Cuchullain's Castle - Prologue

‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’

We were looking at the chipped and mouldy skullbone of a long dead animal, embedded in the sod, with grass emerging from where its eyes had been.

‘It’s a goat or something. That’s what it looks like.’
‘You think the Hoods got to this one?’ I said.
‘Yeah, right? Satan's gangsta's?’
‘I’m only joking with you.’
‘Haven’t thought about that in a long time. That was back when I was only eight. Nah, they haven’t been around for years. They’re all working at Xerox now.’
‘Ah, well, they’ll probably be out of their jobs soon, so I’m sure they’ll be back at the sacrificial table soon enough.’

She started walking slowly around the castle, looking up at the cracked husk that was its roof. She didn’t have to break her neck looking up at that thing. It was fucking tiny. Not the fearsome citadel you’d expect its distinguished owner to have holed up in. I trailed behind her, but soon got bored of the constant circling and sat down on the grass.

It was so quiet up there at the castle. Not another soul heaving or hurting. Dead silence.

She stopped circling the castle and looked down at me. I got a feeling of unease whenever she was positioned above me and looking down. She certainly wouldn’t join me on the grass. That dress cost a shitload, it did.

I smiled at her.

‘You know, Emer, I don’t know if anyone even cares about the place anymore, seeing as we’re the only ones who ever seem to come here, so I’m declaring this our property by the powers vested. This is our castle. Me and yours.’

She smiled also.

‘No. It isn’t. It’s Cuchullain’s.’

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Reborn as the proprietors of this charmed castle where we emerge dawn to throngs of subjects beating drums loud festive gowns fruit and vegetable gifts from peasants gold and silver from the pheasants and how life is grand for us this month calling our names King and Queen this and that throughout the land of Oriel it be heard and preserved like the moment of this glorious reign hearts full festive and loud is the movement of skies over kingdom of Louth all the time thinking Jesus what the fuck are we like and the sheep couldn’t give a shite could they out there we could see them over the throngs thinking what a cupla dicks have them slaughtered the beasts and feasts were glorious affairs of grand things in minds over and across isles divided by time and when said cried Muck said look a fire overhead flame lighting our sky ruin looked our way could it twin this unity apart of the Lord’s thunder it did swallow in praise folk knelt under bruised heaven on battered earth

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reportedly the work of Da McNamee, a poet from Ireland's Northeast, taken from the inner door of the toilets in Murphy's pub, Dundalk, before it was washed off