The Woman on the Dolmen

A Tale of County Carlow

It was in the late summer of the year 1848 that I made my visit to the town of Tullow in the county of Carlow. My business there, though of a trifling and unromantic nature, afforded me the opportunity of passing several days amidst scenery that, if not grand in the manner of the Wicklow mountains, yet possessed a certain sober charm which spoke to the imagination in a more secret, and therefore more lasting, fashion.

The Barrow river meandered with an easy grace; the hedgerows were thick with bramble and honeysuckle; and in the quiet of the evening one might hear the calling of corncrakes from the meadows. I took lodgings in a modest inn not far from the market square, and soon discovered that my host was a man of much conversation and a relish for recounting tales of the district. It was he who first directed my attention to Haroldstown Dolmen, that curious relic of forgotten antiquity, standing solitary in a field between Tullow and Carlow town.

“You’ll see it if you take the back road,” said he, pouring me a glass of the local cider. “A great flat stone balanced upon others, like a table set for giants. Some say it’s but the burial place of kings long turned to dust.” Here he leaned closer, lowering his voice with a relish, “others say it is a doorway. And once in a while, sir, the dead themselves will come out to sit upon it.”

I laughed lightly, as travellers often do when hearing the superstitions of a countryside not their own. Yet I made a note to visit this monument, for I confess I am not insensible to the charm of old stones and the whisperings they provoke.

Two evenings later, when the weather was clear and the sky washed with a mellow gold, I set out upon the road he had indicated. The hedges on either side were high, and the hum of bees was still in the air, though the day had begun to cool. I walked for some time before the road turned, and then suddenly it came into view.

There, in the middle of a wide, low field, stood the dolmen. A capstone of enormous weight lay supported upon uprights, casting a shadow long and black upon the grass. The field was otherwise empty, save for a scatter of nettles near the gate and the distant silhouettes of sheep against the horizon. It was a place of uncommon stillness, and I confess I paused at the gate, uncertain whether to proceed.

It was then I heard it—the faintest thread of music. At first I thought it the sound of some shepherd’s pipe carried on the wind. But no: it was not a rustic air, nor yet a jig or reel. It was a note of a harp, clear and pure, rising and falling with a solemnity that chilled me. And following that a voice!

The voice was of a woman, and such a voice I had never heard before nor since. It sang not in words that I could discern, but in tones that seemed to touch the very marrow of my bones. Sweet, mournful, tender yet with a power that shook the air like the tolling of a bell. I was drawn forward, step by step, until I stood at the edge of the field.

Upon the dolmen lay a woman, as though in careless repose. Her hair was of a deep red, falling about her shoulders like a mantle of fire. She wore a gown of green velvet that glimmered in the low light. Her arms were raised slightly, her pale hands outstretched as if to shape the air through which her song flowed.

Beside her, in the grass, was a man. He sat upon an ordinary chair, such as one might find in a parlour, though how it had come there I cannot imagine. His face was thin, his complexion ghastly pale, and his eyes fixed with an unnatural solemnity upon the strings of the harp which his hands commanded. His aspect was of one who performed not for pleasure, but by some inexorable compulsion.

The sight held me immobile. The woman’s gaze, though her eyes were half-closed in her song, seemed nevertheless to rest upon me. The harpist did not look up. The music rose, wound itself about me, and I felt my breath catch.

Then the woman ceased her singing, and the harpist let his fingers fall silent. The hush that followed was more terrible than the sound itself. Slowly, the woman turned her head. Her eyes, green as glass, clear as water, met mine.

“You hear us,” she said. Her voice was low, but carried across the distance without effort. “Most do not.”

I could not reply.

She rose then from the dolmen, her long gown trailing like mist. Yet I swear, and would swear upon any book, that the moss upon which she had lain bore no impress of her form, no trace of disturbance.

The harpist lifted his face. His expression was grave, and I observed with a start that the chair upon which he sat was sunken deep into the soil, though the ground about it was hard and dry. He struck a single string, one sharp, brittle note, and in that instant the dolmen itself seemed to shudder.

The woman advanced a step, her eyes never leaving mine. “Come closer,” she whispered. “Every ear that hears our song is chosen. We need one more voice.”

At this, some dreadful instinct awoke within me. My whole being revolted at her invitation, yet my limbs moved of their own accord, one step into the field, then another. The grass seemed higher than before, the nettles hemming me in, though I had not marked them so thickly when I entered.

I do not know how long I stood thus, poised between compulsion and terror. But suddenly a cloud passed across the setting sun, and a shadow fell. In that dimness I found strength, turned, and stumbled back through the gate to the road.

Behind me, as I fled, the music began again. This time it was sweeter, more coaxing, filled with sorrow, as though the very air grieved at my departure. Yet I did not look back. I ran until the roofs of Tullow were in sight, and the sound was lost in the ordinary bustle of the town.

When at last I returned to my lodging, I found my host waiting. He looked at me keenly and said, “So, you have been to Haroldstown.”

I could not answer him. I had no wish to speak of what I had seen, nor indeed could I have put it into plain words without doubting my own senses.

But in the nights that followed, as I lay awake in my chamber, I thought I heard, faint and far, the trembling of a harp string, and a woman’s voice calling in tones of sweetness and despair.

It is now many years since that evening. I have never returned to Haroldstown, nor do I intend to. Yet sometimes, when summer fades and the wind carries the scent of nettles and cut grass, I hear again the echo of that song. And then I wonder what would have become of me had I taken one step more, and placed my hand upon the dolmen’s cold stone.