table of contents
¹ home
² banshees
³ dobhar-chú
⁴ changelings
⁵ cú sídhe
⁶ púca
⁷ fetch
⁸ leprechauns
⁹ niffins
The O'Donnell land sits a couple of dozen kilometres northwest of the city of Belfast– far enough away to be the family's haven and reprieve through wars and unrest. Every generation is tasked with its keep, passed down from eldest son to eldest son and so on, never without a caretaker.
Though things change and the world is harsh, the land is always green. Patches of yellow dot the border, concealing the truth to stay non-magic visitors and their curiosity. They move along, none the wiser of the wizards and witches born in the old house, sat squarely in the western corner—the house where, every year, the children learn about magic and its wonder and its harm. Grandparents comfort grandchildren while parents are gone, off to battles and wars whether they were theirs to fight or not. Duty and morality are instilled in their children, but they are loyal only to themselves and their own, although the world so often asks them to look the other way.
Stories are told, too, to these children. Grand tales of the same battles fought on the land where they sat and of the many magical creatures that inhabited it then or before their time. Each story was told with love; to give the children hope and curiosity. To encourage them to go out and find new stories and new magic so that, when their time came, they could do the same for their grandchildren, too.
"Ye mean yer da hasn't told ye about the dobhar-chú?"
The crowd of children's horrified murmurs and gasps all came to a halt, and they turned their little faces to see who had spoken: Liam. It was always Liam. He sat in the center of them all, beaming proudly with his rebuking of yet another of Cormac's many stories. The old man clapped his hands over his knobby knees and bowed his head, his eyes closing while the children turned their heads to watch their grandfather's incoming explosion. He plucked the old, gnarled shillelagh from the grass mound beside his stump, stood, and walked away from his daily headache without uttering a word.
Cormac shook the shillelagh but did not turn to watch the rock smack Liam in the forehead. The other children erupted in laughter and taunts.
Laoise didn't wake from one of her nightmares that night- she didn't have them on nights spent with Aintín Cara, surrounded by animals and cousins. Her mother was in the doorway, though, watching.
"Mam?" She rubbed at her eyes, trying to make the picture clearer and brighter. It didn't work. Her mother remained silent and still. Laoise was too young to put words to why she looked wrong, but she was. The woman in the doorway wasn't whole; light filtered through but only slightly, making her color strange and greyed. Her eyes, normally bright and full of mischief like her daughter's, were sunken and dark.
When Laoise became impatient with her mother's silence and stood from her blankets on the floor, she left. Laoise would swear she walked away and out the door, but she didn't. She just disappeared.
If ye see 'er in the mornin', ye mustn't fright, Cormac would sing, If ye see 'er in the evenin', ye best prepare to say g'nite. "Papa said shapeshifters bad."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, he said they're boggarts and they're bad and you've got to make them silly or they'll kill you."
"Liam, I hate to tell ye, boy, but yer papa's a lyin' English cunt."
That's how the story of púca began: a rebuttal to Liam's claims that all shapeshifters were bad; that they were all, in the end, nothing more than boggarts. But boggarts weren't the only ones out there, and the púca were not their only siblings.
Cormac regaled the kids with the story of a púca who aided a farmer and his son in one of the few kind tales told through the years of the creature. Púca was always identifiable by his black hair, regardless of form - black horse, black dog, black rabbit, all púca. He was a trickster, but no one thing was all bad or always up to no good. Púca contained multiple sides like you an' me.
"Treat him with respect like ye would treat me-" Cormac narrowed his eyes. "More than how ye respect me. How ye respect mhamó."
Not all things are bad, he said. He said it over and over.
"And why would the good Lady Jane Wilde ever lie to ye?" "Do we have a banshee, móraí?"
"We do."
"Do I have a banshee, móraí?"
"All of ye have a banshee that'll come and tell when ye've died someday."
"Does everyone have a banshee?"
"Every Irish ye meet has a banshee out there, Laoise."
"Okay... but, but if everyone has a banshee then how many are there? Are there a hundred? ... a million? Mam said there's a million - no, a bajillion people. Is there a bajillion banshees, móraí? ... Well. If- you said... N-n. No. No. No, let m- I don't want to go. I don't wanna go! No! I don't- NO. Móraí! Móraí! Móraí put me DOWN. FUCKIN' PUT ME DOWN."
Thud.
"Ye goin to fault everything ye meet for bein' itself?"
Though things change and the world is harsh, the land is always green. Patches of yellow dot the border, concealing the truth to stay non-magic visitors and their curiosity. They move along, none the wiser of the wizards and witches born in the old house, sat squarely in the western corner—the house where, every year, the children learn about magic and its wonder and its harm. Grandparents comfort grandchildren while parents are gone, off to battles and wars whether they were theirs to fight or not. Duty and morality are instilled in their children, but they are loyal only to themselves and their own, although the world so often asks them to look the other way.
Stories are told, too, to these children. Grand tales of the same battles fought on the land where they sat and of the many magical creatures that inhabited it then or before their time. Each story was told with love; to give the children hope and curiosity. To encourage them to go out and find new stories and new magic so that, when their time came, they could do the same for their grandchildren, too.
When Maebh's daughter was only five years old, she waltzed into the family home and made the most fantastic declaration she had yet: "I found a leprechaun." She was so proud of herself; her eyes were lit up and huge, her cheeks ruddy from the sprint she'd taken to get inside after her alleged discovery. The witch was, understandably, doubtful of the claim. Leprechauns hadn't been seen in their part of the country for decades by then, and to now show himself to a child? Foolish.
She scooped her wild daughter up in her arms and smoothed back the wind-made wisps, kissing her forehead despite the immediate protests. "If ye find him again, you've got to keep him, yeah? They've got luck and gold, remember? We could use some of that."
On market day the following week, she brought the little girl into the city with her with the promise to get their favorite lollies on their way home. By the third shop, both were tired and punchy and ready to go back to the countryside. Maebh found herself pulled into an uninteresting, unimportant conversation with an older woman and let her daughter go to pick out her lollies as she did every time they ventured into the sweets shop. Licorice was a hearty topic that afternoon - the reds, the pinks, the only good black ones - but she eventually pulled herself away.
Maebh's little girl had wandered out of her sight and out of the shop.
For the next hour, a small party searched the shops. They went up and down the street, popping into doorways to check with clerks, poking their heads into clothing racks and impossibly small spaces, everywhere children were found when they didn't want to be seen. She was gone. Maebh was in hysterics; she had lost her only child for good and all for some bloody licorice.
"Mammy? Mammy, look. Look!" Laoise tugged on Maebh's sleeve, demanding her attention. She lowered her voice when her mother turned around, not wanting their secret to get out. "I found the leprechaun."
Her daughter returned to her with a man in tow. The poor man, who wore green though his forefingers were turning white in Laoise's tiny grip, was of average height and was no leprechaun: he had no gold or luck to spare for the mortified mother and her overly-bold child. Maebh thanked him for returning Laoise to her and carted the girl off before she could accuse a nearby man of being a mountain dwarf for daring to have such a mighty beard.
Cradled in her mother's arms, Laoise waved goodbye to her green friend. He waved, too, and winked.
She scooped her wild daughter up in her arms and smoothed back the wind-made wisps, kissing her forehead despite the immediate protests. "If ye find him again, you've got to keep him, yeah? They've got luck and gold, remember? We could use some of that."
On market day the following week, she brought the little girl into the city with her with the promise to get their favorite lollies on their way home. By the third shop, both were tired and punchy and ready to go back to the countryside. Maebh found herself pulled into an uninteresting, unimportant conversation with an older woman and let her daughter go to pick out her lollies as she did every time they ventured into the sweets shop. Licorice was a hearty topic that afternoon - the reds, the pinks, the only good black ones - but she eventually pulled herself away.
Maebh's little girl had wandered out of her sight and out of the shop.
For the next hour, a small party searched the shops. They went up and down the street, popping into doorways to check with clerks, poking their heads into clothing racks and impossibly small spaces, everywhere children were found when they didn't want to be seen. She was gone. Maebh was in hysterics; she had lost her only child for good and all for some bloody licorice.
"Mammy? Mammy, look. Look!" Laoise tugged on Maebh's sleeve, demanding her attention. She lowered her voice when her mother turned around, not wanting their secret to get out. "I found the leprechaun."
Her daughter returned to her with a man in tow. The poor man, who wore green though his forefingers were turning white in Laoise's tiny grip, was of average height and was no leprechaun: he had no gold or luck to spare for the mortified mother and her overly-bold child. Maebh thanked him for returning Laoise to her and carted the girl off before she could accuse a nearby man of being a mountain dwarf for daring to have such a mighty beard.
Cradled in her mother's arms, Laoise waved goodbye to her green friend. He waved, too, and winked.
Saw me first one when I was around the ages ye'r now. A year or two older, but no more. They were all over; up and down the eastern sea, coverin' up the shores like bloody rocks and not the fearsome, mighty beasties they were - they are. Still around, y'know, just hidin' from the feckin' wars and mindin' their business til all this shite is over with."Móraí, what are they?"
"Ye mean yer da hasn't told ye about the dobhar-chú?"
The dobhar-chú are what the name says: massive things. Otters bigger than I am now, and certainly bigger than any one of ye kids are. One could swipe ye up in its paw and do away with ya in one gulp. Wouldn't be much more than yer toast at breakfast. No, no, they need much more food than just the one of ya. He'd swallow up at least three of ya before a dent was made in that appetite—nasty fuckers. The scum of the waters sticks to their fur, and ye smell them comin' before ye see them come up on the shore but - ah. Don't matter, does it now? They're fast. Faster than you or me on our fastest days. Fast and hungry. Lucky thing for you kids, they're not 'round here anymore. Just watch out for the little ones now. They'll still take yer finger. Play games with it while ye cry and piss ye'rselves."Otters aren't real! My papa said so."
The crowd of children's horrified murmurs and gasps all came to a halt, and they turned their little faces to see who had spoken: Liam. It was always Liam. He sat in the center of them all, beaming proudly with his rebuking of yet another of Cormac's many stories. The old man clapped his hands over his knobby knees and bowed his head, his eyes closing while the children turned their heads to watch their grandfather's incoming explosion. He plucked the old, gnarled shillelagh from the grass mound beside his stump, stood, and walked away from his daily headache without uttering a word.
Cormac shook the shillelagh but did not turn to watch the rock smack Liam in the forehead. The other children erupted in laughter and taunts.
Out on the edge of the O'Donnell land was a bog— off-limits to children and adults alike.
Twenty-seven years before the summer of a great change in Ireland, the parents of the then-young generation decided to make a change of their own to the landscape. Eoin was gifted in elemental magic; he expertly redirected water for his benefit as much as for the wildlife he cared for further south. His idea was to create a stream: bring fresh water in for the cattle, the chickens, and the hedgehogs that roamed freely. Cormac suggested it as a border.
The stream would create a natural line between homestead and bog. Their children and grandchildren would know where safety ended, and none would fall victim to the unknown on the other side. They spent weeks planning and crafting. No shortcuts were taken in the stream's creation: by hand and labour first, by magic second. And it worked.
"I want to go over the bridge."
Cormac picked his favourite daughter from the rug in the family room and sat her on his knee. She was a little thing yet it didn't stop her from getting into trouble with the other kids and adults, which was likely why he favoured her so much. He plucked the ties on her plaits and freed her hair, mussing with it until her wild mane framed her face.
"Do ye not remember what I told ye last summer, Maebh? The fairies will get ye as soon as ye step one of those little feets on it."
"And replace me with one o'theirs? Are ye sure, da?"
"Aye, happened to me own brother. Eoin never was found."
This story always confused Maebh. Uncail Eoin gave her piggyback rides every time he came to visit.
Rolling over in bed to see her mother watching in the doorway came often enough that Laoise had long stopped being startled by it. She was always there, with a cup of her favourite tea, when the nightmares came; a smile and a just watching my miracle when they didn't. Those few minutes in the middle of the night were just for them. A little secret between mother and daughter.
Twenty-seven years before the summer of a great change in Ireland, the parents of the then-young generation decided to make a change of their own to the landscape. Eoin was gifted in elemental magic; he expertly redirected water for his benefit as much as for the wildlife he cared for further south. His idea was to create a stream: bring fresh water in for the cattle, the chickens, and the hedgehogs that roamed freely. Cormac suggested it as a border.
The stream would create a natural line between homestead and bog. Their children and grandchildren would know where safety ended, and none would fall victim to the unknown on the other side. They spent weeks planning and crafting. No shortcuts were taken in the stream's creation: by hand and labour first, by magic second. And it worked.
"I want to go over the bridge."
Cormac picked his favourite daughter from the rug in the family room and sat her on his knee. She was a little thing yet it didn't stop her from getting into trouble with the other kids and adults, which was likely why he favoured her so much. He plucked the ties on her plaits and freed her hair, mussing with it until her wild mane framed her face.
"Do ye not remember what I told ye last summer, Maebh? The fairies will get ye as soon as ye step one of those little feets on it."
"And replace me with one o'theirs? Are ye sure, da?"
"Aye, happened to me own brother. Eoin never was found."
This story always confused Maebh. Uncail Eoin gave her piggyback rides every time he came to visit.
Laoise didn't wake from one of her nightmares that night- she didn't have them on nights spent with Aintín Cara, surrounded by animals and cousins. Her mother was in the doorway, though, watching.
"Mam?" She rubbed at her eyes, trying to make the picture clearer and brighter. It didn't work. Her mother remained silent and still. Laoise was too young to put words to why she looked wrong, but she was. The woman in the doorway wasn't whole; light filtered through but only slightly, making her color strange and greyed. Her eyes, normally bright and full of mischief like her daughter's, were sunken and dark.
When Laoise became impatient with her mother's silence and stood from her blankets on the floor, she left. Laoise would swear she walked away and out the door, but she didn't. She just disappeared.
If ye see 'er in the mornin', ye mustn't fright, Cormac would sing, If ye see 'er in the evenin', ye best prepare to say g'nite. "Papa said shapeshifters bad."
"Did he now?"
"Yes, he said they're boggarts and they're bad and you've got to make them silly or they'll kill you."
"Liam, I hate to tell ye, boy, but yer papa's a lyin' English cunt."
That's how the story of púca began: a rebuttal to Liam's claims that all shapeshifters were bad; that they were all, in the end, nothing more than boggarts. But boggarts weren't the only ones out there, and the púca were not their only siblings.
Cormac regaled the kids with the story of a púca who aided a farmer and his son in one of the few kind tales told through the years of the creature. Púca was always identifiable by his black hair, regardless of form - black horse, black dog, black rabbit, all púca. He was a trickster, but no one thing was all bad or always up to no good. Púca contained multiple sides like you an' me.
"Treat him with respect like ye would treat me-" Cormac narrowed his eyes. "More than how ye respect me. How ye respect mhamó."
Not all things are bad, he said. He said it over and over.
"And why would the good Lady Jane Wilde ever lie to ye?" "Do we have a banshee, móraí?"
"We do."
"Do I have a banshee, móraí?"
"All of ye have a banshee that'll come and tell when ye've died someday."
"Does everyone have a banshee?"
"Every Irish ye meet has a banshee out there, Laoise."
"Okay... but, but if everyone has a banshee then how many are there? Are there a hundred? ... a million? Mam said there's a million - no, a bajillion people. Is there a bajillion banshees, móraí? ... Well. If- you said... N-n. No. No. No, let m- I don't want to go. I don't wanna go! No! I don't- NO. Móraí! Móraí! Móraí put me DOWN. FUCKIN' PUT ME DOWN."
Thud.
Great old things. Not much bigger than Molly, but beautiful things the cú sídhe. Find 'em anywhere but here, really. Aye, not every story I tell ye has to be about us. Are ye not goin' to travel, boy? Sad life without any travellin'."But they're bad."
They're friends of the fuckin' fairy folk, yea. If ye ever saw one, you would see one of those tiny fucks on his back– holdin on for dear life 'cause they're fast beasties. A bit like horses for them.
"Ye goin to fault everything ye meet for bein' itself?"
And they mind their business now; hunt the bogs, help the fuckin' fairies. Said to be big black dogs, the cú sídhe except the one white one out there. Never seen 'em 'cause we're not Travellers. Aye, the people ye see out on the roads, mindin' their business all the same. Only they can see cú sídhe out and around. Somethin' to do with their ways, I reckon. Go back far enough together or somethin' like that. Ye'll have to ask a Traveller for yerself. Find an old one, though.
I don't have t'tell ye that magic is dangerous, do I? Ye know that already, don't ye? It's not just what you can to others do when ye need to. It's what ye can do to yerself if yer not careful.
O'course, they'll teach ye some nasty spells if ye go on t'school, and ye'll learn some after that, too. Have t'be careful they don't backfire on ye.
But ye got to be careful of how much magic ye use, too. Not all of ye will be as powerful as the other. Some more, some much less, and there's some magic ye just can't do. It'll eat ye up and consume ye completely.
No comin' back from becomin' a niffin, either. Ye become one with yer magic, and it's a mean thing, niffins. Murderous things.