A dark and filthy night. Black as black. Like Evil settled as an inviolable sheath. A foul wind keens. In the darkness of the distance sits a small mound barely-glimpsed from here. A lonely tree bent double on top and aching from the endless torment of its exposure. Nothing is abroad. Nor ever should be. No one walks on a night like this.
But wait. A small figure stands next to the tree. Delicate amid the destruction. Gently lifting a large flat stone with a rusty crowbar. Carefully looping a rope around the waist of another stone. Tying it off. Lowering the other end into a small black hole that leers like a baleful eye in the frightening night. Pulling the rope. Testing the knot.
Inteachán is eleven years old.
She climbs down holes. Retrieving relics. Important things.
Tombs. Graves. Cairns.
Inteachán calls herself Bara Cailín.