The Good People

The whole village of Embris Hollow fears Nance Roche.

They say she knows Them. The Good People.

She came to the village as people say she goes everywhere; she accompanies Them, when they go abroad to be at Their tricks. They say that's how she has the Knowledge of the fairies.

But why They haven't taken her as one of Their own, no one knows. The tale goes that whoever so lays eyes on the fair folk never returns alive.

Of course, it is but an Irish myth, whispered in the shebeens and sometimes by the birthing beds of the cursed. When a child is found to be somehow different from how they should have been. When it is discovered that there is something inherently wrong with them. 'Changelings', they call those children. Babes who have been claimed by the Good People.

There have been changelings before—there was Martin and Nóra's little girl Johanna. The Lynches' second son, John. And even one of Peg O'shea's, young Peter O'Shea.

They all have left to heaven, now.

I skip gaily along the dusty road, my skirts flying with every leap. My flower-laden basket trails pink petals as I run along, and I can feel them tangling through my loose hair, which flutters freely in the wind.

I reach the cottage that belongs to Peg O'Shea and knock firmly on the ash wood door. It opens a moment later to reveal the old woman, back bowed with age and lips turned inwards over toothless gums.

"Brigid!" Peg exclaims when she sees me.

"Hullo there, Mrs. O'Shea," I reply. I hold my basket aloft, filling the air with the smell of roses and freshly cut grass. "I've come with flowers."

"Oh, fairies take my eyes," Peg exclaims delightedly. "I haven't seen you in weeks, child!"

I smile at Peg affectionately. "I'm glad you're out of bed now, that cold sounded something fierce."

"Bah! I'm a survivor," Peg assures me with a wink. She turns and calls back into the house. "Áine! Rory! Hanna! Brigid's here with flowers!"

Two women and a young girl come rushing to the door.

"Hullo, Brigid!" Peg's golden-haired granddaughter, Rory, beams up at me.

Hanna and Áine, Peg's daughters, hurry to greet me too, and they all merrily pull me out of the door and onto the grass in front of the house. Our colourful dresses billow around us as we sit down, barefooted, in a little circle.

Peg is still standing inside the door frame, and I raise a hand to beckon her. "Mrs. O'Shea, we'll do yours as well!" I tell her.

Peg's lips stretch into a smile and she limps out into the sun. "Alright," she concedes, letting her children help settle her on the lawn.

I brandish my basket with a flourish, and everyone clamours for their favourite flowers.

"I'll have lilies and jasmine," exclaims Hannah.

"I want primroses, please, Brigid," Rory says, tugging my skirt.

Áine scoops out a handful of foxglove and forget-me-nots. "I'll have these," she announces. She leans in close and lowers her voice to a whisper. "I've heard foxglove can protect you from the fairies."

Rory gazes up at her, open-mouthed. "Oh, well I need some too, then!" She reaches into my basket to grab some of the pink blooms for herself, and nervously holds them out to me.

I laugh and pat her head gently, turning her around so I can start to tuck the pink and yellow blossoms into her golden braid. "Don't worry, the fairies can't hurt you now."

We spend the next hour chattering and weaving the delicate stems through our hair.

"You know, I haven't seen Micheál Leahy around for weeks," Hanna ponders at one point.

Áine glances at her sister. "He usually works with his father at their lumber stall at the market, doesn't he?"

"Yes," Hanna murmurs in affirmation. She sighs dreamily and continues pulling small white lilies through Áine's hair.

"Perhaps he's eloped with one of the village girls," Rory suggests conspiratorially.

I shake my head as I picture the strapping, red-headed young man's charming grin and strong arms, and the way he was always surrounded by a gaggle of blushing girls. "He's too good to settle for a simple villager."

But as much as we want to swoon and sigh over Micheál, and as much as we want to savour our opportunity to adorn Peg's white hair with daisies and wildflowers, we can't wait a minute longer to approach the forest over the hill.

We wave goodbye to Peg, who now has a wreath of pale petals blooming in her hair, and then Áine, Rory, Hanna and I are off down the lane.

"Do you think we'll actually see Them?" Rory asks me, her blue eyes filled with scepticism.

"Look at you, already starting to realise Mamon's stories weren't quite true," Hannah says with a laugh, jabbing Áine, Rory's mother, with an elbow.

"Auntie Hanna, you aren't supposed to tell me that!" Rory scolded in mock dismay.

Áine, still as carefree and playful as Rory and I although she is five years my senior, throws back her head with a laugh and grabs the hands of her sister and daughter either side of her. "Come on, Brigid, let's go!" she urges me over her shoulder as she pulls the others on faster.

I heft my basket, still half-full of flowers, and bound after them, slinging my arm around Hanna as I join the chain, and we begin to sing a nonsensical song about the fair folk as we go.

It isn't long before the dirt road ends and our toes are tickled by the long mountain grass. Our song trails off as we approach a small cabin sitting silent and still among the trees at the edge of the forest.

The dwelling place of Nance Roche.