From April 23 1983 Irish Independent article by Peter Cowan
Archaeologists have described the largest Viking graveyard ever to be excavated in Europe outside Scandinavia as a “significant find”. Pottery, stirrups, and locks were found during preliminary trenching at Dublin’s Phoenix Tunnel. ACI were notified when workmen found high numbers of topsoil artifacts. Foreman K McAuliffe and team were alarmed by the discovery of human remains, the recency of whose demise could not be ascertained initially. In all, archaeologists uncovered twenty three armored warriors with an average height of five feet eleven inches. Forensic testing suggested late ninth century internments during the reign of Norse king Citric Silkenbeard, whose coinage was represented in the finds: jewels, a silver goblet, a sack of antlers, a thirty two inch Atlantic crab claw, two amber studded whalebone brooches. Phoenix Tunnel served as Dublin Zoo’s overflow, a responsibility henceforth abjured at Pat Wallace’s behest. He promises “not to make the same mistakes” that doomed Wood Quay. The government has pledged financial support in line with campaign promises to revitalize cultural sectors. Talk turns to remapping planned extensions. An exhibition and history of the Mariner’s Mound will be hosted at Smock Alley in June. A book of thirteenth century Liffey Lore uncovered at the dig can be viewed at Trinity Library.
Brief testimony, Pat Wallace memoirs
Believe mise when I tell you heat was on. We felt intensely pressured to provide an archaeological success story to cleanse the public palette. But investigative work takes time. As do planning applications and all the rest! Suffice to say we were eager for a win..
When we started excavating, we extended utmost consideration to every find. This was huge. Rock concert stadium show huge. No cowboy stuff. Journalists were on it from day one which created pressure but also much needed public awareness and support. It was almost like we were being given a second Wood Quay. A second chance to prove ourselves to be respectful custodians of heritage. We had every big name in digging down there bagging and labeling. Among the finds we found a huge galumph of claw like nothing you’d seen before that made everyone want a Burdocks.
Reports from the mythical registers, with reference to the lost Loughcrew black book
Eocmar with three fathers, Eucléid, Muen Gaoid and Muen Goid. Tasked by his Lord with the defense of Atha Cliath ford. He rode out from that fort which was of old named Dol Deargla and which men now called Muen Tierna. Thirty three men with steeds thundering. Lightful were flaxen-headed Oirde Cúin and Eoghan Odeir lightful.
At Atha Cliath the aggrieved monks with sorrow upon them ran to Eocmar as he rode up. Worry fell upon Eocmar, who had never known a pious man to rush. Ignobility in his robin red flushed cheeks, their leader recounted for Eocmar many woes. A mason had been killed by a beast. The beast arose from the river’s filth and smote him on the bank. To some redoubt, the mason’s corpse was dragged and thereto consumed. A monk out eel fishing found the mason’s bloodstained tools; his mighty hammer cleft in twain. The terrified monks agreed, sin made a Demon to punish them but God had sent Eocmar. Eocmar proposed a hunt, as of old. His horn like a mighty bird resounded and mustered winds. All things flocked to Eocmar. Eocmar ahorse led the assembly to where the mason was killed and planted his spear before he addressed the river and declared his challenge. Clawed. Manylegged. Stalk eyed. Shambler. Ruinous battle. Thirty three men slain. Eoghan rode with his spearpoint aimed toward the monster’s soft underflesh. The monster with cruelly swift instinct, a Cain, swept ploughlike claws along the ground until rider and horse fell, halved nape to navel. Eocmar wailed at Eoghan’s demise. Eocmar did not see Oirdre fall but never saw him again, from that day to his life’s end. Eocmar cast his angry spear which split to kindling against the monstrous plate. Brave rider bloodied, Eocmar aimed his bow and whispered blessings. His arrow came out like a hungry hawk and as it flew Eocmar whispered curses. It struck clean.
Thereanent consulted Loughcrew Black Book whose unknown providence mystifies learned men. Loughcrew Abbey practiced an heretical faith, preaching that their Black Book was older still than Ninus.
Sermon 1899, St Patrick’s Cathedral. Rv. Parminter
Though we wish our minds to dwell in His holy kingdom, tilt we must toward windmills of a hylic nature. I speak regarding unscrupulous rumors of a clawed demon in our beloved Anna Livia’s bosom. I spy ye in the crowd. Bold in the alehouse, sheepish in the pew. Ye, who would peddle nothings. Embellish for ale, until tales thus engorged are mere bold lies. Lying is a mortal sin and damnation utter and forevermore unto whosoever holds a treacherous tongue.
We will hear nothing more of horse eels at Parliament Street. Nothing more of King Crabs residing in murky depths beyond the ford. These are braggart gospels, for Catholic whoresons. Zozimus would not lower himself to them; he who stuffs crude language into the mouth of the teacher of righteousness. The mother of Thorns turns to you and constricts your soul! No more of this shall reach my ears, hark. The unrighteous among ye have plenty of time for demons when Armageddon commences. The righteous among ye concern with one beast, Leviathan whose flesh ye the Elect will consume at the end.
Another report exists of crablike creatures found scrawled on the walls of Irish history, alongside martyrs’ signatures and the dents from Patrick’s crosier.
In famine times, widespread disaffection bred also a religious disharmony. Many alarming cult centers which had formed in the worst years of hunger had to be formally dealt with by the Church. Disestablishment committees were formed. The Vatican sent representatives, plenipotentiaries wielding executive Papal powers. Stern bronze men with ringed fingers, who hated cold and despised austerity, were sent to frigid climes, where the gnawed souls of survivors fixed shark eyes on graven idols.
Bring these wild hamlets to order. The lictors wield their fasces. Oftentimes, the greater the catastrophe which had befallen the area, the greater the perversion of faith and practice. The merciful church fathers in stern words impressed the sympathy with which invigilators should conduct surveys. Know in thy hearts that sadness is the wellspring of a milk which uproots. They were told to “prune fresh blooms of the expelled old religion.”
An area of major concern was Comoragh, home to a radical faction who were despised for the openness of their odd dawn heresies. Fishermen espied from their boats rapt womenfolk cantering on cliff sides with arms aloft, bleating odd tunes. Daytime fires blazed and never were let to burn out as an offering to a great clawed Other, or so it was rumored.
Monsignor Allente was astounded by the emptiness of the western province, which one hundred years ago had thrived. In its best days were Elysian fields worked by comelier peasants than were found elsewhere in Europe. They wore bright clothes and revered every Saint. They knew old lore and said Irish had been collected from among confused tongues at Babel, an amalgam of the best words from each mongrel language. 100 years later, what remained of the peasantry wore black. The profundity of loss was immeasurable. Generations obliterated. Many old lines were severed. Sad singers sang songs of stone, about what goes out on the tide and never returns, and about young heroes made old at the hurried dismounting of a horse.
Alchemisland 
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