On the outskirts of Dublin, where the city gives way to the green humps of the Wicklow Hills, stands Ardmore House.
And in its grounds, alone on a rise of grass, grows a single hawthorn tree, twisted, silvered, and older than any stone around it.
The maps show it even on the original plans: The Thorn of Aine.
Old Mr. Fitzsimons, whose family built the house centuries ago, knew better than to meddle. The locals warned him plain, it belongs to the Aos Sí.
So, through wars and wind and centuries, the tree was left untouched. Even when the Fitzsimons packed up and went back to England in the 1920s, and Ardmore House sat empty for fifty years, the thorn grew on, untouched. Farmers gave it a wide berth. Kids crossed themselves when they passed it at dusk.
Then came Donald Moore.
Billionaire, entrepreneur, master of the deal. He’d made his fortune in tech and decided after a golf holiday and a few too many burgers that Ireland would make the perfect home.
He bought Ardmore House for a song and set about restoring it and building an 18-championship golf course to rival Druid’s glen. Craftsmen came from every county: stonemasons from Clare, woodcarvers from Kerry, a team of marble layers from Kilkenny. Donald insisted on authenticity, oak panels for the library, black bog oak doors for the front archway.
By the time it was finished, Ardmore gleamed like it had never aged a day. But there was one problem: the ballroom.
Too small.
His daughter was coming out as a debutante, and her guest list ran into the hundreds. The old ballroom could barely fit a hundred souls, orchestra included. Donald wanted it doubled, a proper hall, in keeping with the house’s grandeur.
The architects drew up plans. Dublin Corporation approved them. And one bright morning, Donald stood on the lawn, beaming, as the JCBs rolled in to break ground.
The foreman unfolded his plans, glanced at the rise behind the house, and went pale.
“Sorry, boss,” he said. “That’s a firm no from us.”
Donald frowned. “No?”
“That tree there,” said the foreman, pointing. “That’s Aine’s Thorn. We’re not touching it. Not one shovel, not one machine.”
Donald laughed and offered triple pay. The men crossed themselves, downed tools, and walked off the site.
The next day, a new crew arrived , Poles, who knew nothing of Irish superstition.
That evening, Donald walked out to the thorn to see what all the fuss was about. He met Seamus, his gamekeeper, smoking his pipe by the wall.
“What’s the story with this tree, Seamus?”
Seamus nodded at it. “That’s no ordinary hawthorn, sir. The goddess Aine lives there, her and her husband Manannán mac Lir. They say if you harm it, the Aos Sí will ride out on blood-red horses and lay waste to whoever did the deed.”
Donald chuckled. “Stuff and nonsense.”
The next morning, the Polish crew got to work. Within an hour, the tree was gone. Torn up by its roots. Loaded onto a trailer and hauled away.
Nothing happened.
Donald was delighted. Foundations were dug. Concrete poured. The schedule was back on track.
That night, around three in the morning, the phone rang.
It was Donald’s accountant. “Something strange, sir,” he said. “The escrow account for the Helsinki hotel , it’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Not empty, sir. Gone. As if it never existed. But the transfers, the billion you and the investors put in, they’re showing up as donations. To animal charities. Hundreds of them.”
Donald swore for a solid minute. “Get my money back before morning!” he barked, and slammed the phone down.
He made himself a coffee in the kitchen, hands shaking. When he heard a sound in the courtyard, he went to look, and froze in the doorway.
The courtyard was full of horses.
Blood-red, their manes tossing sparks in the moonlight. Steam rose from their flanks, though the air was still. On each horse sat a rider, tall and terrible and beautiful, men and women both, faces shining like moonlit water.
One rider stepped forward. Her armour shimmered gold and white, her eyes the green of the sea in a storm.
“I am Aine,” she said. “You destroyed my home.”
She raised her sword. Moonlight ran down the blade like fire.
Before she struck, another rider reached out a hand. “Wife,” he said, voice like the tide, “too quick. His mortal death will come soon enough. Let him lose all he owns first.”
Aine paused. Considered. Then lowered her sword and turned away. The riders wheeled as one, hooves sparking on the cobblestones, and vanished into the night.
Donald stood there until the sound faded. His coffee had gone stone cold. He poured another, hands trembling. Then, sirens.
Blue lights flooded the drive. Garda cars filled the courtyard. Chief Superintendent O’Malley stepped out.
“Donald Moore,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”
The words blurred after that, something about long sealed files, criminal connections, sexual deviance and names in ledgers published back home in the USA by the congress.
As the van wound down the hill, Donald looked back at Ardmore House.
On the ridge behind it, framed against the rising sun, stood a single red horse and its rider.
The woman’s sword caught the dawn light as she laughed, and the sound carried on the wind all the way down to Dublin Bay.