‘Jesus,’ Carter said, pacing up the slope to the white rocks of the passage tomb, ‘she looks like a figurehead; leaning out into the waves.’
The woman was standing guard at the low entrance, gazing out across the landscape towards Benbulben. Her arms were by her side, her hair dark except for an inch of grey at its roots.
‘Not so much guarding against evil spirits, than the victim of one,’ the pathologist said.
‘How’s she staying upright?’
‘Impaled on a crowbar angled into the ground.’
‘Impaled? Oh god.’
‘Or gods. Or fairies. Níos fearr athnuachan do miotaseolaíocht na hÉireann*.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words. *'Better refresh your Irish mythology'