It is a bad night. Moonless, cold, wind like a knife. You know the kind. The rain beats heavy against the slate roofs of the houses in your village. Through the deluge comes a hooded figure. He walks slowly, rolling with the blasts of wind that catch his cloak and whip it around his legs. He spies a house with golden candlelight pouring from its windows, spilling out onto the dark street like a sweet mist. As he approaches the curtains are drawn quickly, the light hidden. When he knocks on the door with a heavy fist there is no response. He waits stilly in the rain and dark for a few moments before turning away. He makes his way to the next home; larger, with warm, thick smoke streaming sideways from the stone chimney. Again he beats his fist against the door. Again there is no response. A face appears in an upstairs window, slyly trying to catch a look of the hooded stranger. But as the man’s eyes snap towards the movement the face vanishes.

Two men sit at a campfire, roadworn and calm. A cold and star-bright night rolls over these high mountains. Having eaten their dried meat and tended to their horses the younger of the two settles in, preparing to spend the evening staring into the flames. But to his surprise the older one speaks.

“Do you knowhow the world came to be?”

The younger traveller shakes his head. The elder begins his story.

Long ago in Ireland there was a king who wanted for an heir. His wife had borne him many daughters, but no sons, and with each birth she became more frail. Finally she had a son, but he too was frail; a weak child, prone to sickness and unsuited to the burdens of leadership. The king sent word to all the great physicians and hedge healers of Ireland but none could help the child. Eventually was he was placed deep within the castle and isolated from people and the elements lest he become more ill.

In those days the legitimacy of leadership came from the land, and being king conferred certain privileges with the faeries. One of these fairies went by the name of Shen Nong, but he referred to himself as the Divine Farmer. He was one of the oldest faeries, and pre-dated agriculture by many thousands of years. His name was something of a joke as he did not farm in the conventional sense; rather he had such a perfect knowledge of plants and herbs and weather and growing seasons that those who followed his advice never needed to plant their own crops; the land provided for them. One day on his travels he passed through this kingdom and the king, showing him his due respect, put on a tremendous feast. Arrayed before them was an enormous spread of meats, cakes and ale. Shen Nong seemed to appreciate the gesture but he himself ate simply. Noticing the king’s son picking at his food Shen Nong spoke.

This piece was short-listed for the Listowel Writers Week Bryan MacMahon Short Story Award in 2021 under the title ‘Sunday : October 31st’

Cillian almost didn’t notice the panicked boy running past him. The carriage was empty and he’d been lulled into a doze by the hypnotic swaying of the train as it barrelled through the night. At the patter of footsteps he looked up and saw the child frantically hitting the door open button to the next carriage. He glanced back at the empty seats and, finding no one else, turned back to the small figure.

“Hey.”

The child didn’t look round and the door began to open.

“Hey little man. Are you OK?”