamore and Killdare. Her goal was here, where the ways crossed and a loose mound of dirt betrayed recent disturbance.

She paused, watching, listening, tasting the air. She was terrified of being caught by her husband’s guards and had been extra careful when evading them to make her way here. She registered no sign of any other presence, animal or human. Kneeling beside the fresh grave, her tears caught the starlight as she pulled a small pouch from her belt and spread the contents on the road.

Her dark-handled knife glinted as she drove it in the middle of the mound.

“In the name of Hecate I claim your soul, Diarmuid,” she whispered, glancing around nervously. Drawing the blade out of the earth, she traced a triquetra, the curved triangular knot pattern representing the maiden, mother and crone aspects of the Goddess.

She poured water from a small flask along the drawn lines, water that would have saved his life had she been able to get it to him quickly enough. She prayed:

“Earth now holds you,

Water to refresh.

Air receives you,

May you ever be blessed.”

The ground shifted. A bit of earth rolled down the side of the low mound.

“Holy mother!” she breathed, head swiveling to locate the source of the tremor. The night remained still. Hand trembling, she worked a small piece of bread into the dirt and followed it with a sprinkle of precious salt and a pour of mead.

“Food for the journey, my love. We will one day meet again in the Land of Honey, in Tír na nÓg, where we can live and love forever in peace.”

The ground rumbled again, as if a troop of horsemen rode nearby. Grainne rose, frightened, spinning in all directions. It would mean her death to be found performing the rites for Diramuid. Her new husband Fionn had forbidden even the mention of the name of her dead lover.

She turned back to the grave and settled to her knees, sobbing. “Tis all my fault, beloved. I never should have bespelled you and taken you from your duty and honor.”

Her father, Cormac MacAirt, the High King of Ireland, had given Grainne to Fionn MacCool, the aging war leader of the Fianna, to become his second wife. She had fled in disgust and taken a young soldier named Diarmuid with her, ensorcelling him into believing he loved her. King and betrothed had caught up with the couple yesterday after months on the run.

When surrounded, the warrior had refused to surrender, now truly in love with Grainne. A battle broke out. A boar startled from the forest gored her beloved and she was captured. She had begged her father to heal her lover, and he agreed, if she would fetch a jug of water to wash the wounds.

She had been too late. Diarmuid died before she returned, as the king had known would happen. The pig became the center of her wedding feast. The man was buried in shame at the crossroads.

“May the penalties from our actions fall on me and not on thee. Your heart was ever pure.” She laid her hand on the earth. “Until Tír na nÓg, my love. I will seek you there if you will have me.”

She sheathed her knife and returned the flasks to the pouch. Standing to tie it to her belt, she looked up and nearly screamed in fright. A woman, clothed and cloaked in black, holding a tall, rune-carved staff, stood on the far side of the grave. She had made not a whisper of sound approaching Grainne, seemingly appearing out of starlight and shadow.

The woman threw her hood back. Raven hair poured over her shoulders. Periwinkle eyes held an eerie glow of their own. A nimbus of pale moonlight shone faintly around her, bright in the darkness of the moonless night.

Grainne watched, frozen, as the soft curves of a maiden’s face shifted to the firmer aspect of the mother. The woman slowly bent forward, leaning on her staff, as the deep wrinkles of the crone claimed her appearance, pale eyes piercing and steady.

Terror threatened to regurgitate the food from that night’s wedding feast and spew it over the grave. “I … you …” Grainne’s tongue clumsily fought to force words through a mouth parched by fear. “You …” she tried again.

“Aye. Indeed. Me. Hecate. Ye dared come to the crossroads and invoke my name over the grave of a warrior brought low by thy selfishness? Did ye think there would be no cost to such boldness?”

Piercing eyes pinned the woman in place like a fish on a spear.

Grainne’s knees gave out and she dropped, swaying for balance. “Great Lady,” she whispered, “I meant only to give Diarmuid a proper burial despite the shame of the crossroads. I beg you, take him into your care.” Tears flowed in liquid silver down her cheeks as grief and love poured from the woman’s heart.

When she next dared look up, a pale creature with the aspect of her beloved stood behind Hecate.

“He is mine, ye need not worry. Buried in my crossroads, he could be none other. And ye. What will become of ye?” A cruel smile curled Her lips.

“Daughter of the Tuatha de Danann, ye have ever been a selfish child, always choosing thy desires over duty. Ye mis-used my gift of magic to woo this warrior from his sworn oath. Ye fled the husband intended for ye, causing upheaval throughout the kingdom. Thy choices have consequences.

“The warrior will find his way to the Land of Mead. Ye are no maiden, Diarmuid saw to that. Ye will soon find thyself the mother of Fionn’s get. Many will follow the first, each birth more painful than the last. Ye will live to see them grown and wed. Ye will see grandchildren around thy table.”

The woman’s voice took on an iron edge.

“I curse ye to live two lifetimes – thine own and the warrior’s. Until the last of thy grandchildren have traveled to Tír na nÓg, ye will be trapped here in this life. Ye will live to watch them all die as thy body withers and fades. In this way, ye will pay for destroying Diarmuid’s life with thy selfishness.”

She slammed her staff on the roadbed. The ripples from its impact knocked Grainne to her back and flattened the grave.

When Grainne struggled back to her knees, the night was again perfectly still. She was alone in the dark. She pushed to her feet and fled in terror back to the bright lights and bawdy songs of her wedding feast. Never again was she seen walking through the middle of a crossroad. Never again did she dare invoke the Triple Goddess.

 

 

She took her last breath on a night when the moon was dark. Her body was shriveled and frail, having seen more years than any alive could number. Her great-granddaughter sat at her side, singing soft songs of the world beyond and the legend of Grainne and Diarmuid, never realizing she held the hand of the subject of the story.