Here is my book, Mona The Body in the Bog.
If you’d like to read an excerpt from chapter one just click here.
A Celtic love story and murder mystery unfolds with the help of modern day forensic science. But science can’t tell us everything.
The lives of two women, one in ancient Celtic Ireland, the other in present day Ireland, unfolds as a bog body is discovered and the brutality of the death is revealed.
Both women face challenges from the societies they inhabit.
Growing up in Ireland, one of the biggest and most back breaking jobs was “saving the turf” during the summer months.
The difference between a good summer and a bad summer meant the difference between cutting the bog once or twice. The more turf that was harvested, the more you could sell.
When the weatherman promised a stretch of fine weather, usually that means two weeks of dry weather in Ireland, the turf was cut. After cutting, the turf is sun dried on one side, turned over and dried on the other. Then to dry the interior, it is stacked into heaps. My father called these turf heaps “grogeens.” A bogland breeze would then dry the turf on the inside.
The good turf, dry turf, would burn longer and generate more heat. Poor turf might still be damp on the inside and burn slowly but generate low heat. Turf has a very distict smell as it burns. Even handling the peat for a prolonged period can leave a distict “organic decaying smell” on your hands.
Bog lands are owned privately or by the government in Ireland. Cutiing turf is an age old tradition in Ireland and in other northern European countries. It is not easy work, but for rural Ireland, it was essential, and in some places it still is.
The dried turf is used to heat houses. Because turf is a non-renewable solid fuel energy there have been some issues with private bog owners and their rights to cut their own turf. The land, even though it belongs to the private owners, is being disputed by the European Commission.
What is a bog and why is the age old tradition of cutting turf now being disputed?
A bog is essentially marsh land, and raised bogs are dome shaped, raised in the middle, with wet lands on the periphery. The peat dome builds up over centuries, after a transition is made from from open lake, to marsh, then fen.
Bogs are decayed remains of trees, animals, and vegetation. In some cases bodies of people who lived over 2,000 years ago have been discovered in bogs. These people are called bog bodies or bog people.
Because of the continued tradition of hand cutting turf in Ireland, bog body finds in the past fifteen years or more have resulted in the discovery of torso’s, some beheaded, which with the help of forensic archeology, have informed historians of what life was like in Iron Age Ireland, that’s over 2,000 years ago.
In the last two decades, due to laws enforced by the European Union, private bog owners of raised bogs, there are 53 in Ireland, have been restricted in cutting their own turf. The laws are not boding too well with the bog owners, who feel that it is their right to cut the bogs that they own and that the European Union lawmakers are interfering with an age-old Irish tradition.
For some, especially in rural Ireland, the interference of foreign powers in a traditional right, is akin to Cromwellian Ireland. The feelings run high as the issue of cutting turf on privately owned land is still being disputed. Most bog owners remain heedless, ignoring what the EU Commission has said about the importance of not cutting turf on the 53 raised bogs in Ireland. The bog owners continue to harvest their turf and heat their homes in the age-old tradition of burning turf.
My book Mona The Body in The Bog is a modern-day murder mystery which involves the life of a Celtic woman whose body has been discovered in a bog in the west of Ireland.
The hand of Old Croghan Man, a 2,000 year old bog body on display at the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin.
Every rural home in Ireland had a turf shed
Modern day turf shed (Picture via Hannah Mulvihill 2009)
Bord na Mona Peat briquette Bale
After drying in the sun, turf is stacked into “grogeens” and dried internally (Picture via mcandrewstore.com)
The turf is dried on one side, then turned and dried on the other.
The turf, or peat, is used to heat houses (Picture via theirishjewelrycompany.com)
When turf is dry it is loaded into trailers. (Picture via donedeal.ie)
Turf is cut by hand or machine and dried in the sun (Picture viaarticle.wn.com)
The art of cutting turf is centuries old (Picture via maggieblanck.com)
My new book, Mona The Body in the Bog, is about the discovery of a female bog body in a peat bog in rural Ireland. Well, there’s way more to it than that, but you’ll have to read the book to learn more.
I became fascinated by these Iron Age bog bodies because of a program I saw on Nova, The Perfect Corpse. This documentary showed the exhumation and forensic testing involved on partial remains of two male bodies who were sacrificial killings in Ireland over 2,000 years ago.
The bodies are preserved by a bacteria which grows in sphagnum moss, which is primarily found growing in peatlands, or bogs. The soft tissue of the corpses remain after 2,000 years. In some cases even hair remains in tact.
Throughout Ireland and other parts of Europe bog bodies are rare discoveries. When one is discovered, usually by peat cutters, the window to the ancient past is opened with the assistance of science and forensic archaeology.
There is carbon dating tests to tell us how old the bog body is, in some cases if the bog body is wearing decorative ornamentation such as a brooch, that too can be tested to detect how old the metal is.
The most fascinating tests reveal, through examination of hair follicles, what the staple diet of the deceased person was. If it was mostly protein, then the season when the person was sacrificed was winter or spring. If it was mostly a diet of grains and protein, then it was probably summer or autumn.
Even the markings on the nails tell scientists what class within Celtic society the person was from. Striations on the nails would suggest hard labor, and nails without scratches would suggest higher class Celt.
I came up with the story after reading many, many books about Celtic Ireland, Celtic Women, matriarchal Societies, Warrior Societies and Celtic Mythology. But it was a statement from Rome in 2009 that prompted me to include a modern-day character in the story.
On March 17, 2009, to mark International Women’s Day, L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican’s official newspaper said that the washing machine liberated women. It is just a statement, and because of it, I did include a washing machine in Mona The Body in the Bog, and in so doing, felt liberated.
Here it is folks. It isn’t War and Peace or Wuthering Heights but it is my first published novel, now available on Amazon.com
Here’s a little snippet:
Chapter 1
Liam sat for what seemed like hours. As he stomped the cigarette butt into the sod a thought crossed his mind, ‘What if he had just cut through hundreds of bodies in a burial site?’ His gaze went from the foot and scanned the flat lands of the bog. Beneath the heather and gorse bushes that grew and blossomed all around this bog, there could be an ancient burial site that he had discovered today.
The wind whipped the heather forward and made the purple flowers shake wildly. It wouldn’t be the first time that a body had been discovered in an Irish bog. Liam remembered the bog body found in the 1980’s in Lindow, England. He was just finished secondary school and his science teacher was very excited about the bog body discovery in England. ‘It’s amazing what you remember too,’ Liam thought to himself as he nodded and looked at the foot. At the age of 38, he still remembered how his science teacher of 20 years ago talked about “Lindow Man” as if he were a national hero like Padraigh Pearse or someone.
The discovery of the bog body at a Lindow Moss bog in England by professional peat cutters in 1984 was big news. Liam was waiting for the results of his Leaving Cert. On August 1 1984, the brutal death of an Iron Age bog body was briefly more important than the exam results.
Liam’s thoughts were interrupted by a siren in the distance becoming louder and louder. It was definitely heading his way. ‘Thank God.’ A sigh of reprieve departed his lungs vigorously and he turned his gaze away from the foot and searched the headland of the bog for the police car.
When the Garda car arrived 15 minutes later the sirens were wailing and the lights were flashing. When the call came in to the Borrisokane barracks announcing a suspected homicide at Boteen’s bog in North Tipperary the two Gardai on duty jumped into animation. They pulled their feet from the top of their desks and threw on their navy blue jackets, pulled their caps tightly onto their heads, and promptly began to search through the mess of paper work on the desks for the keys to the squad car. “You respond that we’re on our way, I’ll get the car started,” said Sergeant Hannon unable to believe his luck, he had found the keys in less than 15 seconds! What a record!
Like the Keystone cops in hyperactive mode, the two Borrisokane Gardai shot from the barracks to the Garda car and tore madly through the town with blaring sirens and beeping at anyone foolish enough to try and get in their way. The pedestrians stared in disbelief at the speeding police car as it raced through the town. Some shook their heads disapprovingly while others commented out-loud, “Ever heard of a speeding limit lads?”
Liam had smoked five cigarettes by the time they arrived. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with tears, not from crying mind you, but more from the strain of having his stomach convulse occasionally and also staring and not blinking at the foot. He had not dared look away from the foot for too long.
If there is one relevant message that the Celts can share with us it is that migration and immigration is nothing new. In fact it is very old.
They reached as far south as Turkey and then withdrew to the fringes of Europe.They invaded and then retreated, therefore they were the immigrants and emigrants, if you will. All that travelling opened them up to new experiences and cultures.
Although they couldn’t defeat the Romans, and the Romans did a lot for us, here’s what the Celts did for us:
The Celts left us with fashion and styles that we still used today.
Nail polish, the Celts stained their nails with berry juice.
Hair dye, they dyed their hair blonde with lime.
They dyed their clothes various colors with plants and berries.
They used a type of tree resin to slick their hair back.
They invented new hairstyles. They tied their hair up in a suebian knot to look taller.
And they left us with the most ornate collection of Iron Age jewelery for the male and female.
You can get the bigger picture when you read Mona, The Body in the Bog coming soon to Amazon.com
The Tollund Man is probably the most disturbing of all the Bog Bodies.His face is perfectly preserved and life like. He could almost be sleeping, were it not for the unnatural color of his face. He still wears a hat that was on his head at the time of death. He was between 30-40 years old when he died. He was hung, similarly to the Elling Woman. The noose remains as well. Caption from http://cogitz.com
When I wrote Mona, the Body in the Bog, a lot of ideas were swirling around in my head. I was interested in Celtic history and archaeology, I wanted to learn as much as I possibly could about it and then I came up with a story idea. This was my “What if?” moment.
“What if,” for me, is the moment when a story idea is born.I had immersed myself in videos and literature that dealt with the Celts, Celtic history, Iron Age people and forensic archaeology. From The Virgin Springs, to The Perfect Corpse, to Confessions of a Pagan Nun and The Serpent and the Goddess, to non-fiction history books, I became an official know it all, self ordained, of Celtic history.
I can actually remember the precise moment of the “What if.”
In the PBS documentary The Perfect Corpse, a forensic archaeology tour of an Iron Age body discovery in Ireland, a Scottish forensic pathologist looks at the camera and says, “I have respect for this person. This is not just a 2,000 year old body, it is my ancestor.” And there it was.
What if this brutally murdered bog body could talk, yeah it would be scary. But he’d be able to tell us how he really died and what his killer’s motive was.
Around about the time I wrote the first draft, the catholic church made a public statement that struck me. It was 2009 and the Church said the biggest change to women’s lives in the last century, was the washing machine. You’ll have to read Mona, the body in the bog to learn how I feel about that.
I also wanted to emulate the wonderful, dispicable Shakespearean villian of Iago, from Othello. He is so bad! We don’t know why he behaves the way that he does in the play. Is he in love with Desdamona, Othello, himself, or is he a racist? I don’t know. But he’s in Mona, the body in the bog too. He’s not Italian though and he has a different name now.
I hope you’ll stay tuned and look for Mona, the Body in the Bog on Amazon.com.
Mona, The Body in the Bog, my current book, is available on Amazon and Kindle.
Stephen King has nothing to worry about. Here’s my first ever attempt at writing a book.
Though the story begins with two male warriors, it really is about two women; one lives in ancient Celtic Ireland, and the other lives in the present.
Here is the introduction to my ancient Celtic murder mystery and love story.
Prologue
Never before had he seen the symbol of the triune goddess on anyone else but his wife and himself. Now, lying on the beach here before him lay a defeated Fir Bolg with the same symbol dangling from his neck; three intertwined silver leaves glittering in the golden, sinking sunlight.
A hand reached up to touch his tunic. The sun blinding the fallen warrior’s eyes, the figure standing before the Fir Bolg warrior now a black silhouette, in stark contrast to the brightness surrounding him.
Behind the wounded Fir Bolg warrior, the waves rolled in, crashing against his back, knocking him off balance. Again his hand reached for the tunic, but slipped, grabbing the checkered braccae that stuck to the Irish Celt’s legs with each crashing wave that broke against his muscular calves.
The spear was a thin wooden shaft, its iron point projecting at an angle, making it ready for a downward stab, a fearsome threat to the Fir Bolg laying half raised on his left arm as he lay, helpless and defeated on the pebbled beach.
The spear remained aloft, ready to strike at any moment, instilling fear into the Fir Bolg, yet he refused to show it. None of the warriors from his Belgae tribe were trained to die showing pain. Alone on the beach, here and now, with his Irish enemy before him, he struggled to hide his fear of death; the silhouette of his enemy looming above him, like a lightning bolt, ready to strike at any moment
The warrior on the sand was a Fir Bolg, a Celt from northern mainland Europe, young and fierce. Although he had dealt vicious blows with his sword toward the Irish Celt now standing before him, the Fir Bolg warrior did not give up easily.
His outstretched hand now grasping the braccae of his Irish enemy, not a threatening move, the Irish Celt could see that the Fir Bolg was weak. The attempt to invade Ireland’s shores from the south of the island had failed for the Fir Bolg. The Irish had defended their shores successfully, this time.
The Irish Celt moved forward, extending his hand to the warrior. Although at least ten years older than his Fir Bolg counterpart, they had fought a fair battle, and now one would leave a victor and the other would die.
The outstretched hand grabbed the wrist of the Fir Bolg. Blood streamed down the Fir Bolg’s forearm, when it hit his elbow it dripped furiously to the sand, staining it a deep red.
Believing that his enemy would perish on the beach, the Irish man prepared himself for the final stab of the Fir Bolg. He lifted his foot from the sand, resting it on the defeated warrior’s left shoulder, then shoving down with his foot. The Fir Bolg felt himself press into the wet sand, now feeling hard, like stone. The Irish Celt threw his spear aside and his right hand reached to the scabbard at his left, withdrawing a small sword with a wide blade.
The Irish warrior dropped to his knees and grabbed the long, blond, wet hair of the Fir Bolg Celt. Grabbing the sword even tighter, the Irish Celt pulled the hair back with his left hand and positioned the sharp blade of his sword below the area of the Fir Bolg’s neck, where the beard hairs were short and the skin was smooth.
His blade began to apply pressure to the skin and a trickle of blood appeared, dribbling over the silver triune goddess symbol, sparkling in the sun, silver and blood. The Fir Bolg wore the same triune goddess symbol around his neck as the Irish Celt, Diarmuid, wore on his wrist.
Easing the pressure of the sword, he looked at his wrist, the enormous hand softening its hold on the sword. The leather strap was blood stained, but the symbol of the triune goddess shone in the sunlight. He had never seen anyone else wear this symbol, only his own wife, Etain. It was she who had given it to him.
The Irish Celt removed the sword and shifted his grip from the Fir Bolg’s hair to the cloth at the front of his chest. The Fir Bolg felt himself pulled to standing. They stood, face to face, and the Irish Celt spoke in a tongue similar to the Fir Bolg warrior’s own language.
“My wife reveres all life. Today I have killed my last man. If I spare you it is because of this,” he shook the wristlet on his left arm. “Birth, Life and Death, do you understand?”
The Fir Bolg nodded. He recognized the wristlet, three intertwined leaf symbols. The Irish Celt took a step backwards, he stretched out his hand and placed it on the Fir Bolg’s left shoulder, “Live,” he said, “Today you will live!” Then he stepped away, turning towards the mainland, and disappearing into the forest.
The Fir Bolg watched his enemy walked away, then he collapsed back into the damp cold sand and semi-consciousness on the cold shores of Cork in the south of Ireland.
In sixteen years the two men would meet again, but only one would be spared.
Breise! Breise! Extra! Extra! 