Chapter 5 - A Name Better Suited

The rose was a treasure in itself: not only for its realistic beauty but for its rarity and delicate structure. It’s previous owner must have suffered many a night of drunken swabs to earn enough to import it from some fashionable place or other, and now it was to be carefully carried away forever from light so that it might bring light into the eternal darkness. Mr. Cotton was given the charge of it’s protection while they traversed the dark and maddeningly mysterious catacombs of Tory.

Mr. Gibbs, uncharacteristically quiet, was in the lead with their heading. Though he lacked that wonderful compass he did have the benefit of all that wonderful tavern talk which facilitated most of his tales and, in this case, his heading. They passed black bodies of water and deposits of stalagmite as they went along. All was dark and distorted in the small lantern light Gibbs held before them. They had stopped seeing small rodents and lake side fish long ago: all being vacant as they traveled deeper into the descending caverns. This place spoke some what of a hopeless feeling: as if all had died, and there was no one left but their own selves forever treading further into the depths of land not sea.

Finally, after what seemed like days, they came to a clearing in the rock. All were immediately rooted to the spot, sensing forbidding figures all about them. Squinting to see better they realized that these singular figures had been carved from granite into odd shapes of sorts. Each was tall and commanding, almost frightening: real works of art. They gave off an entire story by representing a single unconventional form. This room’s conversational decoration, however, instead of displaying pleasure or beauty expressed only one thing: pain. The theme was intense anguish. To look upon these impressive sculptures, which didn’t literally model any sort of object, one might feel as though he had only just witnessed the ravishings of battle on the innocent. Grimaces covered most of the faces of the party, even with the experiences these men had already lived to callous their sensitivities.

Upon deeper inspection a wooden table was noticed standing in the center of the chamber accompanied by four mismatched chairs, and Marty proved to be the crew member with the fortitude to brave the first step forward. Though he immediately stopped when a startling crushing was heard bellow his feet. He looked down and they were all surprised to see millions of dried blossoms of all different kinds covering the entire ground: years worth of gifts given as payment for wisdom and power. They could see this, not by Gibbs’ light which was insubstantial at best, but by the impressive architecture of the catacomb itself. It, and the chamber they currently stood in, had been cut in such a way that dim residues of daylight streamed their way into these dark depths. It was truly a wonder how such a thing was done: considering they were probably miles beneath ground level; never the less it had been. Barbossa was impressively learned for a Pirate Lord, and he was briefly caught by the thought that whom ever had created this earthy structure had outwitted the ancient Egyptians themselves, who had to use ancient mirrors to catch the light from above in their pyramids.

Suddenly they were startled by a very stoically frightful voice, “What brings you to this place?”

They all turned towards the feminine tones which could only be described as having an elegant Irish accent. When they did so they noticed that there were several archways cut into the rock leading into passageways beyond. The owner of the ominous voice moved slowly away from the archway she had emerged from, making use of an interestingly carved cane which supported the stutter in her walk. Her posture was everlastingly bent as if she had leaned forward to observe something at her feet. Her long dark hair draped around her face shadowing it thoroughly, and she kept her eyes down cast looking always in a general way at them: never meeting any of their eyes. As a result, the habit joined with the shadows made her eyes difficult to see indeed. Not even their color could be definitely determined; only that they had a light shade to them. In contrast with her very dark hair, her skin (like her eyes) was as pale as it could be without lacking color altogether. Barbossa surmised that it must have been due to a continued lack of sunlight. She was very slender and frail looking, in general having a deprived appearance emphasized by her apparel. She wore what looked to have once been white robes. Now, however, they were a colorless shade of tattered rags.

All being too stunned by the strangeness of this woman’s existence, the crew simply stared unblinking at her not really knowing what to say. It was left of course to the two Captains to exchange civilities. Furrowing his brows, Barbossa began, “We heard it told tha’ it be yer custom to offer wisdom if our pay be of value to ye… miss?…”

“Call me a name of your own making,” she said with a grave expression.

Jack piped up, “What say you to Ana-bell! Nice sweet name.” He suggested this bouncily with one of his charming grins and flourishing hand gestures.

Just for an instant she looked up with sharp eyes to see the speaker, and Barbossa saw full into those intense and piercing, yet soft orbs which had lost none of the brilliance of life as had the rest of her. The moment was broken as quickly as it had begun; as if it had not happened, and her eyes were again down cast looking towards them but not at them.

“Nay. ‘Tara’ be a name better suited to ye,” Barbossa commented: refering to the sacred gathering place where Irish royalty once feasted in honor of the mystical power, strength and beauty of Ireland.

With her unchanging expression of gravity, but with slightly less of a suspicious look, ‘Tara’ gestured for them to seat themselves. “Pronounce your aim. What is it you seek?” She asked, not abandoning the ominous tone, as she moved with difficulty to her side of the old table and lowered herself carefully into her seat. Every soul there knew better than to try to aid her: she was far more powerful than any rumor could have implied, and emanated a chilling respect no one chose to test.

Author’s Note: Well what do ye think? I do like this chappy, if I do say so myself. But back to business: I thought you would all like to know that the deal with the architecture admitting daylight even though they were miles bellow ground level is all true. Scientists found tunnels in Ireland with that feature. Some of the best engineers of today took a look at them and could not explain for the life of them how on earth the Celtic ancients of Ireland pulled it off. Heehee… chop on you engineers! Bested by the ancients. Ha! Anywho, thanks for reading.