Prologue to Dagda’s Cauldron

Below is a prologue to a story I am writing. Let me know what you think. Good or Bad. Thanks

The cold winter wind stung her skin as she stepped through the circle. The sun was bright and caused her eyes to squint until she became accustomed to the light. It had been several months since Wicklow had been in man’s world. She was excited and full of mischief. She wanted to play with the humans; they always made her laugh. Typically, pixies didn’t come out during the winter months for a bit of tomfollery. But, Wicklow was always breaking the rules and getting into trouble; besides, she had a new game to show the children. She couldn’t wait until the spring ritual.

The house came into view; Wicklow stopped in her tracks. The human house she always visited was still and cold; something was terribly wrong. The front door was strangely open; leaves and animals had found their way into the home. Wicklow went inside and over to the window shutter to close it from banging in the wind. Where were the children? She flew up the stairs and into children’s room; the closet was empty. Where were the toys? One lone wooden soldier lay under the bed: alone and forgotten. The pixie slowly picked up the toy; a tear ran down her cheek. She felt just like the toy. As she made her way back to the living room, she noticed something on the fireplace mantel. There were two letters placed under what looked like a deck of cards.

She opened up the top letter. Tears came to her eyes. The children had gone away. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Flying from room to room, Wicklow franticly searched the house. It was nowhere to be found. The children had taken the stone. She began to smile. She knew would see them again someday.

When Wicklow returned to her home, she went straight to her room to put away her new treasures. There was a slight hesitation just before the cupboard door was shut. She picked up the second letter and began to read…

For those who wish to follow in my footsteps,

There is a story you must know. There was a time when Ireland was young and the land was full of promise. Invaders would try their hand at conquering this land, but the people were strong and full of fight. It has been said that one day a mist like no other descended upon the land. This mist was as thick as the rolling seas and with it came ships carrying our ancestors from Nemend. The Irish people called them, Tuatha de Danaan, since they were the children of the goddess Danu.

They were a mystical people who brought four magical treasures with them: The Sword of Light from the city Findias; the Spear of Lugh from the city Gorias; Dagda’s Cauldron from the city Murias; and the Stone of Fal from Fáilias. These treasures served their masters well. Then the Milesians, a warring band of invaders, seized the land. The Tuatha de Danaan vanished. Legend has it they found shelter within the hills, lakes and rocks of the land and took their treasures and mystical knowledge with them. These are our Forefathers; this is our history.

As a Shanachie, I roam the Irish countryside captivating farmers, merchants and their families with tales of old Irish battles and legends. But these are the hardest times I have seen. The Irish people have always dealt with invaders but the famine. It is a nightmare like I have never seen. The last hamlet was empty of people. As I walked over the last hill towards Donheadaly in the county Tyronne, a plain gray stone house came into view. The shutters were bright blue. It was a welcoming sign after months of wondering the countryside. I could not wait to share my new treasure with this family.

In my pocket was a deck of cards found during my travels. The images on the cards showed the home worlds of the ancients along with places and things seen during their travels. The images would help enhance the stories as I weaved tales of old before the children.

As I entered the Fallon house, the hearth was cold; an open window was welcoming the autumn chill into the house. A note was resting on the mantel in the living room. I picked it up to read. I had to brace myself against the fireplace as I read the words. It was a note from one of their young sons, Mickey. The family had gone to America to flee the famine. My heart was heavy; my soul now broken. My protégé, gone.

My time has come for me to return from where I came; back into the mist. I leave this desk of cards as a reminder of our past and a guide to future.

Shanachie of Danu,

Henry Blackwell

Wicklow slowly folded the letter and then sat on her bed. She stared at the weathered paper being held in her hands. She knew she had to tell the others. The Shanachie of Danu has returned to the land of the ancients. All they could do now was wait… wait for a sign.