Into the Shee: A Voyage to Tir-Na-Nog

By Maura Madigan Kennedy

Written in magic realism, this novel finds Sheila OConor, an Irish American woman experiencing mysterious events at an ancient hillfort in Northern Ireland. A series of coincidences include meeting a small girl within the Shee or faerymound, some faery folk, and a folklore professor who encourages her to accept an invitation to the mythical land of Tir-na-nOg. Overcoming her doubts and fears, she eventually voyages to this magical land and experiences wonders. Then she meets her high school sweetheart and the three companions voyage together to Tir-na-nOg for more wondrous surprises. After a series of "Rememberings", Sheila recalls her childhood and marriage and receives insight into her life. The fascinating setting at Emain Macha or Navan for, home of the mytholigcal Red Branch Kings, inspired the Navan Interpretive Center in Armagh, visited by people form all over the world for its literary and archeological importance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 20, 2002
• ISBN: 9781503591493

Maura Madigan Kennedy

Maura Madigan Kennedy, Religious Studies graduate of Georgian Court College, was president of Theta Alpha Kappa Theological Society. A former high school Religion, prayer group and ESL teacher, she presently teaches at Community Bible Study. A mother of four grown children and grandmother of two, she lives in New Jersey. Research and study in Ireland include: Creative Writing, University College, Galway; Storytelling, All Hallows Seminary, Dublin; Irish History, International Summer School, University College, Dublin; Fiction, Writer’s Week, Listowel; and Irish Culture, Gaelic Culture School, Glencolmcille. She has written booklets, articles, poems, short stories and newsletters, and co-authored a writer’s workbook.

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Copyright © 2002 by Maura Madigan Kennedy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Selections from The Stolen Child and The Hosting of the Shee by W.B. Yeats: Reprinted with the permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., from THE COLLECTED WORKS OF W.B. YEATS, VOLUME 1: POEMS REVISED, edited by Richard J. Finneran, (New York: Scribner, 1997).

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

This book is dedicated to my family, friends, and those who believe there is something more to life than what we see.

I wish to thank Geraldine Horowitz, Joanne Meschery, members of the Jensen Beach, Florida, Writers’ Group and The Night Herons and Advanced Writer’s Workshop, Stuart, Florida, for their help and encouragement with my writing.

Thanks also to Robert Spencer and Susan Griffin for their editing skills, and Eileen Kelly Kean, Rita Murphy, James Mallory, Tommie McCreesh, and Des Cox for inspiring me with their knowledge of Irish history and folklore.

A land of youth, a land of rest,

A land of sorrows free,

It lies far off in the golden West,

On the verge of the azure sea.

A swift canoe of crystal bright

That never met mortal view-

We shall reach the land ere fall of night,

In that strong and swift canoe;

We shall reach the strand

Of that sunny land

From drinks and demons free;

The land of rest,

In the Golden West,

On the verge of the azure sea

From the Irish, Connla of The Golden Hair.

Chapter One

I belong here, thought Sheila O’Connor, standing on an ancient mound in Northern Ireland. Known in folklore as a Shee or faerymound, the small hill had intrigued her since childhood when she had heard its legends. Rays of sunlight from behind a gray cloud streamed onto the lush green landscape below, filling her with awe. Fulfilling a life-long desire to visit the city of Armagh, her mother’s birthplace, she had just walked two miles to the twenty-acre grounds. She had stopped at the gate and read the sign: NAVAN FORT, IRON AGE HILL ENCLOSURE. I’m finally here! she said, not caring if anyone heard her.

Across the car park was a five-foot grass bank, an ancient rampart from the days when Navan Fort was known as Emain Macha, capital of Ulster, one of ancient Ireland’s provinces. Beyond the rampart was a sprawling hill and towering on top, the twenty-foot high faerymound. Below this and to its right was a smaller mound, encircled by the faint outline of a grass ditch. To its left was a larger grassy ditch partially encircling many acres of lawns. Sheila had climbed the bank, stood under an archway formed by the branches of two hazel trees and whispered, You’re beautiful, to the mound in its majestic stillness. Then she had walked across the hill to the top of the faerymound where she was now standing. After enjoying the sunset for a few minutes, Sheila looked around and saw an odd shaped ash tree not far from the ditch. She walked over, spread her jacket under it, sat down and took an old legend book from her backpack. Finally, I can read of Emain Macha at its enchanting setting. I’ll close my eyes for a minute before I read, she thought, resting her head against the tree trunk, the book by her side.

The sound of rustling leaves and harp music woke her, but when she looked up into the tree, it was still. Thinking it was her imagination, Sheila reached for her book. It wasn’t there! Then she saw it a few yards away, near the ditch. Puzzled, she picked up her things and went to retrieve it. Her hand was on the book when she sensed a friendly presence behind her. She grabbed her book, and quickly turned, but saw only the faerymound, trees and lawns of Emain Macha. Bewildered, she shrugged and walked toward the car park. Then she heard someone calling her.

Sheila! Sheila!

She twirled and looked behind her. Then she heard what sounded like a child, call again.

Sheila, please come to me!

Sheila started looking behind the weeds and rocks embedded in the side of the ditch.

I’m in here, Sheila.

Where?

Inside the mound. Push on the rock in front of you.

I must be dreaming, Sheila thought, gingerly placing her hands on a long narrow rock. It felt cold as she pushed it, and her heart raced when the rock moved. Cautiously leaning forward as the outside light entered, she saw a small girl sitting on a flat boulder inside a cave. Who are you? Sheila asked.

I’m Diamor, Sheila. I’ve been waiting for you.

You’ve been waiting for me? Sheila asked. Tales of the faeries came to mind, but this girl was only a little smaller than normal and Sheila had bent only a little to see into the cave.

Come in, come in. Let the door close behind you.

Sheila looked out into the ditch, then turned, peered into the cave and asked, How do you know my name?

I will tell you if you come in.

Sheila’s curiosity was stronger than her fear, so she stepped inside. The door closed. The small cave glowed with a misty green light coming from an oval opening on the other side.

There’s a candle by the opening. Bring it here, Sheila.

Trancelike, Sheila walked across the small dark cave and looked into the window size opening. Through a green mist on the other side, she saw a tall narrow glow of light in the center of a huge space. I must be inside the faerymound, she thought, as she lifted a candle from an earthen shelf beneath the opening. Suddenly, a gentle flame came to life and she saw the cave’s stone walls and dirt floor. Diamor sat on one of two flat boulders. As Sheila moved closer and held the candle near the girl, its flame cast an eerie light on sad eyes and a dirty tear stained face. Strands of limp brown hair hung to her shoulders. She wore a worn tan woolen dress and looked about seven years old.

What’s in there? asked Sheila, looking toward the opening.

That’s the way to Tir-na-nOg, where I long to be. I’ve been waiting for you to come and take me there.

Tir-na-nOg? Sheila asked, her eyes widening. Is there really such a place?

Of course there is, and you’ve been there, Sheila.

What seemed like a second later, Sheila found herself on the faerymound still looking at the sunset. From the position of the sun, she could tell that only a few minutes had gone by. She wondered if she had been hallucinating or dreaming, but didn’t think she had fallen asleep on her feet, even though she was tired from her flight that morning. She turned to walk down the mound and saw her book and neatly folded jacket under the ash tree. She thought it was strange, but was too tired to try to figure it out. She picked up her jacket, put her book in her bag and walked to the ditch. Upon inspection, she found a few rocks beneath the grass and weeds, but none big enough to be a door. It must be fatigue from my trip, she thought. She decided to head back to the city, have supper and retire early.

During the walk to Armagh, Sheila thought about what her mother had told her about the faerymound. Besides showing her pictures and reading stories from the legend book, Mother had told her tales from her own childhood. One was about a secret entrance inside the mound of Emain Macha that led to Tir-na-nOg, a heavenly island located in the sea off the western coast of Ireland. As Sheila walked in the twilight, she recalled the day she had first heard of Tir-na-nOg. It was after a fall from a tree behind her family’s Long Island home.

The Remembering

Oh my God, she’s falling! her brother yelled, as four-year old Sheila plunged headfirst onto the grass.

Her sister screamed and their mother ran out the back door of the house. Oh, my baby, are you all right? cried Mother, as her soft hands examined her youngest child. As a nurse, she knew that except for a bump on the head and a few bruises, Sheila was without serious injury. Four curious neighborhood children and one of their mothers gathered around as fourteen-year-old Tom stood nearby, and nine-year-old Eileen knelt next to Sheila and her mother.

I’m sorry! It was an accident, Mother. We were only showing Sheila our tree house, sobbed Eileen.

You should have known better. It’s a miracle she isn’t dead, answered Mother, as she carried Sheila into the house and put her to bed. After the doctor had come to examine her bump, Mother comforted her by saying, Dad will be home from work soon to see his little girl.

Sheila fell asleep waiting for her father. She woke up a few hours later to see him sitting on the end of her bed, a pile of toys and games next to him.

Are you okay, little one? he asked, looking concerned.

My head hurts, Dad, said Sheila, reaching out to hug her father.

Careful now, he said, holding her lightly. Your head will stop hurting soon, but you’ll have to stay in bed for a few days. Reassured by the energy Sheila exerted investigating her new gifts, her father played checkers with her before he left her to sleep.

For three days, a fuss was made over her and she loved being the center of attention. As punishment, her siblings were confined to their rooms after supper for a week. The second night, on their way upstairs, Tom and Eileen stopped at Sheila’s door. When they saw her in bed, eating from a tray, they made ugly faces and stuck their tongues out. Sheila began to wail as Mother came down the hall.

You two go to your rooms now. I want to read to Sheila, said their mother, coming up behind them and shooing them away. She came into the room, her hands behind her back. I have a surprise for you, little one, she said, as she brought out a dark green book. I want to show you my special book about Ireland, Sheila. I brought it with me when I left home and came across the ocean to America. It was a huge crowded ship and I was only seventeen, alone and frightened. This book kept me company as I sat on my bunk or in a corner of the ship and read it over and over. I kept it all these years so I could read it to my children. Tom and Eileen have heard most of the stories and now it’s your turn, Sheila. After removing the tray, Mother fluffed the pillow behind Sheila and moved her over in the small bed. Sheila was still as her mother sat next to her and showed her the book’s cover. "It’s called Legends of Ancient Ireland," said Mother, as she took Sheila’s finger and traced the faded gold letters on the cover. It’s a magical book. My mother read it to me when I was your age. I loved its pictures and stories about Ireland. Here, let me show you.

As Sheila looked at each picture, she saw herself running through the green meadows and golden fields, hiding in the dark forests, climbing the mountain ranges and swimming in the blue rivers and lakes. She imagined playing with the deer and small animals near the huge stone monuments. She talked to people dressed in animal skins, who fed their cattle near rock walls dividing acres of green fields and she was curious about the thatched roofed roundhouses. Each picture contained a new wonder as Mother quietly turned the pages. Sheila’s finger touched the brooch on a warrior’s multicolored cape. She admired the handsome light colored dresses on maidens with flowing hair. In her mind Sheila heard lilting music from the wooden harp of a bard in a red cape with a intertwined design around its edges. Near the end of the magic book were pictures of priests in colored garments standing by tall, carved stone crosses near small gray stone churches. The last picture was of two monks in brown robes, sitting at wooden desks, writing in a huge book with quills.

I want to show you a special place in County Armagh, near where I was born, said Mother. She turned back to a picture of ten little people dancing around a tree near a mound on a hilly green field. This is Emain Macha, one of the most important places of ancient Ireland. For thousands of years people lived there and it was the home of the Irish hero, Cuchulain, of the Red Branch Knights of Ulster. I walked there many times from my home in Armagh. I loved skipping in and out of the trees that circled the mound. How good it felt when the wind danced through my hair as I ran up and down this faerymound and twirled around on the smaller mound below. I sat under that tree and read legends from this book, she said, pointing to the tree where the little people were dancing.

Sheila leaned closer to the page and pointed to the little people. Who are they?

They’re the faeries, Sheila.

Did you meet them when you played there?

No, but I heard all about them. The faeries would dance around the tree until they were magically inside the mound, known as a Shee, where there’s an entrance to Tir-na-nOg.

Tell me more about the faeries, said Sheila, looking wide-eyed at her mother.

Well, long ago, a magical race called the Tuatha DeDanann arrived on the shores of Ireland. They were tall and fair, had great shining swords, and knew how to make sick people well. The Fir Bolgs and Formonians, who they defeated in battle, saw the Tuatha DeDannon as gods. When these magical people ruled Ireland, they brought peace for a thousand years. Then Celtic warriors from Europe defeated them in a great battle and gave the Tuatha De Dannan the land under the hills of Ireland as their home. Some of this magic race stayed and lived beneath the mounds and are known as The People of the Shee or the faeries. Others returned to their original home in Tir-na-nOg and are known as the Hosts and Gentle People. Entrances to their land are found within faerymounds scattered throughout Ireland, and Emain Macha has one of those mounds.

Where is their land?

Mother turned the page to a picture of a pink and lavender sunset glowing over a small rocky island partially hidden by mist in the sea off the cliffs of Ireland. Listen, she said, reading the words beneath the picture

A land of youth, a land of rest,

A land of sorrows free,

It lies far off in the golden West,

On the verge of the azure sea.

A swift canoe of crystal bright

That never met mortal view-

We shall reach the land ere fall of night,

In that strong and swift canoe;

We shall reach the strand

Of that sunny land

From drinks and demons free;

The land of rest,

In the Golden West,

On the verge of the azure sea

Tir-na-nOg is a heavenly place, Sheila. If you pray to your guardian angel tonight, you might have a special dream about it, said Mother, as she got up, turned the lamp off, and put Sheila’s night light on.

Sheila closed her eyes tightly, clasped her hands and joined her own whispered prayer to the soothing voice of her mother.

Guardian Angel from Heaven so bright,

Watching beside me to lead me aright,

Fold thy wings round me, and guard me with love,

Softly sing songs to me of Heaven above.

Amen.

Sheila didn’t hear her mother leave the room because she had drifted off to sleep.

The Dreaming

Little Sheila, hands clasped and eyes closed, sat inside a warm tunnel. Soft hands gently pulled her and she heard chanting and fluttering sounds. She felt herself leave the tunnel and when she opened her eyes, she saw millions of stars twinkling in a black night. The black turned into a deep blue. She felt strong gentle arms lift her. She was slowly turned toward an arch of gold on a distant horizon. A soft white light appeared beneath the arch sending a narrow beam of light to enfold her. As a flow of energy surged through her body, the gentle arms rocked Sheila and a woman’s voice hummed a lullaby. Looking for the source of comfort, Sheila saw only a fading glow of light. Then everything around her turned into blackness. She was back in the tunnel. All was still.

The sweet memories lingered as Sheila reached the guesthouse on Cathedral Road in Armagh. As she put her key in the lock, she thought that the girl in the cave seemed familiar. Do I know her and could I have possibly been inside the faerymound with her in the past? The thought fled once she was inside the house. The landlady, Mrs. Hogan, had a table set near the fireplace in the dining room. Once the tea and small sandwiches were served, they sat and chatted. Mrs. Hogan told her where things were located in downtown Armagh, a few blocks away. Sheila was tired and when she finished her tea, excused herself and went to her room upstairs. For many years, Sheila had remembered her dreams but she hadn’t had an interesting one in a long time. She prayed for a dream as she lay her head on the pillow for her first night’s sleep in Armagh.

The Dreaming

Sheila walked hand in hand with her mother down a dark road. They came to the edge of a cliff where a valley, the color of emeralds, glowed in the sun. How lovely it is! cried Sheila, as her mother squeezed her hand, looked at Sheila and smiled. As they watched together, a cloud of shimmering green mist rose from a meadow and hovered over the valley. Then the mist slowly faded, revealing the faerymound at Emain Macha.

Chapter Two

Today’s going to be special, thought Sheila, as she opened the guesthouse door and stepped into the morning sun. She walked briskly down Cathedral Road, anticipating her first full day at Emain Macha. At a small bridge, she stopped and watched the Callen River below and listened to the rushing water. As she walked past the modern houses of a residential area, she wondered about the changes in recent years. She knew that the row house in Armagh, that her mother lived in more than seventy years ago, had been torn down and replaced with modern apartments. She turned left and walked past meadows and farms, and as she made the final turn onto the old Navan Road, she wondered what her mother thought about when she walked these same roads as a child. A few feet down the road, Sheila stopped by a large rock splashed with red paint that read IRA. She knew it meant the Irish Republican Army, which was fighting to unite Northern Ireland to the Republic of Ireland in the south. Her mother had told her stories of the problems between Catholics and Protestants here and Sheila had studied about it on her own when she was older. Armagh had centuries of history in the conflict, or The Troubles as it was now known. In the last twenty years, since the arrival of British troops in the six counties, there had been sporadic violence in the ancient city, but none lately. Sheila felt safe and didn’t want to be distracted from the purpose of her visit, which was to get the feel of the ancient grounds of Emain Macha. She leaned against the rock, sipped tea from her thermos cup and watched a mare and its colt in a field across the road. She’d heard of the mystical Ireland and wasn’t surprised she had been distracted by something weird the evening before. What was that all about? she wondered. She thought again about the story she wanted to write, and reassured herself by touching her backpack that contained her thermos, lunch, notebook, a few small mythology books and Legends of Ancient Ireland. As she continued walking toward the grounds past homes, gardens and an apple orchard, she hoped she’d arrive before any tourists. She was not disappointed when she entered the empty car park and the only sound was the hum of a distant lawn mower.

Sheila stood beneath the leafy archway overlooking the lush green of Emain Macha, and whispered, Good Morning! She moved toward the faerymound, feeling as if her feet had wings. Again Sheila felt a sense of belonging as she stood on the mound. She thought of prehistoric tribes that had lived here thousands of years ago, of the Tuatha De Dannan and folklore about faeries still told, of the Celts and the mythological tales of The Red Branch Kings, King Conor MacNessa, the hero Cuchulain, and the sad story of the beautiful Dierdre. She was grateful for her parents’ stories. Her ancestors from County Armagh in the north and County Limerick in the south, had emigrated to America one and two generations ago. Her father had told her of his parents from Limerick and how they knew each other before going to America, then met there again after they sailed separately. The blood of Ireland runs deep in my veins, she thought. The clear day offered a view of miles of sunlit patchwork fields. Sadness swept over her as memories of her mother floated around her mind. The breathtaking landscape reminded Sheila of her dream and she pictured her mother at the piano, singing and playing a favorite Irish song.

There’s one fair county in Ireland,

with memories so glorious and grand,

Where nature has lavished its bounty;

It’s the orchard of Erin’s green land.

I love its cathedrals and cities

once bounded by Patrick so true,

And there in the heart of her bosom

lie the ashes of Brian Boru.

It’s my own Irish

home far across the foam,

Although I’ve often left it

in foreign lands to roam.

No matter where I wander

to cities near or far,

Sure my heart is at home

in old Ireland,

In the county of Armagh!

I love it here, Sheila thought, wiping a tear from her cheek. Then the sound of an engine turned her around to see a van in the car park. Soon a small group of tourists climbed onto the rampart. A man in a tweed suit, carrying a book, walked into the ditch, turned and talked to the people above him. Sheila watched them for a while, then walked to a spot near the people. She heard the man mention Queens University, Belfast, and thought he must be a professor. She enjoyed hearing part of his lecture.

"Legend says that Queen Macha, a warrior ruler of ancient Ireland, gave her name to Emain Macha. Folklore tells of the larger mound as an elfmound or faery hill known as a Shee, an underground home of the Tuatha DeDanaan, an ancient race defeated by the Celts. It is also said that the great palace of the Red Branch Knights of Irish literature was here. Emain Macha was abandoned in the fourth century. Legend says Saint Patrick made Armagh the Christian capital of Ireland in the fifth century because he knew the importance of the near-by pagan site. Emain Macha was renamed Navan Fort sometime after the Plantation of English and Scots in Ulster during seventeenth century. In recent years,