A dark and filthy night. Black as black. A howling wind. A small mound in the distance. A lonely tree bent double on top. Nothing is abroad.
No one walks on a night like this.
A small figure stands next to the tree. Gently lifting a large flat stone. Carefully tying a rope. Lowering the other end into a small black hole. Leering like a baleful eye in the frightening dark.
Inteachán tests the knot.
Inteachán is nine years old. She climbs down holes. Retrieving relics. Important things.
Tombs. Graves. Cairns.
Inteachán calls herself Bara Cailín.