Nether Oak Close, number 14, is lived in by Fionn Jennings and his wife R\u00f3is\u00edn.
They are empty nesters now and feeling the pinch of the government\u2019s austerity programme and rising prices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
R\u00f3is\u00edn is a woman who knows the cost of things. She is the money person in the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Faced with the prospect of making do, she cajoled<\/em> her husband into converting part of the back garden into a vegetable patch. Onions. Spuds. Carrots. Her rationale was simple enough: her mum and dad had done it during rationing, and there was no reason she and Fionn couldn\u2019t do the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n After much \u201csuggesting\u201d that he get off his arse and get started, which Fionn privately classified as nagging, he went to the shed and began rummaging through the accumulated junk in search of his spade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he thought his spade<\/em>, he checked himself and corrected it to my father\u2019s<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was a Spear & Jackson from the seventies. Sturdy. Honest. Very\u2026 He brushed off the collective grumble of ten years\u2019 inactivity. Dust and spiderwebs had gathered in small sand dunes along the handle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Back in the garden, he found that R\u00f3is\u00edn had pegged out a large square in the bottom left-hand corner and run green twine around it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The square was a lot larger than Fionn had expected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His heart sank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No crafty pints with Michael from number 6 in the Captain\u2019s Bar today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He sighed and began digging, turning over sods and breaking them up with the spade. R\u00f3is\u00edn stood to one side, arms akimbo, telling him where and how to do it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn thought carefully to himself:<\/p>\n\n\n\n I am so glad I married her. Otherwise, how would I know when I am doing something wrong?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The digging continued until he reached the very back corner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thank God,<\/em> he thought. Nearly finished. Might still get to the pub before tea.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n CLINK.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The spade struck something solid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn crouched and brushed the soil away. He had hit a large stone, its surface marked with small indentations and circular patterns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCup-and-ring marks,\u201d he muttered, remembering a lecture he\u2019d attended with R\u00f3is\u00edn at the Flowerfield Centre about local history.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He wedged the spade underneath the stone and, with a mighty push, levered it free. The soil released it with a wet sucking sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He rolled the stone aside and peered into the hole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There, beneath it, sat a small cast-iron cauldron.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He reached down and touched it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Poof.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n A small cloud of smoke erupted, then cleared, revealing a small man dressed in a smart blue suit, a flat cap worn at a jaunty angle, and a large meerschaum pipe clenched between his teeth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cExcuse me!\u201d said the small figure. Fionn froze, crouched halfway between standing and kneeling, spade still in his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2026 eh\u2026 digging?\u201d he said, eventually.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The small man took the pipe from his mouth, exhaled thoughtfully, and looked around the garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAh,\u201d he said. \u201cA vegetable patch. Figures.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He walked over to the cauldron and placed himself squarely in front of it, arms folded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDonnacha \u00d3 Riain,\u201d he said, with a small bow. \u201cCustodian of this cauldron, keeper of the gold therein, and \u2026 until about thirty seconds ago enjoying a perfectly uninterrupted nap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn blinked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re a\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLeprechaun,\u201d said Donnacha, with a sigh. \u201cAnd before you ask, no, I don\u2019t grant wishes, no, you can\u2019t have the gold, and yes, I am<\/em> exactly where I\u2019m supposed to be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n At that moment, R\u00f3is\u00edn appeared at Fionn\u2019s shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat are you talking to?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha looked up at her, took in her stance, her expression, and the tape measure clipped to her pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh,\u201d he said quietly. Donnacha took a long, contemplative draw on his pipe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA prophecy, it is\u201d he said at last. \u201cAye..the finding of this gold is a prophecy, given to me on the death of the last O\u2019Neil king of T\u00edr E\u00f3gain by the Banshee who told of his death, herself no less\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn folded her arms ,not in defiance, but in the manner of a woman preparing to set things straight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy maiden name is O\u2019Neil,\u201d she said. \u201cFrom Tulach \u00d3g. My people lived there for hundreds of generations before anyone thought to put a road through it. If there was a Banshee making pronouncements, she likely knew my lot well enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha studied her closely now, the way a jeweller looks at a stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cO\u2019Neil of Tulach \u00d3g,\u201d he repeated. \u201cThat would explain the timing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe timing of what?\u201d Fionn asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe running out of patience,\u201d said Donnacha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He tapped the side of the cauldron with his shoe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis gold isn\u2019t for spending. It never was. It was set aside under a geas , bound to a task that can only be fulfilled when the right one stands over it and asks the proper question.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd what task would that be?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTo restore the homes of the Good People,\u201d Donnacha said, simply. \u201cThe ones that were flattened, fenced over, and forgotten when this place was turned into a nice, respectable close with kerbstones and numbered doors.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn glanced around the garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re saying Nether Oak Close is built on\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOn a townland that once minded itself better,\u201d Donnacha said. \u201cAnd the folk who lived here before weren\u2019t asked to move on. They were assumed<\/em> away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn looked towards the copse of trees beyond the back fence , a ragged stand of hawthorn and birch that no one had ever quite managed to tame, no matter how many times the council trimmed it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd the prophecy?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha smiled, a small, crooked thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe Banshee of the O\u2019Neils said this: R\u00f3is\u00edn looked down at the green twine marking out the vegetable patch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA measured square,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He turned and gestured with the stem of his pipe towards the copse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBest not take my word for it,\u201d he said. \u201cLet\u2019s ask the Good Folk themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He reached into his pocket and produced a small tin whistle, dull with age but lovingly polished. He raised it to his lips and began to play , a light, skipping jig that seemed to lift the air rather than move through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sound drifted across the garden, over the fence, and into the trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At first, nothing happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then \u2026. lights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Small, soft glimmers appeared among the branches, like fireflies remembering an older duty. They floated forward, crossing the fence without disturbing it, gathering in the garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Shapes formed: small figures, no two alike, glowing gently, their feet barely touching the ground. They began to dance in a widening circle around Donnacha, their movements perfectly matched to the tune.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn stood open-mouthed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn, however, felt something else entirely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Recognition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of the figures stepped out from the dancing circle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The others slowed, then stilled, drifting back until they formed a loose ring at the garden\u2019s edge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was taller than the rest , not tall by human measure, but carried authority in her stance. Her form was almost entirely blue light, deep and soft as evening sky reflected in water. Where her feet touched the ground, the grass did not bend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha lowered the whistle and bowed his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cB\u00e9binn,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The matriarch inclined her head in return, then turned her gaze to R\u00f3is\u00edn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou carry the name we remember,\u201d B\u00e9binn said. Her voice was not loud, but it settled into the garden like mist. \u201cAnd you stand where the last root was cut.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn felt her throat tighten, but she did not look away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat was lost?\u201d she asked. Practical as ever. Start with facts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur home,\u201d said B\u00e9binn. \u201cAnd the rowan that held it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She lifted one luminous hand and the air between them shifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere was a rowan tree here once,\u201d she said. \u201cIt grew when the land was young. My clann lived in it when it first put out leaves. Every two hundred years, a new rowan would rise, and we would move to it. Always within sight of the old. Always within memory.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn felt a chill crawl up his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor ten thousand years, since the great cold age,\u201d B\u00e9binn continued, \u201cit was so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her light dimmed slightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe last rowan was felled when this place was measured, named, and sold. Since then, we have lived in the hawthorn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She glanced toward the copse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt is a poor substitute. Too thorny for comfort. Too angry for rest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn nodded once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said. Not as apology , as acknowledgement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n B\u00e9binn\u2019s gaze softened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSorry does not mend roots,\u201d she said. \u201cBut you did not turn away. That matters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha cleared his throat gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe geas allows for restoration,\u201d he said. \u201cBut there is always a cost.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn looked down at the cauldron, still half-buried in soil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s required?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Donnacha pointed with his pipe to the square of earth Fionn had dug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat ground,\u201d he said. \u201cIt must be given over. No vegetables. No paving. No neat little border. A new rowan will stand there, and it will be theirs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn knelt and lifted the cauldron. It was heavier than it looked , not with gold, but with purpose<\/em> that needed resolution.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd me?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n B\u00e9binn stepped closer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou must will it,\u201d she said. \u201cNot command. Not bargain. Ask.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn held the cauldron in both hands. She thought of her parents. Of Tulach \u00d3g. Of gardens that fed families when nothing else would. Of knowing the cost of things and paying it properly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI ask,\u201d she said, quietly, \u201cfor a home for the Good Folk. One that will last.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The ground stirred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was no thunder, no flash, just the slow, patient sound of soil shifting. From the centre of the square, a shoot pushed upward, green and certain. It grew as they watched, unfurling leaves, its bark pale and strong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A rowan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As it settled into itself, R\u00f3is\u00edn gasped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fionn reached out instinctively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A single lock of her red hair had turned white , not grey, but bright, flowing, and clean as winter milk. It ran from her temple to her shoulder like a river of light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She touched it, startled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell,\u201d Fionn said, after a moment. \u201cI think it looks really nice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n B\u00e9binn smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur home is returned,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd you are marked as one who remembered.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The lights drifted back toward the trees. The jig faded. The garden grew quiet again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Except for the rowan, standing where spuds had been planned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn looked at it, then at Fionn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ll manage without onions,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAye,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I reckon the Captain\u2019s Bar will still be there tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The following morning came clear and cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Frost lay along the garden in a fine, patient skin. The new rowan stood bright against it, its leaves edged in white, its slender trunk already rooted as if it had always known this place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn sat on the garden bench, her coat pulled close, the long white streak in her hair catching the early light. Beside her sat B\u00e9binn, quieter now, her blue glow softened to something almost human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy family are settled,\u201d B\u00e9binn said, watching the tree. \u201cFor the first time in a long while.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s good,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m glad of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They sat in companionable silence for a moment. B\u00e9binn turned her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou are thinking of something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn smiled faintly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou have your family around you now, but I haven\u2019t seen my grandchildren in six months,\u201d she said. \u201cMy son and his wife moved to Dublin for his work. We kept saying soon<\/em>, and then time slipped. It does that. Especially at the turn of the year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n B\u00e9binn studied her carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLongings left unattended grow heavy,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLife,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n B\u00e9binn smiled , a small, knowing thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just then, the sound of a car horn cut through the cold air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho can that be?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t finish the sentence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was already on her feet, hurrying through the house, heart suddenly racing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The front door opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGRANNY!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two small, feral children launched themselves at her, coats half-fastened, faces red with cold and joy. Laughter filled the hallway like something restored.<\/p>\n\n\n\n R\u00f3is\u00edn knelt, arms full, breath gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A single tear slipped down her cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked back, just once, toward the garden.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you, B\u00e9binn,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Outside, the rowan stood quietly, holding its frost and its promises, while somewhere within its branches, the Good Folk were finally, properly home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Of the people that live in number 14 Nether Oak Close, a leprauchan, the good folk and a lost ancient rowan tree<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":281,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,18],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-280","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories","category-nether-oak-close-stories"],"yoast_head":"\n
Fionn paused.
\u201cSpade-like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is going to be complicated.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the land is counted in prices,
and the old ways buried under grass,
one of the blood will stand in a measured square
and ask who was left behind.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n