by R J Darby
The vision sweeps the rural land as fast as a kestrel tracking its dinner. The house of Margaretta is in view and above the land, dancing between the daffodils, are Rowan and Naimh’s children. The three of them play and laugh the last joyous sounds they will make as the gorta reach for them.
The gorta are vile beasts, dangerous creatures that look long dead and like the things of nightmare – which many believe that they are. Bones protrude from their near translucent skin as they look like the remains of a longdestroyed battlefield.
Laughter turns to squeals, the most piercing sound a mother could ever hear. It cuts the air and shreds at the soul so savagely than a blunt knife drawn across the wrist.
And then the blood of Naimh’s line filters into the dirt. An entire generation of her family is torn from the mortal coil in a second of pain that feels like an eternity. All for the insatiable hunger of the gorta. They rip and tear and gnaw with drenching breath. It is a scene that no child should endure. Worse, a mother should never be forced to see it. The aftermath is a sight that will change people forever.
The rest of the area falls, and after the end of the shrill calls of the leprechauns, it becomes quiet. Too quiet. So much so that a graveyard would seem like a place of joy because even though this is now a city of bones, it feels empty. Hollow. Alone. A lands where families once gathered to cheerily show off their finds or talk about the tricks they played on stupid and greedy humans who tried to hunt them for their wishes, is now welted by a darkness that will infiltrate the formally fertile land for centuries to come.
Naimh bolted up with a cold sweat, sat in droplets on her brow. Her chest, covered in a spider spun satin of ivy green, rises and falls as she looks blankly forward, with the image still misting the sight of her home.
Rowan placed his hand on hers, and she flinched; her hand snatched away from his without thought. As if the feelings swimming in her stomach weren’t enough, guilt swirls into the flow, making a churning whirlpool on her insides.
Naimh swallowed with a lump chasing down her throat as she slipped her clammy hand back into her husband’s and gave a fragile smile. Natural tricksters know a cracked smile when they see one, and Rowan was no exception.
He spoke in a kindly whisper. “Bad dream again.”
Even his voice can’t pull her back from that pain entirely. It’s like a droplet of cool water, but one that is trying to douse a wildfire. He’s trying, and she appreciates that, but the fact that he is trying doesn’t stop the crackle of flames, which felt like they were engulfing her body.
Naimh gave a nod. It was easier to accept these as nightmares, or indeed waking nightmares, when the truth was so much harder to accept. All of her life Naimh had been the conduit of visions. They came and went with the reapers, showing her only when death was around the corner. It was a sad thing and often led to a melancholy until the event unfolded. She had learned as a young woman that there was no changing the fates. Of course, Rowan had learned what these periods meant, yet he didn’t say a word. Their life was one of general prosperity in Tír na nÓg and for the most part, it was a happy existence.
“A little one.” She gave his hand a squeeze.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
Her head tipped towards her sleeping children and that pushed some light into the darkness of her mood. It was a shadow that hung like cobwebs over her and had begun to wrap around her husband. No matter how hard she tried to shake herself off, the invisible threads seemed to be as sticky as sap.
“A silly fantasy.” She chuckled. It seemed pointless to say anything. The gortas were a far off thing which were hidden in the pages of storybooks. It wasn’t as though it was something that could happen. Besides, her previous visions were of singular deaths within the quiet place. The pattern didn’t match; therefore it was easy to dismiss the notion. The image, however, lingered.
“Well,” began Rowan with a nod towards the earth overheard, “there may be a rainbow coming. That should brighten the day.”
“All I need to brighten my day is my husband and my children.”
Rowan gave her a small hug with one arm around her. “You silly dope, you’re so soft sometimes.” He said those words with a laugh that tinkled around the burrow like a wind chime.
“I suppose I am.” Trying to convince herself that it was humorous that such an irrelevant image would have such an effect on her. It was almost as laughable as the ‘monster under the bed' stories told to human children to make them go to sleep. She and Rowan had often joked that they would tell their own children horror stories about the real dangers of the world; creatures like selkies and worse, humans. It hadn’t seemed such a laugh when they were born though, and they really did need to warn them to do their best to stay within the village.
“Lazy little things we’ve risen.” Rowan attempted further to lighten the mood. He got up, pulling on the rest of his clothes, a matching green to hers as was the traditional within families in the Quiet Place.
“I don’t know.” Naimh stretched her arms, still drinking in the sight of her sleeping wee ones like a sweet medicine to push out the toxicity of her sleep. “Ivy brought back that gold brooch just a day past.” She briefly flicked her head to the accessory in the corner.
“And today there should be a rainbow to stash it under. Though I don’t like the idea of them traveling far.”
“It’s tradition love; we all must grow up – even if to become tricky, old men.” Her brow lifted, and they laughed, covering their mouths to stifle themselves from waking the children. Young Hawthorn mumbled and turned.
“It’ll be a fine day when they have their own.”
“And yet what an exhausting one.”
The mood in the burro seemed to have lifted somewhat. The cobwebs were brushed away, but they still lingered in the corners and crevices.
Naimh stood and began to wander towards the entrance. “I could use a breath of air, would you care to join me?” She asked.
“And watch for the start of the rainbow like when we were first together? Sounds lovely.”
Mud squelched underfoot as they stepped, and they took their feet from it with a satisfying suction. Humans had long lost such a love of nature. They may still have known the role of fiends and the joy of a harvest, but they had lost their love for the feel of the earth and the crunch of a step breaking the first ice in winter. The ethereal creatures of rural Ireland knew the value of all things botanic and mineral; gold included. Roots pushed through the sides to make the accent easier. They were easily grabbed here and there giving way to delicious morsels.
The two sat at the entrance of their burrow, scarcely noticing the steady flow of water that pooled from the land as they turned their eyes to the sky and waited for the colors to break. For a long time, it was a leaden gray, swollen by the weight of water in the clusters of cloud, but as the sun reared his mighty head and planted himself firmly above the horizon, the gray turned to watercolor splattered across the sky by a divine brush.
“Lovely, isn’t it.” Rowan bobbed his head as flecks of light plucked at the edges of clouds.
“It gives us much to be grateful for.” Naimh moved closer to her husband, pressing against the warmth of his skin that had followed him like a silk cloak from their loving home. Her jeweled eyes closed for a second as the petrichor caressed her senses.
“You really are a soppy devil today. It must have been one awful nightmare.”
“Must have been. But after dark, here comes the light.” She gestured towards the sky as the rainbow was birthed. Her footsteps came nimble and lightly as she stepped out into the world to stand in the rain. Without complaint, Rowan followed. It was a drizzle by the time they stood in it, quite refreshing.
The rainbow stretched its rays in a hoop across the sky and grew to shine like treasures scurried away by the mythic dragons. The leprechauns found themselves lost in the morning haze until the last spots of rain fell, and the ripples on
the puddles came to a flat.
The silence was broken by three sets of footsteps. Rowan rolled his eyes with a grin that creased his cheek. “Here, they come.” He laughed as they scurried by like a herd.
“What’s that rumble? I thought that the thunder was finished.” Their mother teased.
The three tumbled in the grass, splashing the puddles at one another with each droplets showering the already soaked elders.
“Can we take our gold across there?” Hawthorn pointed to the base of the rainbow. Rowan tussled his hair.
“A natural, aren’t you lad? Just don’t become gombeen.”
The boy poured with a pinched brow. “I’m not a gombeen! I’m going to be the best tinker in history.”
Naimh leaned down, straightening his hair with a wry smile. “That’s what your father is worried about.”
“The rainbow isn’t fully formed yet.” Rowan yawned, in need of a good breakfast; perhaps something with honey he mused. “Find something to do for a time.”
“But that will take forever!” Everything takes forever when you’re young, but within the ethereal Kingdoms, time flows at a different rate as well.
“Find something to do.” The father muttered, answer by Basil.
“Can we go to play at Margaretta’s?”
“No!” Naimh’s body jolted towards them as though they were about to fall off a precipice. The wide eyed faces of her children blinked up at her, pulling her back to reality. That was what she had to remind herself of; the gortas were not a thing of the real world. She cleared her throat. “I mean, not before breakfast.”
The three ran inside, leaving the adults to stand in the mud.
“Something wrong with Margaretta’s?”
She shook her head. “They’re just... growing up too fast. Even Hawthorn wants to stash his find at the end of the rainbow.”
“All birds fly the nest,” he reminded her, “and they won't fly far. Tír na nÓg will always be the leprechauns home. Aside from trade, this is where they’ll stay. Anyway, did you hear about Flynn?”
“No, what happened?” She asked on autopilot.
Rowan proceeded to tell her about a wily trade that Flynn had made. A human had managed to catch him and demanded his wishes. The human had made a wish to find the sight of buried treasure, but without finalizing the details, the man was left at the location with no shovel to uncover it. Apparently he thought that he could outsmart the leprechaun by tying a sash around the tree above the dig spot. Yet when he reunited, he found every tree had a matching one.
Usually, this would have summoned a smile, but Rowan was sad to find that his wife still hesitated to enjoy the story. He knew there was something on her mind, and there was something in the air too. The question was, what.
Chapter Two
Dances In Darkness
Several months had passed since Naimh's awful vision, and with each day that went by, she found herself thinking about it less and less. In fact, on many occasions, she chuckled at how silly she had been to be scared of a children's fairy tale. She was a fully grown leprechaun! What on earth has she been thinking? By the time that the spring equinox festival came around (a tradition of the pagans and source of celebration for all mythical creatures), both Rowan and Naimh had quite forgotten about the event of that rainy night.
It was impossible to think about anything other than the celebrations anyway. There was a buzz in the air that would have challenged the strength of a hornet to a large extent, especially when considering the size of a hornet to a leprechaun, at least in the usual state. The entirety of the Quiet Place had been anticipating it for days. The atmosphere had grown and grown until they practically logged me out with euphoria.
Making use of organic decoration, because leprechauns are respectful creatures when it comes to the lay of the land, even if they can be almost impish when it comes to humans, the scene was set. Archways were made in branches, and bunting was made of anything they could scavenge in the verdant green. A cornucopia of food was put on, and as the sun sank back into the land after a long day of baking the ground. Temporary lights were made by tying a blade of grass around several lampyris noctaluca, better known as the European glow-worm. It did not seem like a very friendly practice, but by the time enough wine has been shared it seemed quite jolly. And the children enjoyed releasing them the morning after as well.
“Isn't it's magnificent?” said Naimh as she walked through one of the twig laid and archways, with one arm around her husband and the other clutching an acorn full of mead.
“In-doubtedly-deed." Rowan hiccupped.
Too high-spirited to be angry, Naimh settled for a mocking roll of her eyes. “I can't believe that you're drunk already. The children are not even be in bed yet. ”
“I think you'll find,” he swayed as they entered the dancing area, which was a large area covered in moss collected from tree trunks, “that I... I'm doing my spiritual duty to the deity that created these lands in which we dwell. The gods want us to eat and drink and be merry!" Rowan Flanagan sloshed drink onto the ground as he swung his arm up in triumph.
“Merry, you certainly are!” his wife replied as she caught his flagging, saving the precious liquor inside from being gifted to the already sodden ground. It was good to offer a drink to the spirits of the earth, but not that one. That one was to be hers.
“That I am!” Rowan was not sure if this was a good thing or not. It seemed very much like it was at the time, even more so after another swig.
“I think that you should refrain a little. Or at least for the next 15 minutes. The children will be in bed at midnight, and you know what that means.”
His red and ruddy cheeks were filled with a beaming smile. “I certainly do. After all, I believe that some moons ago on this very night, we began the process of bringing our youngest leprechaun into the world.”
“Ah, yes.” She replied wistfully. Every creature new, whether leprechaun, mortal, or banshee, the after that young ones were settled in their bed and the day turned from one to the other that the real festivities would begin. For the time being, though, the many leprechauns of Tír na nÓg were contented enough to turn the so-called borrows of the 'Quiet Place' into what could have possibly been the loudest and most ruckus place in all of Ireland. Even the highly respected banshee, whose association was with the dark reaches of death, would have found her long fingers tapping against a surface to chip in an infectious music tone. Fiddlers played on home strung instruments and the chorus of singing voices poured out; entering ever higher into the skies and so far outwards that selkies were rumbled from there underwater homes.
A song, known by every leprechaun, began. Rowan and Naimh joined in, adding to the chorus of their kin. Even the wee babies added gargle of noises to the tune.
Here we walk in the city of flowers,
We could dance on and on for hours.
We are simple folk of the fae,
But beware if you wander our way.
We are leprechaun with pots of gold,
And our tricky pranks never grow old.
For the spring equinox, we sing and dance,
Then come the evening, it's time for romance!
This is the sacred night for the land,
And we leprechauns know how to make it grand.
Our celebration will end in frolic and fun,
Up so late, we'll see the morning sun.
Here we walk in the city of flowers,
We could dance on and on for hours.
We are simple folk of the fae,
But beware if you wander our way.
We are leprechaun with pots of gold,
And our tricky pranks never grow old.
We are the wee folk who sing this song,
If you're of the fairy, you can come along.
This is a party of fertility and bliss,
It's the event of the season not to miss!
We dance in fairy ri
ngs all night,
Come and join if you're a mischievous sprite!
Here we walk in the city of flowers,
We could dance on and on for hours.
We are simple folk of the fae,
But beware if you wander our way.
We are leprechaun with pots of gold,
And our tricky pranks never grow old.
This is the last verse of our little ditty,
Which some may say is such a pity,
But in actual fact this is a great joy,
Because we have a whole festival to enjoy!
So let us finish with the last bout of song,
Then the festivities can move along!
Here we walk in the city of flowers,
We could dance on and on for hours.
We are simple folk of the fae,
But beware if you wander our way.
We are leprechaun with pots of gold,
And our tricky pranks never grow old.
Midnight struck. Within minutes the children of the leprechaun families, whether simple or of the banshee touched clans of elevated station (O’Neils, O’Bryons, O’Conners, O’Gradys, and Kavanaghs), were whisked off to bed. They fell into an almost instant slumber, worn out by the day of feasting and festival dancing. That was when the real party could begin.
“I hope that you have no complaints about me cracking open the good stuff now,” Rowan said with a glimmer in his eye. There was a loud pop as he pulled the cork from a homemade bottle. In actual fact, Rowan had made nearly all of the bottles in the village. He was one of the most legendary cobblers and liked to make things for the other leprechauns as a hobby; a bottle that would be returned to him full of local berry wine he found to be the most rewarding creation - for obvious reasons.
“Only if you're hogging it all for yourself.” Naimh whipped the bottle from his hand and raised it high over her head with a glug. It was a glug that went on for a very long time.
