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an off-hand way.
    Nuala shot him a suspicious look.
    ‘Good. Well, off you go, you two,’ said Mara hurriedly. ‘I’ll stay here with the body. Malachy, would you be kind enough to go over to Kilcorney Church? Ask Father O’Byrne if we may bring Iarla over to lie in the church.’
    In a moment, all three had gone and she was left alone with the body. A solitary raven flew back and perched overhead, but she ignored it. It would not attack while a living person was present. She bent down and examined the eye injury. She was inclined to think that Nuala was right. There was not a lot of blood; nevertheless, the eye was completely destroyed. Like the god Balor, Iarla was now one-eyed.
    There would be a certain amount of superstitious awe about this death, she thought. Balor was an ancient Celtic god, notable for his one eye, who could kill anyone it looked upon. He lost his second eye as a child when watching his father’s druid preparing poisonous spells, the fumes of which rose into one of his eyes, but as he grew the remaining one took on strange powers. His eye was normally kept closed; it could only be opened on the battlefield by four men using a handle fitted to his eyelid. It was prophesied that he would be killed by his own grandson so he imprisoned his only daughter in a crystal tower. However, her lover climbed in, released her and she gave birth to triplets. When Balor heard of this he ordered the triplets be thrown into the ocean. One, Lugh, was saved and he defeated Balor on the battlefield. At the moment of death, Balor’s eye opened and it burned through the ground and formed a series of underground lakes and caves. This was thought to be the origin of the underground lakes and caves that lay beneath the surface of the Burren.
    When Mara was a child, no one would go near Balor’s Cave. The lane was deserted and the low-lying marshy acres around it were filled with nothing but old gnarled willows. As soon as Ardal O’Lochlainn became taoiseach he set to work to reclaim this part of his inheritance. He and his steward Liam started to clear out the cave of the boulder clay that had been deposited there and when his men saw that no harm had come to them, they joined in. The boulder clay had been deposited in ridges; cabbages, leeks and onions grown on the ridges; and the cave itself, with its constantly cool temperature, was used for storage of the vegetables. The swampy ground around had been turned into a garden for sallies, or willows, and Ardal had built a cottage and installed a basket maker there. This had all happened almost twenty years ago.
    And now a foul murder had taken place at this spot.
    But why did it happen?
    Mara sat on the rough bark of the upturned willow and looked with pity at the body of the young man. No one deserved a sudden violent death like this, least of all a young man on the threshold of adulthood. If any sin was committed, it lay at his mother’s door. He could not be blamed for trying his fortune once the opportunity presented itself. He had arrived, told his story and within three days he was dead.
    But who had killed him?
    And was that story the reason for the murder?
    For the moment only one name presented itself and that thought was so shocking and so unlikely that she felt reluctant to grapple with it. She got to her feet and began to pace up and down, but the name could not be dislodged. Only Ardal O’Lochlainn benefited from this death. He had not wanted this young man, had not believed that Iarla was his son.
    ‘No sign of the priest, but the church is open.’ Malachy had approached quietly. ‘I had a look,’ he continued, ‘and the trestle and planks are there since the burial of old Pádraig last Tuesday. We can still bring the body to the church and perhaps get someone to stay until the priest arrives.’
    ‘There’s the cart coming now.’ Mara went to the head of the laneway and stood watching. One of Ardal’s workers drove it; he and Liam followed on