The Mountain That Danced Like a Flame

Beyond the western fields of Cill Rónáin stood a mountain that was dark even in summer.

Its slopes were covered in heather and rough grass, and its summit was often hidden by cloud. The villagers called it the Sleeping Mountain, because nothing ever seemed to move upon it.

Yet on Samhain, strange lights sometimes appeared along its upper slopes.

Some said they were fires. Others said they were stars that had fallen from the sky. An old woman who lived near the fairy fort insisted they were the lanterns of the Aos Sí.

“Whatever they are,” she would say, “they are not waiting for us.”

A shepherd named Cormac had watched the mountain all his life.

He knew its paths and hollows, where the sheep sheltered from the wind, and where the heather grew thickest. He had climbed to its summit many times, but had never seen anything unusual.

Then, one Samhain evening, he heard music.

It came from the mountain, though the sound seemed to rise from the earth itself. Pipes and strings played a tune he had never heard, yet somehow knew.

He looked towards the summit.

Lights were moving there.

They danced across the dark slopes, appearing and disappearing among the rocks. Some were white, some golden, and others shone with a deep red light, like embers beneath ash.

Cormac took his staff and began to climb.

The music grew louder as he ascended. He passed the last of the sheep, crossed a narrow stream, and followed a path that he had never noticed before.

At the summit, he found a gathering.

The Aos Sí were dancing.

They moved in great circles around a fire that gave no smoke. Their clothes shone with colours that changed as they turned, and their laughter carried across the mountain.

Some danced with their arms raised above their heads. Others leapt and spun so lightly that they seemed to have forgotten the ground.

At the centre stood a woman with long dark hair.

She watched Cormac approach.

“Ah,” she said. “We've been waiting for you.”

Cormac looked around.

“For me?”

“Of course.”

“But I don't know how to dance.”

The woman laughed.

“Neither did the mountain.”

She held out her hand.

Cormac hesitated.

“Will I know the steps?”

“There are no steps.”

“Then how do you know where to go?”

The woman smiled.

“You go where the music takes you.”

She drew him into the circle.

At first Cormac felt awkward. His boots caught in the grass, and he nearly stumbled over his own feet. The others laughed, but not unkindly.

Then the music changed.

A deep rhythm rose beneath the melody, like the beating of a great heart. Cormac felt it in his feet, then in his legs, and finally throughout his body.

He began to move.

He turned and leapt, and the mountain seemed to turn with him. The grass swept beneath his feet, the rocks shifted in the darkness, and the great slopes rolled away beneath a sky filled with stars.

The Aos Sí danced faster.

Their laughter became part of the music. Their movements became flashes of light, and the fire at the centre of the circle rose higher and higher until it seemed to reach the clouds.

Cormac danced with the woman, with an old man whose beard glittered with frost, and with a child who seemed to have no weight at all.

He danced until he could no longer tell whether he was moving or the mountain was moving beneath him.

Then the music stopped.

Everyone stood still.

The woman took Cormac's hand.

“Look.”

He turned towards the valley.

The mountain was dancing.

Its dark slopes shimmered with light. Great waves of colour moved across the heather, and the summit seemed to rise and fall like a flame in the wind.

Cormac stared in wonder.

“Will it always be like this?”

The woman shook her head.

“Only when it remembers.”

“What does it remember?”

She looked towards the fire.

“Everything that has ever danced upon it.”

Cormac watched the lights moving across the slopes.

He thought he saw figures among them: shepherds, children, old men and women, and people whose faces he did not recognise. They were all dancing, though some seemed to belong to another age.

Then he saw himself.

A small boy stood among the figures, laughing as he chased a lamb across the hillside. Cormac remembered the day. He had been no more than six years old.

He watched the boy disappear among the lights.

“Was that me?” he asked.

The woman smiled.

“Who else?”

Cormac looked towards the valley again.

Far below, he could see the lights of Cill Rónáin. His cottage stood among the dark fields, and a small fire glowed in its window.

He suddenly remembered how long he had been away.

“I must go home.”

The woman nodded.

“Of course.”

“Will the dancing stop?”

“No.”

“Will I see you again?”

She laughed.

“You are asking the wrong question.”

“What should I ask?”

“Whether you will dance again.”

Cormac looked at the circle.

The music was beginning once more.

He stepped away from the fire.

Then he turned back.

“Just one more dance.”

The woman held out her hand.

“That's what everyone says.”

They danced until the stars began to fade.

When Cormac finally descended the mountain, the first light of morning was appearing over the eastern fields.

The mountain was dark again.

There were no lights upon its slopes, no music in the air, and no sign of the gathering.

Cormac returned to his cottage.

His wife was waiting at the door.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

He looked towards the mountain.

“Dancing.”

She regarded him for a moment, then laughed.

“You're too old for dancing.”

Cormac smiled.

“Perhaps I was.”

He went inside.

For the rest of that winter, he found himself moving differently. When he walked, his feet seemed lighter. When he worked, he sometimes hummed a tune he could not remember learning.

And when the wind passed over the mountain, he heard the faint sound of music.

Many years later, when Cormac was an old man, his granddaughter asked him whether the mountain had really danced.

He looked towards the western hills.

“Have you never seen it?”

She shook her head.

“Then you must watch on Samhain.”

“But what if there is nothing there?”

Cormac smiled.

“Then you must listen.”

That evening, the girl climbed the mountain alone.

The sky was dark, and the first stars were appearing. She reached the summit just as a light rose from the ground.

Music filled the air.

The Aos Sí were gathering.

The woman with the dark hair stood beside the fire.

She looked at the girl and smiled.

“Ah,” she said. “We've been waiting.”

The girl looked around.

“Have you been waiting for me?”

The woman laughed.

“For someone who would ask.”

She held out her hand.

The girl took it.

And far below, in Cill Rónáin, the old shepherd awoke from his sleep.

He heard the music.

He smiled, and turned towards the mountain.

For a moment, the dark slopes shone like a flame.

Then the mountain began to dance.

The Tide That Ran Beneath the Stars

There was no sea near Cill Rónáin, but on certain Samhain nights the people of the village heard waves beyond the western hills.

Some said it was the wind moving through the trees. Others said it was the sound of the Aos Sí travelling through the night.

A woman named Éabha had heard it since childhood.

Her grandmother had told her that the sea was not always where people expected to find it.

“Sometimes,” she had said, “the tide comes looking for us.”

Éabha had never understood what she meant.

Then, one Samhain evening, she heard laughter beyond the fields.

She followed it towards the hills, carrying a lantern. The sound grew louder as she climbed, until she reached a narrow path that led down between two great rocks.

At the bottom lay a shore.

Éabha stopped.

There had never been a shore there before.

A wide sea stretched beneath the night sky, its surface shining with the light of countless stars. But the stars were not reflected in the water. They seemed to lie beneath it, moving slowly through its depths.

A group of people stood on the sand.

They were dressed in bright colours, and some carried lanterns. Others were laughing and calling to one another as they ran towards the waves.

One woman noticed Éabha.

“Come along!” she called.

Éabha looked at the water.

“Where are you going?”

The woman laughed.

“Where else?”

She ran forward and stepped onto the sea.

Éabha watched in astonishment as the woman continued running across the waves. Her feet touched the surface lightly, as though she were crossing a meadow.

Others followed her.

Some ran, some danced, and some simply drifted above the water, carried by a current that seemed to have no direction.

The woman returned.

“Are you coming?”

Éabha hesitated.

“Will I sink?”

“Not unless you intend to.”

The woman took her hand.

Together they stepped onto the water.

It was cool beneath Éabha's feet, but firm enough to bear her weight. She took another step, then another, and soon she was running beside the others.

The sea stretched endlessly before them.

They ran beneath constellations that shifted and rearranged themselves overhead. Sometimes the waves rose around them like great silver walls, and sometimes the water became as smooth as glass.

Éabha saw fish moving beneath her feet. They were unlike any fish she had seen before: some carried little lights in their mouths, others had wings, and one enormous creature swam slowly beneath the stars, its scales shining like a field of blue flowers.

“Where are we?” she called.

The woman beside her smiled.

“On the tide.”

“But where does it go?”

“Everywhere.”

They ran on.

Before long, Éabha noticed that the others were carrying things.

A man held a broken wooden toy. A girl carried a little red shoe. An old woman held a bundle of letters tied with ribbon.

Éabha asked the woman beside her about them.

“They are things the sea has kept.”

“Why?”

“Because someone was looking for them.”

They came to a place where the tide widened into a great shining plain. There, the runners began to slow.

A small boat drifted towards them.

It was old and weather-beaten, with a broken mast and a little lantern hanging from its bow.

Éabha recognised it.

Her father had made such a boat for her when she was a child. She had lost it one summer afternoon, when the river had carried it away.

She had searched for it for years.

“Is it mine?” she asked.

The woman looked at the boat.

“Was it?”

Éabha reached out.

The boat came towards her.

Inside lay a small wooden figure, carved in the shape of a bird. She remembered her father making it, sitting beside the fire, while she watched.

She picked it up.

Then she saw a man standing on the other side of the boat.

He was holding a lantern.

Éabha knew him at once.

Her father had been dead for many years.

He looked just as she remembered him, though perhaps a little younger. He smiled and held out his hand.

“Have you come to fetch your boat?” he asked.

Éabha could not speak.

Her father looked at the little wooden bird.

“I wondered where that had gone.”

She began to cry.

He reached towards her, but the boat moved gently between them.

“Will you come with us?” she asked.

He looked towards the distant stars.

“Not tonight.”

“Will I see you again?”

He smiled.

“You have already found me.”

Then the boat drifted away.

Éabha watched it until its lantern became a tiny point of light.

The woman beside her touched her shoulder.

“The tide is turning.”

Éabha looked towards the horizon.

The sea was beginning to move. The stars beneath it were drawing together, forming a long silver path towards the shore.

The others began to run.

Éabha followed.

They crossed the waves, laughing and singing, until the sand appeared beneath their feet. The woman released her hand.

“Will you come again?” Éabha asked.

The woman smiled.

“Whenever the tide comes looking for you.”

Then the people began to disappear among the rocks.

Éabha climbed the path towards the hills.

When she reached the top, she turned back.

There was no sea.

Only the dark fields of Cill Rónáin, the distant trees, and the stars above them.

She returned home carrying the little wooden bird.

Her mother was sitting beside the fire.

When she saw it, she put down her knitting.

“Where did you find that?”

“On the sea.”

Her mother looked at her for a long time.

Then she smiled.

“Your father would have liked that.”

Éabha placed the bird on the mantelpiece.

Years passed.

She grew old, and the village changed around her. The fields were divided, the old roads widened, and the children no longer believed that there was a sea beyond the hills.

But every Samhain, Éabha heard the waves.

Sometimes she heard laughter too.

One evening, her granddaughter came to sit beside her.

“Grandmother,” she asked, “is it true that you once ran across the sea?”

Éabha smiled.

“I did.”

“Was it frightening?”

“Not at all.”

“What was it like?”

Éabha looked towards the window.

“Like running home, though I had never been there before.”

Her granddaughter was quiet for a while.

Then she asked, “Do you think I might see it?”

Éabha took her hand.

“Listen carefully tonight.”

Later, when the house was dark, the child woke to the sound of waves.

She went to the window.

Beyond the fields, beneath the stars, a silver tide was running over the hills.

And on its shining surface, someone was dancing.

The Night the Wind Came Calling

For most of his life, Seán had been content to remain in Cill Rónáin.

He knew the fields, the river, the hills beyond the village, and every bend in the road between his cottage and the old fairy fort. He knew when the swallows would return, where the blackberries ripened, and which trees sheltered the best birdsong.

He had never wanted to travel.

Yet, as the years passed, the familiar landscape began to seem smaller. The same paths led to the same places, the same seasons brought the same changes, and even the evening sky appeared to have grown accustomed to showing him the same stars.

On Samhain, he sometimes heard music beyond the hills.

It was a strange music, made of pipes and strings and something that sounded like wind moving through leaves. He had heard it since childhood, but never clearly enough to follow.

One evening, as he sat beside his fire, the music came again.

This time it was accompanied by laughter.

Seán went outside.

The night was clear, and the moon shone over the fields. Beyond the fairy fort, a line of figures was moving across the hillside. They seemed to be walking, though their feet did not touch the ground.

One of them stopped.

He was a tall man dressed in green, with a silver clasp at his shoulder. He looked towards Seán and raised a hand.

“Are you coming?”

Seán glanced back at his cottage.

“Where?”

The man laughed.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Why, out of here.”

Seán looked towards the hills.

“I don't know the way.”

“Neither do we,” said the man. “That's half the pleasure.”

He held out his hand.

Seán hesitated, then took it.

The wind rose around them.

The cottage, the fields, and the village fell away beneath a great rush of air. Seán felt himself lifted from the ground, though the man's hand remained warm and solid in his own.

They rose above the hills.

Below them, the river shone like a silver ribbon. The woods became dark patches among the fields, and the houses of Cill Rónáin dwindled to little points of light.

Seán expected to feel afraid.

Instead, he began to laugh.

The man in green laughed too.

“That's better!” he shouted.

They flew across the countryside, following no road and no particular direction. Sometimes the wind carried them low over the trees, where Seán could see owls turning their heads to watch them. Sometimes they rose above the clouds, where the moon seemed close enough to touch.

Other figures joined them.

A woman with golden hair swept past, singing. Two young men raced each other through the clouds, their laughter trailing behind them like sparks. A little girl rode upon a gust of wind, standing upright with her arms outstretched.

“Who are they?” Seán called.

“Friends,” said the man in green.

“Where are we going?”

“Wherever the wind takes us.”

They passed over mountains he had never seen, and lakes that reflected unfamiliar stars. They crossed a wide plain where thousands of lights moved like fireflies, and a dark forest where the trees bent aside to let them through.

At last they came to a hill beneath a sky filled with unfamiliar constellations.

There, the Aos Sí had gathered.

They sat upon the grass, ate from silver dishes, and drank from cups that seemed never to empty. Music rose among them, and soon they were dancing.

Seán watched for a while, then found himself drawn into the circle.

He danced with the woman who had been singing in the clouds. He danced with the little girl who had ridden the wind. He danced with an old man whose beard was full of stars.

He had never danced like that before.

The music seemed to enter his feet, his hands, his breathing. He forgot the weight of his body and the passage of time. When the music stopped, he found himself laughing so hard that he had to sit down.

The man in green brought him a cup.

“Have you enjoyed yourself?”

Seán nodded.

“More than I can say.”

“Then you should come again.”

“I will.”

The man looked towards the horizon.

“Will you?”

Seán followed his gaze.

Far away, beneath the stars, he could see the hills of Cill Rónáin.

“Is it morning already?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Then I have time.”

The man in green smiled.

“Time is not the difficulty.”

“What is?”

“Remembering where you are going.”

Seán looked down at the village.

He could see his cottage, with its small window and the fire still glowing in the hearth.

For a moment he felt the old pull of home.

Then the wind rose again.

“Come,” said the man.

They flew towards the hills.

As they descended, Seán saw the familiar fields and the old fairy fort. The wind carried him gently towards his cottage, where he landed beside the door.

The man in green stood a little way off.

“Will I see you again?” Seán asked.

The man smiled.

“You will hear us.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Seán went inside.

The fire was still burning. His cup stood beside the hearth, and the clock had scarcely moved.

He sat down and looked at his hands.

They seemed to remember the dance.

For many days afterwards, he found himself listening to the wind. It moved through the trees, across the fields, and around the cottage walls. Sometimes he thought he heard music in it.

Then, on the following Samhain, he heard laughter beyond the hills.

He went outside.

The moon shone over the fields, and the old fairy fort stood dark beneath the hawthorn tree.

A figure in green was waiting beyond it.

This time Seán did not hesitate.

He stepped into the wind.

And the wind, which had been waiting all year, lifted him into the night.

The House That Moved When Nobody Was Looking

There was a house in the hills beyond Cill Rónáin that nobody could quite locate.

An old shepherd remembered seeing it beside the river, where the ground was too marshy for a house to stand. A farmer insisted it had once occupied the end of the village lane, though his father had said it was already there when he was a boy. An elderly woman maintained that she had been born in it, but could never remember where she had gone to school.

The house appeared most often around Samhain.

People who had seen it described a stone building with a red door, a chimney, and three windows facing the west. Beyond that, their accounts differed.

Some said it stood beneath a hill. Others said it stood on top of one. One man claimed that he had walked past it every morning for forty years without noticing it, until one evening it was standing in his garden.

Nobody could explain how it moved.

Nobody could explain why it moved.

And nobody could remember seeing it actually move.

A young woman named Aisling first encountered the house on her way home one Samhain evening.

She had been visiting her aunt in the neighbouring village and had taken a path through the hills to avoid the long road. The light was fading, and a cold mist had begun to gather in the hollows.

She saw the house quite suddenly.

It stood beside a low stone wall, with a red door and a curl of smoke rising from its chimney. A lamp burned in one of the windows.

Aisling was certain she had never seen it before.

She approached the door and knocked.

It opened almost immediately.

An elderly woman stood inside.

“Ah, there you are,” she said. “We were beginning to wonder.”

“I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else,” Aisling replied.

The woman looked at her carefully.

“Have I?”

“I don't know this house.”

“That's all right,” said the woman. “The house knows you.”

She stepped aside.

Aisling hesitated, then entered.

The room was warm and comfortably furnished. A fire burned in the hearth, and a table was laid for supper. A man's coat hung beside the door, and a pair of muddy boots stood beneath it.

“Will you be staying?” the woman asked.

“Only for a moment. I need to get home.”

“Of course. Supper will be ready shortly.”

Aisling looked around.

There was something familiar about the room. The wooden dresser, the blue crockery, the little clock above the fireplace — she seemed to have seen them before.

Then she noticed a photograph on the mantelpiece.

It showed a small girl standing beside a woman in front of the house.

The girl was Aisling.

She recognised the coat she was wearing. It had belonged to her mother, and she had worn it on the day of her seventh birthday.

She picked up the photograph.

“Where did you get this?”

The old woman glanced at it.

“It's been here for years.”

“But this is me.”

“Yes.”

“And my mother.”

“Yes.”

Aisling turned the photograph over. There was no inscription.

“When was this taken?”

The woman looked puzzled.

“When you came.”

“Came where?”

The woman smiled.

“Home, of course.”

Before Aisling could answer, a man entered from the adjoining room.

He was tall, with grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

“Is supper ready?” he asked.

“Nearly,” said the woman.

He turned towards Aisling.

“Have you brought the child?”

“What child?”

The man looked surprised.

“The little girl, naturally.”

Aisling stared at him.

“I haven't brought anyone.”

He seemed disappointed, but not particularly concerned.

“Perhaps next time.”

Then he went into the kitchen.

Aisling looked at the old woman.

“Who are these people?”

The woman was arranging plates on the table.

“People who live here.”

“But where is here?”

The woman stopped.

“Why, here.”

Aisling felt that she was getting nowhere.

She walked through the adjoining rooms, hoping to find a door leading outside. The house seemed larger than it had appeared from the road. A narrow passage led to a small sitting room, where a young man was reading beside the window.

He looked up.

“Hello, Aisling.”

She stopped.

“Do I know you?”

“Of course.”

“Who are you?”

The young man closed his book.

“You used to come here every Thursday.”

“I don't think I ever did.”

“You did when you were young.”

Aisling looked at him more closely.

He had the face of someone she recognised, though she could not place him. Then she realised that he looked rather like her brother, who had died when she was a child.

“Are you...?”

The young man smiled.

“Not quite.”

He returned to his book.

At the end of the passage was a door she had not noticed before. She opened it and found a bedroom.

It was her childhood bedroom.

The little wooden bed stood beneath the window. Her old dolls were arranged on a shelf, and a faded blue dress hung behind the door.

On the bedside table lay a book she had been given for her tenth birthday.

Aisling picked it up.

Inside the cover, in her mother's handwriting, were the words:

For Aisling, when she is old enough to understand.

She had never seen the inscription before.

She turned towards the window.

It looked out upon her own cottage in Cill Rónáin.

She could see the kitchen, the lamp burning above the table, and the little garden beyond the back door.

Then she saw herself.

Aisling was standing outside her cottage, just as she had been earlier that evening, preparing to leave for her aunt's house.

The other Aisling turned towards the door.

The young woman at the window stepped back.

She watched as her other self entered the cottage and closed the door.

A moment later, a light appeared in the window.

She heard footsteps behind her.

The old woman had followed her into the room.

“It's time you went home,” she said.

Aisling pointed towards the window.

“But I'm already there.”

The old woman looked out.

“Yes,” she said. “You are.”

“Then which one of us is here?”

The woman considered this.

“Both, I should think.”

Aisling turned towards her.

“Does this house belong to my family?”

The old woman smiled.

“Your family has belonged to this house for a very long time.”

“But I don't understand.”

“Not everyone does.”

Aisling followed her back through the passage.

The man was sitting at the table now, and the young man had joined him. There was an empty chair between them.

“Will you not stay for supper?” the old woman asked.

“I really must go.”

“Of course.”

She opened the front door.

Outside, the mist had lifted. Aisling could see the hills and, in the distance, the lights of Cill Rónáin.

She stepped out.

“Will I find this house again?” she asked.

The old woman stood in the doorway.

“When you need it.”

Aisling looked back.

“Where will it be?”

The woman laughed.

“Where it always is.”

Then she closed the door.

Aisling walked down the path towards the village.

When she reached home, her kitchen lamp was still burning. Her coat was hanging behind the door, and her boots stood beneath it.

She looked at the clock.

It was the same time as when she had left.

On the table lay the book she had seen in the bedroom.

She opened it.

The inscription was still there, but beneath it, in a handwriting she did not recognise, someone had added:

For Aisling, when she remembers where she has been.

She put the book away.

The following morning she asked her aunt whether she knew of an old house in the hills.

Her aunt looked up from her tea.

“Which one?”

“The house with the red door.”

“Oh,” said her aunt. “That one.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Her aunt thought for a moment.

“Your grandmother was born there.”

“I thought she was born in the cottage by the river.”

“She was.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said.”

Aisling waited.

Her aunt stirred her tea.

“Your grandmother used to say that the house moved whenever nobody was looking. She said it had been doing so for generations.”

“Why?”

Her aunt shrugged.

“Perhaps it was looking for somewhere to settle.”

“And did it ever find somewhere?”

Her aunt looked towards the window.

“I believe it did.”

That evening Aisling went into the garden.

The mist was gathering over the fields, and beyond the stone wall she could see the dark outline of the hills.

For a moment she thought she saw a chimney.

Then a light appeared in the distance.

She watched it for a long time.

The following morning, her neighbour came to borrow a spade.

“Have you seen it?” he asked.

“Seen what?”

“The old house. It's standing beside my garden.”

Aisling looked at him.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Red door, three windows, smoke coming from the chimney.”

He paused.

“Strange thing is, I was born in that house.”

Aisling smiled.

“Were you?”

The neighbour nodded.

“Though I can't remember where it used to be.”

That night, as the village settled into sleep, a light appeared in the upper window of the old house.

Someone stood behind the curtain, looking out.

And somewhere in Cill Rónáin, a child woke from a dream and asked her mother why their house had moved.

Her mother told her to go back to sleep.

But in the morning, the child would remember that the house had been somewhere else.

And that someone had been waiting for her.

The Village Beneath the Water

There was a millpond beyond the western fields of Cill Rónáin, though the mill had long since fallen into ruin.

Its water was dark and still, sheltered by alder trees and an old stone wall. In summer, dragonflies skimmed its surface. In winter, a thin skin of ice sometimes formed along the edges.

The villagers seldom visited it after sunset.

They said that on Samhain the pond reflected things that were not above it.

Some had seen unfamiliar stars. Others had seen trees growing where the fields should be, or houses whose windows shone in the darkness. One old man claimed he had seen the moon rising twice: once in the sky and once beneath the water.

Most people dismissed such accounts.

But a woman named Eileen had reason to believe them.

When she was a child, her grandmother had taken her to the pond one evening and shown her a small village reflected beneath the surface.

“Look carefully,” her grandmother had said. “Do you see the lights?”

Eileen had seen them: a row of houses, a narrow street, and a little church with a bell tower. The village seemed to lie beneath the pond, though there was no depth to the water that could contain it.

“Where is it?” she had asked.

Her grandmother had smiled.

“Somewhere people go when they have finished being here.”

Eileen had asked whether they could visit it.

“Not tonight,” her grandmother said. “And perhaps not by walking.”

The following year, her grandmother died. Eileen grew up, married, and eventually returned to Cill Rónáin to live in the cottage where she had been born.

For many years she did not think about the village beneath the water.

Then, one Samhain evening, she found herself walking towards the old millpond.

The air was cold, but the water was perfectly still. She stood beneath the alders and looked down.

At first she saw only the dark outline of the trees.

Then a light appeared.

It shone from a window in a small house beside a narrow street. Eileen recognised the house immediately.

It was her grandmother's cottage.

She could see the little window beside the fireplace, the flowerpot on the sill, and the familiar chair in which her grandmother had always sat.

A figure moved behind the curtain.

Eileen leaned closer.

The figure drew back the curtain and looked out.

It was her grandmother.

She was younger than Eileen remembered her, and she was smiling.

Eileen whispered her name.

The figure raised one hand.

Then another light appeared in the reflected village. A door opened, and someone stepped into the street.

It was a man carrying a lantern.

Eileen recognised him too. He had been the miller, who had died before she was born.

He looked towards the water and called something she could not hear.

The reflection trembled.

For a moment, the village seemed to rise towards her. She could see the roofs, the chimneys, the church tower, and people moving between the houses.

Then the surface became dark again.

Eileen stood there for a long time.

The following evening she returned with a lantern.

The village appeared almost at once. This time she saw more of it: a market square, a bridge, a row of cottages, and a road leading away towards distant hills.

At the end of the road stood a woman.

Eileen recognised her as herself.

Not as she was now, but as a little girl.

The child was holding her grandmother's hand.

Eileen watched as the two figures walked towards the reflected cottage and disappeared through its door.

She felt a sudden longing to follow them.

“Don't,” said a voice behind her.

Eileen turned.

An old man stood beside the wall. He wore a dark coat and carried a walking stick.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because you are looking at the wrong side.”

“What do you mean?”

The old man looked down at the pond.

“You think the village is beneath the water.”

“Isn't it?”

“Perhaps the water is beneath the village.”

Eileen looked again.

The reflected houses seemed to be standing on solid ground. The road was dry, and smoke rose from the chimneys. Beyond the village, she could see hills beneath a pale evening sky.

The old man tapped his stick against the stone wall.

“Some people come here to look for those they've lost,” he said. “Others come because someone there is looking for them.”

“Have you seen anyone you know?”

The old man smiled.

“I have seen people I have not yet met.”

He turned towards the trees.

“Come back another evening. The village is not always the same.”

Then he walked away.

Eileen returned several times during the following weeks. Sometimes the pond showed only the trees and sky. Sometimes it revealed the village, but never in quite the same form.

Once she saw a street she had never visited, with a bakery and a shop selling flowers. Another time she saw a river running through the village, although no river appeared in the landscape above.

On one occasion she saw a house with a light in its upper window.

A child stood there, watching her.

The child looked very much like her own daughter.

But Eileen's daughter was asleep at home.

She hurried back to the cottage.

The child was indeed asleep, though when Eileen entered the room she found the window open and a small white flower lying on the pillow.

She recognised it as one of the flowers that grew beside the millpond.

Years passed.

Eileen grew old. Her daughter married and moved away, and the cottage became quiet.

On another Samhain evening, Eileen returned to the pond.

The village was there.

This time she saw her grandmother's cottage, the little church, and the market square. But she also saw a new house at the end of the street.

Its windows were lit.

A woman stood in the doorway.

Eileen recognised her daughter.

Beside her stood a young girl, holding her hand.

Eileen watched as the child looked towards the water.

Then the girl raised her arm and waved.

Eileen waved back.

Behind her, someone laughed.

She turned and saw the old man standing beneath the alders.

“You know her?” he asked.

“She is my granddaughter.”

The old man nodded.

“Then she has found the village.”

“Will she come here?”

The old man looked at the water.

“She is already there.”

Eileen turned back.

The little girl had gone inside the house. A moment later, a light appeared in the window of the cottage beside it.

Someone was standing there.

It was Eileen herself.

She was young again, and her grandmother was beside her.

The two women were looking out towards the pond.

Eileen raised her hand.

Her younger self did the same.

For a moment, the two reflections seemed to be looking directly at one another across the water.

Then the wind stirred the surface, and the village dissolved into ripples.

Eileen remained beneath the trees until the stars appeared.

When she returned home, she found a small bowl of water on the kitchen table.

She had not left it there.

The water was perfectly still.

And in its depths, a village was waiting.

The Orchard at the Edge of Winter

Beyond the fields of Cill Rónáin, where the land rose towards the western hills, there was an old stone wall.

Nobody knew who had built it. It ran through the grass for a little way, then disappeared beneath the roots of a hawthorn tree. In summer, children climbed over it to gather blackberries. In winter, sheep sheltered against it from the wind.

But on certain nights in November, a gate appeared in the wall.

It was a narrow wooden gate, set between two upright stones. Beyond it lay an orchard.

The first person to discover it was a widow named Bríd, who had gone out looking for her missing cow on the evening of Samhain. She heard the sound of birdsong and followed it towards the hills.

When she found the gate, she was surprised to see that the trees beyond it were in blossom.

The night was cold. Frost silvered the grass, and the bare branches of the trees beyond the wall rattled in the wind. Yet inside the orchard, apple trees stood covered in pale flowers, and the air was warm with the scent of spring.

Bríd stepped through the gate.

A woman was gathering fallen blossoms in a wicker basket.

“You're a little late,” she said.

“I was looking for a cow.”

“Were you?”

The woman glanced towards the trees.

“They sometimes come here.”

Bríd looked around. There were no cows, but beneath one of the trees stood a small wooden cradle. It was empty.

“Who owns this orchard?” she asked.

The woman laughed.

“Owns it? Nobody owns an orchard.”

“Then who tends it?”

“We do.”

Bríd noticed several figures moving among the trees. Some were pruning branches; others were carrying baskets. A man stood on a ladder, tying a ribbon to a branch that bore both blossoms and ripe fruit.

“Are they all from the village?” Bríd asked.

The woman stopped gathering blossoms.

“Some are.”

“And the others?”

The woman looked towards the far end of the orchard.

“They have always lived here.”

Bríd wandered between the trees. She saw apples growing beside blossoms, green fruit beside golden, and one tree bearing leaves of such vivid autumn colour that it seemed to contain an entire season within its branches.

At the centre of the orchard stood a tree unlike the others. It was smaller, and its branches were bare.

“Why does that one have no fruit?” Bríd asked.

The woman looked at it for a long moment.

“Because it is waiting.”

“For what?”

“Someone to plant it.”

Bríd thought this a curious answer, since the tree was already standing in the ground.

She reached out and touched its bark. It was warm.

A small green leaf unfolded beneath her fingers.

The woman smiled.

“Ah. There you are.”

Bríd turned to her, but the woman had moved away.

When she finally left the orchard, the gate closed behind her. She returned home without finding her cow.

The following morning, however, the animal was standing quietly beside the byre, with a blossom caught in its coat.

Bríd told nobody about the orchard until the following Samhain, when her granddaughter asked why she had placed an apple on the windowsill.

“For the people beyond the wall,” Bríd said.

“What people?”

Bríd looked towards the hills.

“The people who tend the trees.”

Her granddaughter asked whether she could go and see them.

“Perhaps,” said Bríd. “If the gate appears.”

That evening they walked together towards the old wall.

The gate was there.

Inside, the orchard was bright with blossom. The woman Bríd had met the year before stood beneath the trees, holding the same wicker basket.

“You've brought someone,” she said.

“My granddaughter.”

The woman regarded the child.

“Ah,” she said. “We were wondering when she would come.”

Bríd felt a little uneasy.

“Why were you expecting her?”

The woman pointed towards the small tree at the centre of the orchard.

It was no longer bare. Its branches were covered in green leaves, and beneath them hung a single red apple.

The child ran towards it.

“May I have that one?”

The woman nodded.

The girl reached up and picked the apple. As she did, a second blossom appeared on the branch where the fruit had been.

“Does it always do that?” Bríd asked.

“Not always,” said the woman. “Only when something is ready to begin.”

The child bit into the apple. She looked towards the far end of the orchard, where a little girl stood watching her.

“Who is that?” she asked.

Bríd turned.

There was no one there.

But the woman with the basket was smiling.

“Someone who will come another year,” she said.

They stayed until the light began to fade. Before leaving, Bríd looked back at the trees.

Some bore fruit, some blossom, some were covered in autumn leaves, and others stood bare against the evening sky. Yet all seemed to be growing together, as though the orchard had no particular season and no need to choose one.

Years later, when Bríd's granddaughter was grown, she returned to the wall alone.

The gate appeared as before.

The orchard was quiet. No one was gathering fruit, and no birds sang among the branches. At the centre stood the little tree, now tall and strong.

There were two apples on it.

One was red and ripe. The other was small and green.

A woman stood beside the tree.

Bríd's granddaughter recognised her, though she could not remember where they had met.

“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.

The woman looked towards the gate.

“Not waiting,” she said. “Watching.”

“For what?”

The woman touched one of the branches.

“For the orchard to grow.”

“But it has already grown.”

The woman smiled.

“Has it?”

Then, from somewhere among the trees, came the sound of a child laughing.

Bríd's granddaughter turned towards it.

A little girl was running through the orchard, carrying a red apple. She passed between the trees and vanished into the blossom.

The woman looked at the empty space.

“She has found her way,” she said.

When the granddaughter returned to the village, she found a small green apple in her pocket. She had no memory of picking it.

She placed it on the windowsill.

In the morning it was gone.

In its place lay a single white blossom.

And though winter had settled over Cill Rónáin, the old wall was covered in flowers.

The Inn at the End of the Evening

On the night of Samhain, a traveller lost his way beyond the old fairy fort at Cill Rónáin.

He had been following the river, or thought he had. The moon was hidden, the fields were unfamiliar, and the road he had taken seemed to have divided into several roads, none of which he remembered seeing before.

Then, from somewhere ahead, he heard laughter.

A light appeared between the trees. He followed it down a narrow track and came upon an inn standing in a hollow.

It was a handsome old building, with yellow light in its windows and smoke rising from a chimney. A wooden sign hung above the door, though the traveller could not make out what was written upon it.

He knocked.

The door opened at once.

“Ah,” said the innkeeper. “There you are.”

The traveller hesitated. “You were expecting me?”

“Eventually,” said the innkeeper. “Come in. You're late for supper.”

The inn was warm, and the fire burned brightly in a great hearth. Several people sat at tables, eating and talking. Their clothes were of different fashions, and some seemed strangely old-fashioned, though there was nothing remarkable about their faces.

The innkeeper took the traveller's coat and showed him to a seat.

“Will you be staying long?” he asked.

“Only until morning. I've lost my way.”

The innkeeper smiled.

“Most people say that when they arrive.”

Supper was already laid out. The traveller ate with the others, and listened to their conversations.

A man beside him spoke of a brother who had gone away many years before.

“He said he would meet me here,” the man explained. “We had arranged it before the inn was built.”

Across the table, a young woman was waiting for a child.

“He hasn't been born yet,” she said, noticing the traveller's surprise. “But I know he'll come.”

At the far end of the room, an old woman sat beside the fire. She watched the door with an expression of great patience.

“Who are you waiting for?” the traveller asked her.

She turned towards him.

“You, of course.”

“But I have only just arrived.”

The old woman laughed softly.

“You always say that.”

The traveller looked around the room. There was something familiar about the place, though he could not remember having seen it before. The voices, the firelight, the smell of bread and woodsmoke seemed to belong to some earlier part of his life.

He noticed that the innkeeper was speaking quietly with a man near the bar.

“I thought you had left,” the man said.

“I did,” replied the innkeeper.

“But you're here.”

“I'm here now.”

The traveller finished his supper and approached the innkeeper.

“How long has this place been here?”

The innkeeper considered the question.

“Long enough for everyone to find it.”

“And how long do people stay?”

“Until they're ready.”

The traveller glanced towards the old woman by the fire.

“And what happens then?”

The innkeeper looked at him with a curious expression.

“Then they discover they have somewhere else to be.”

Later, the traveller was shown to a room upstairs. It contained a bed, a washstand, and a window overlooking the hollow. Beyond it, he could see the dark outline of the fairy fort and, farther away, the faint lights of Cill Rónáin.

He slept deeply.

In the morning, sunlight fell across the bed. He dressed, went downstairs, and found the innkeeper polishing glasses behind the bar.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “I must be getting home.”

“Of course,” said the innkeeper.

The traveller stepped outside.

The inn was gone.

He stood in an empty hollow, surrounded by grass and trees. There was no sign of a building, no chimney, no track leading to a door.

He found his way back to the village by following the river.

When he arrived, people greeted him as though he had been away for no more than an hour. His wife asked why he had risen so early. His neighbours said they had seen him walking home the previous evening.

He told them about the inn.

They listened politely, though nobody seemed particularly surprised.

An old woman who lived near the fairy fort nodded.

“Ah,” she said. “The inn.”

“You know it?”

“I've heard of it.”

“Where is it?”

She looked towards the hills.

“Where it has always been, I suppose.”

The traveller asked whether she had ever stayed there.

The old woman smiled.

“I am still waiting for someone.”

He did not ask who.

Years passed.

The traveller grew older. He seldom spoke of the inn, though sometimes, on a quiet evening, he would remember the fire, the supper, and the old woman who had been waiting for him.

Then, one Samhain, he found himself walking towards the fairy fort.

He carried a small parcel under his arm. He could not remember what was inside it, or why he had brought it.

The evening was dark, and the fields were full of mist.

As he passed the thorn tree, he heard laughter.

A light appeared between the trees.

He followed it down a narrow track and came upon the inn.

The sign above the door was turning slowly in the wind. This time he could read the words, though he was certain they had not been there before.

The Inn at the End of the Evening.

He opened the door.

The fire was burning. The tables were full. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, looking exactly as he had done all those years ago.

“Ah,” he said. “You've brought it.”

The traveller looked down at the parcel.

“I don't know what it is.”

“Nor did you last time.”

The old woman was sitting beside the fire. She had not changed at all.

She smiled when she saw him.

“I wondered when you'd come.”

The traveller approached her.

“Were you waiting for me?”

She shook her head.

“No. I was waiting for someone who would bring you.”

He looked towards the door, but nobody had entered.

Then a young man came down the stairs, carrying a small parcel under his arm.

The traveller recognised him.

It was himself, many years younger.

The young man stopped when he saw the old traveller.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I think I've lost my way.”

The old traveller looked at the innkeeper.

The innkeeper was already setting another place at the table.

“Not at all,” he said. “You're just in time.”

Outside, the evening settled over the hollow. Somewhere beyond the hill, the people of the Aos Sí were gathering for their own supper.

And in the inn, the fire burned on.

The Supper at the Other Table

On the evening of Samhain, Nóra set an extra place at the table.

Her grandmother had always done so. There was no explanation, only the instruction that one place should remain empty, with a plate, a cup and a little bread beside it.

“For whoever comes,” her grandmother used to say.

Nóra had never asked who that might be.

The cottage stood near the old fairy fort, and on Samhain the family kept the doors unlocked until midnight. They lit the hearth, drew the curtains, and left a candle burning in the window.

That year, Nóra was alone.

Her husband had gone to visit their daughter in the next village, and she had decided to remain at home. She was not afraid of the old customs, though she had never entirely understood them.

As darkness gathered, she prepared the supper.

She laid the extra place at the far end of the table, lit the candle, and sat down to eat.

It was then she heard the chairs moving.

The sound came from the other side of the room.

She looked up.

There was another table.

It stood where the dresser had always been, though the dresser was still there. Around it sat a family: a man, a woman, two children and an old woman whose white hair fell almost to her shoulders.

They were eating supper.

Nóra stared at them.

The old woman looked up.

For a moment neither moved.

Then the old woman smiled and returned to her meal.

Nóra rose slowly.

“Good evening,” she said.

The man at the other table turned towards her. He seemed surprised, but not alarmed.

“Good evening,” he replied.

Nóra looked around the room. The fire burned in both hearths, though there was only one fireplace. Two candles stood in the same window, and two shadows moved across the walls.

“Where have you come from?” she asked.

The old woman looked at her.

“We live here.”

“But this is my house.”

The old woman considered this.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

The younger child had stopped eating. He was staring at Nóra with open curiosity.

“Can she see us?” he asked.

The old woman nodded.

“Tonight, it seems.”

The man rose and approached Nóra. He was wearing a dark coat fastened with a silver clasp.

“Have you lived here long?” he asked.

“All my life.”

He smiled.

“So have we.”

Nóra looked towards the empty place at her own table.

“Is that why you have come?”

The old woman followed her gaze.

“Perhaps.”

For a while, neither household spoke. They continued their supper, though Nóra noticed that the other family seemed to be eating things she could not quite identify. There was a bowl of fruit that glimmered faintly in the candlelight, and a loaf of bread whose crust seemed to change colour whenever she looked directly at it.

The younger child began to whisper to his sister.

She shook her head and whispered something back.

Then the old woman spoke.

“You have kept the place.”

Nóra looked at her.

“What place?”

“The empty one.”

“My grandmother always left it.”

The old woman nodded.

“She remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

The old woman did not answer.

Instead, she reached across the table and took a small object from beside her plate. It was a silver button, worn smooth with age.

She placed it on the table between them.

Nóra recognised it immediately.

It had belonged to her grandmother. She remembered finding it as a child and being told never to lose it. Yet it had disappeared years ago.

“How did you get that?” she asked.

The old woman smiled.

“It was left here.”

“By whom?”

The old woman looked towards the empty place at Nóra's table.

The candle flame bent sideways, though there was no wind.

Then the two children at the other table began to sing.

It was a quiet song, and Nóra did not know the words. But the tune was familiar. She had heard it once, perhaps many years before, when her grandmother was ill and had sung softly to herself beside the fire.

Nóra sat down.

The old woman watched her.

“Do you remember?” she asked.

Nóra shook her head.

“No.”

“Not yet,” said the old woman.

The singing stopped.

For a moment the room was very still.

Then someone knocked at the front door.

Nóra turned towards it.

When she looked back, the other table was empty.

The fire burned in the single hearth. The dresser stood against the wall. There was only one candle in the window.

But the silver button remained on the table.

Nóra picked it up.

Outside, the night was dark, and the fields lay quiet beneath the moon. She opened the door.

A little girl stood on the step.

She wore a dark green dress and carried a small basket.

“Good evening,” she said.

Nóra looked at her.

“Are you lost?”

The girl shook her head.

“I've come for supper.”

Nóra glanced towards the table.

The empty place was still waiting.

“Come in,” she said.

The girl entered and sat down. She placed her basket on the floor and looked around the room with an expression of recognition.

“My grandmother says you have kept the place well.”

Nóra felt a chill.

“Who is your grandmother?”

The girl smiled.

“She was here before me.”

She took a small loaf from the basket and placed it beside the extra plate.

Nóra sat opposite her.

For a while they ate in silence.

Then the girl looked up.

“Will you come next year?”

Nóra considered the question.

“Where?”

The girl seemed surprised.

“Here, of course.”

Nóra looked towards the window.

The candle was burning steadily. Beyond the glass, the fairy fort stood dark against the sky.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I suppose I will.”

The girl nodded, as though this had settled something important.

When Nóra looked down again, the little basket was empty.

The girl had gone.

On the table lay the silver button, the small loaf, and a second cup that Nóra had not set out.

She left it there until morning.

The following day, her husband returned.

He noticed the extra cup and asked who had visited.

Nóra told him.

He listened quietly.

Then he looked towards the far end of the table.

“Was she alone?”

Nóra nodded.

He seemed disappointed.

“Perhaps next year,” he said.

That evening, Nóra asked him what he meant.

He looked at her for a long time.

“My grandmother used to speak of another family,” he said. “She said that, once a year, they shared our house.”

Nóra looked towards the empty place.

“Did she ever see them?”

He shook his head.

“No. But she always set the table.”

That night, Nóra placed the silver button in a small wooden box.

She had almost forgotten it when she heard a chair move in the room below.

Then came the sound of two people talking quietly.

She listened.

One voice was her husband's.

The other belonged to an old woman.

And the old woman was saying:

“You have kept the place.”

Nóra went downstairs.

The kitchen was empty.

But at the far end of the table, two cups stood beside one another.

Outside, beyond the fields, the lights of another village were shining.

The Valley That Kept the Voices

The sound came from beyond the hill every evening.

At first, the people of Cill Rónáin thought it was music. It drifted across the fields just after sunset, sometimes like a distant choir, sometimes like a single voice singing a tune that no one quite recognised.

Then a shepherd heard his mother's voice.

She had been dead for twenty years, but he knew the sound of her calling him home from the fields. He stopped where he stood and listened until the last note faded.

The following evening, he heard it again.

This time he followed.

He climbed the hill beyond the fairy fort and descended into a valley he had never seen before. It was narrow and green, with a stream running through its centre. Trees grew along the banks, their branches hung with small silver leaves. The air was filled with voices.

Some were singing. Some were laughing. Others were speaking quietly, as though continuing conversations that had been interrupted long ago.

The shepherd stood beside the stream.

He heard his mother again.

“Come home,” she called.

He turned towards the sound, but there was no one there.

An old man approached along the bank. He carried a small wooden flute.

“You have come to listen,” he said.

The shepherd nodded.

“Where do the voices come from?”

The old man gestured towards the trees.

“They have always been here.”

“Are they the voices of the dead?”

The old man smiled.

“Some of them.”

“And the others?”

“Those who have not yet been heard.”

The shepherd did not understand.

The old man raised his flute and played a few notes. The sound travelled across the valley, and for a moment every voice fell silent.

Then, from somewhere among the trees, a child began to laugh.

The shepherd recognised the laugh.

It was his own.

He had not heard it since he was a boy.

He walked towards the trees, following the sound. Beneath a silver-leaved branch he found a little boy sitting in the grass, turning a small wooden boat in his hands.

The shepherd stopped.

He remembered the boat. His father had carved it for him, and he had carried it everywhere until the day he lost it beside the river.

The child looked up.

“You took a long time,” he said.

The shepherd knelt beside him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting.”

“For whom?”

The child shrugged.

“Someone who remembers.”

The shepherd reached towards him, but the child had already turned away. He placed the boat in the stream and watched it float downstream.

The shepherd followed it with his eyes.

The stream widened, and the little boat passed beneath a bridge. On the other side stood a woman singing. Beside her was a man holding a lantern.

The shepherd knew them both.

His mother was singing. His father was holding the lantern.

They looked neither younger nor older than he remembered them. They were simply there, as though they had been waiting for the boat to arrive.

He called to them.

His mother stopped singing.

His father raised the lantern.

But neither came towards him.

The old man with the flute stood beside him again.

“Why don't they answer?” the shepherd asked.

“They have answered.”

“But I cannot reach them.”

The old man looked at the stream.

“Do you think every voice is calling you?”

The shepherd listened.

All around him, the valley was alive with sound. He heard the laughter of children, the murmur of old conversations, songs from distant kitchens, the creaking of doors, the calling of names. Some voices belonged to people he knew. Others seemed to come from places he had never visited.

And among them he heard a voice he did not recognise.

It was calling his name.

He turned towards the far end of the valley, where the stream disappeared beneath a dark arch of trees.

“Who is that?” he asked.

The old man did not answer.

The shepherd listened again.

The voice sounded familiar now, though he could not say why. It seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead, and somewhere behind him, and perhaps from the very place where he stood.

“Will I hear it again?” he asked.

The old man smiled.

“You have already heard it.”

The shepherd looked towards the bridge.

His parents were gone. The little boat had disappeared downstream. The child was no longer beneath the tree.

Only the stream remained, carrying the voices onwards.

He climbed back towards the village as the evening darkened. When he reached the fairy fort, he turned and looked down into the valley.

The silver leaves were moving in a wind he could not feel.

He heard his mother's voice once more.

This time, he did not turn towards it.

He continued home.

Years passed. The shepherd grew old, and eventually his own voice became quiet. He no longer climbed the hill, but each evening he sat beside his window and listened.

His granddaughter often sat with him.

One evening she asked what he could hear.

“The valley,” he said.

She listened.

“I can hear the wind.”

He smiled.

“Listen a little longer.”

She closed her eyes.

After a while she heard a child laughing.

Then a woman singing.

Then a man calling someone home.

And finally, a voice that seemed to be speaking directly to her.

She opened her eyes.

“Grandfather,” she said. “Someone is calling me.”

He nodded.

“Do you know who it is?”

She shook her head.

The old man looked towards the hill.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

That night, after he had fallen asleep, the girl went to the window.

Beyond the fields, the hill stood beneath the stars. From somewhere beyond it came the sound of a flute, playing a tune she almost remembered.

She listened until the music stopped.

Then, very quietly, she heard someone laugh.

It was her own laughter.

She stood for a long time beside the window.

In the morning, she asked her grandfather whether he had ever visited the valley.

He looked at her with a curious expression.

“Which valley?” he asked.

But when she described it, he smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “That one.”

He reached for her hand.

“Perhaps you should go and listen.”

And beyond the hill, the voices were already gathering.