Peace in the Valley

Standing within the safety of the small cave’s opening, Graíocht Blackthistle could do nothing more than watch the sun’s agonizingly slow descent towards the horizon. Staring into the fading sunlight caused pinpricks of pain to stab behind his eyes. Growling, he turned away, angrily swiping at the rock wall. His taloned fingertips dug shallow grooves, crisscrossing over numerous identical patterns.

He withdrew into the dark hollow where the cooling scent of decay comforted him. He paused long enough to drink deep from one of the many stagnant pools of water. It could do nothing to slake the anger burning inside. Reaching the back of the cave, he absentmindedly tapped his forehead against a thick ornate door framed within the stone before turning and again making his way to the opening.

A slight breeze caught the withered vines dangling over the threshold, causing them to sway and create a brittle melody of death and dust. Squinting against the vile light, the Pooka gazed down at the farmstead nestled at the hill’s base, his hill. All too soon the pain crept back. Cursing the baleful radiance, he again retreated into the soothing darkness.

His mind wandered back to when the humans had arrived in his valley. He’d been angry that they had dared to claim any of his land for themselves. But believing they were beneath his contempt, he decided nature could deal with them. A season or two would crush their dreams and drive them anywhere else.

But Mother Éire must have taken pity on them, for that first year was bountiful, both in the harvest and the womb. Two became four and the sound of youthful laughter carried upon the wind much to his annoyance.

One night he slipped down his hill to spy upon these invaders. He watched them through a window, lingering long after they’d gone to sleep. Night after night he would move from one window to the next, studying them, deciphering their habits. He needed to figure out how to drive them away without incurring the wrath of Mother Éire. If they had indeed somehow found favor with her, he would be a fool to bring them harm directly.

He eventually got sloppy. Not realizing the direction of the wind, he failed to notice when one of the small children, the male, picked up on his scent. Too late he tried to step back into the darkness but the child spied him in the window and screamed. The father had burst from the door, a thick stick in hand but Graíocht was long gone into the night.

The Pooka had cowered in his hill until dawn, waiting for The Mother’s punishment. But it never came. Heartened by this, he decided the time had come to wreak havoc upon this family. That night, he waited longer than usual before sneaking down to the quiet farmstead. As he approached, he spied a dark bundle in front of the door. Nearing, he could feel the aura of magic upon it. There was no telltale oppressive malevolence within the magic. It was neither a warding or curse. Stepping closer and sniffing, he realized it was the residual essence of prayer. Stepping closer still, he discovered the bundle to be a worn basket filled with parsnips, carrots and cabbages.

“It’s yours,” said a voice from the darkness beyond the doorway.

The Pooka stepped back, his eyes peering into the darkness. The man stood there, stick in hand visibly shaking.

“Why for?” His voice was low and deep, the breath along with the words sounding like hard stones tumbling against one another. It made the man jump but he did not turn in fear. Instead, he used the stick like a cane and stepped forward. He heard the wife whisper something behind the walls, a panicked hiss of words. But the man ignored it.

“An offering. To leave us in peace.”

Graíocht pointed behind him. “That is my hill, my home.” He spread his arms wide. “This is my land. You have taken what is not yours.”

“I know this now. Before last night, I did not.”

“I accept what you say. Now leave.”

“I cannot.”

“Yes, it is simple.” He pointed past the man. “Walk that way until you are no longer in my valley.”

“No. I have a family.”

Graíocht threw his hands up in annoyance. Why were humans so thick skulled? “I know you have kin. They are to go as well. I did not imply ONLY you were to leave.”

“You don’t understand. We cannot just uproot and leave. Our farm is here, our lives are connected to this land now.”

“You did not ask my permission! You did not beg my leave before planting roots.”

“No. But to be fair, you did not come to us and protest. We’ve been here for six seasons and only now do you make your presence known.”

“You are not worth troubling myself over. I had hoped Mother Éire would drive you from my land.”

The man leaned the stick against a wall and crossed his arms. “Aye, the same Mother we prayed to. The same Mother who guided us here.”

Graíocht stood fuming silently. What was The Mother up to?

The man raised a hand. “But now that I know we are on your land,” he pointed down at the basket, “I had hoped a portion of our harvest would act as payment for being here.”

The Pooka laughed. “Not nearly enough.”

“Of course not. I meant this as only the first of many payments to come. As long as we are on your land, we will give you a tenth of everything we harvest.”

Graíocht stood quietly thinking. Many nights he went hungry because he abhorred hunting and gathering. It was tedious and time consuming. In the dark, most things slept safely beyond his reach. Even the plants twisted up during the night.

“I agree to this.” He turned and pointed slightly up the hill to a large flat rock. “There I will return your basket and there you will bring it.” He turned back to the man. “This pact is binding. I will bring no harm to you and your offspring. This land, MY land, will prosper and grow. However, If you or your kin break this accord…” The Pooka shifted, his form twisting and growing. In a matter of seconds where once had been a dirty hunched old man, a towering beast with bright red eyes, long fangs and curled talons now stood. “…I will be displeased.”
Without another word, Graíocht shifted into the form of a young man, snatching up the basket and disappearing into the night.

That had been nearly three centuries ago. Since then, the Pooka had witnessed the passing of many generations of this family. Through countless years, he’d watched the family grow, the children becoming adults and taking flight to far off destinations. But always, one remained to work the land and uphold the pact.

Until now…

With the fire of anger again stoked, he snapped from his thoughts just as the sun’s lower arc touched the horizon line. Graíocht slapped his hands together. He inched to the opening to once more look down onto the small building, a thin curl of smoke rising out of the chimney. The sun’s light seemed slightly more bearable. He yearned to leap from his hiding, he was shaking in anticipation. He just had to endure his wait a little longer. Again, his mind wandered.

The most recent offspring to maintain the land had not taken a mate. For years he had toiled quietly, always leaving a tenth of what was harvested as promised. If anyone had come to visit the man, Graíocht had never witnessed it. He’d come to appreciate the solitude the man sought, just as he’d wanted.

But a month ago the farm had fallen silent. He didn’t need to go investigate. There is an unseen yet natural oppression that blankets an area of death. The Pooka knew the man had died. The farm remained quiet for several weeks, the fields and gardens ripe for harvest. One day, early it was, the sounds of life woke him. Angered, he spied out and saw a dozen men and several horse-drawn wagons. Another man, along with a tall woman, stood to the side of the house, gesturing to the fields while three small children ran about, chasing one another. Although still irritated, a smile played upon the Pooka’s face. He recognized the familiar features in the woman’s face. She was kin to the farm. He would not go hungry tonight.

That evening, he stepped out and was satisfied to see the fields had indeed been harvested. The crops were bundled neatly in rows. From below, no sound but the soft nickering of the horses came from the farmstead. He walked slowly down to the rock, wondering what awaited him. But the rock was empty. There was no basket stuffed with fresh vegetables or milled flour. There was no basket at all.

Angered, he’d quietly moved over to a window, careful not to spook the horses. Inside, a dying glow emitted from the fireplace. Bodies wrapped in blankets lay about on the floor. The room was filled with the sounds of heavy sleeping. Graíocht realized the humans must have worked all day to harvest the entirety of the fields. Tired from their labors, they’d forgotten to leave his payment. The idea only slightly lessened his anger. He would show mercy and forgive them their trespass this one time.

As he left for his hill, he scurried over to the horses, hissing low and swiping at their haunches before racing up the rocky slope. The horses, terrified at the sudden attack panicked, neighing loudly and breaking their bonds to race off. Graíocht watched in satisfaction as men flooded from the house, dazed and alarmed. Forgiveness didn’t necessarily come without punishment; a harmless reminder to uphold the pact.

Tired from being woken the morning before, the Pooka slept soundly all the next day. Rising well after nightfall, he stretched and headed out to retrieve his basket. He stood still, staring in disbelief at the farmstead. The bundles of harvested crops that had covered the land were all gone. So to, were the horses and wagons. His rock lay bare. Light from the home poured from its windows and sounds of feminine laughter reached his ears. Breathing heavy, he strode over to one of the windows but stopped and crouched when he heard voices coming from the doorway. He crept to the corner and listened, his anger turning to silent rage.

An intense burning in his arm brought his thoughts quickly back to the present. He’d been standing in the cave’s entrance too long, getting lost in his memories. Though almost tucked below the horizon, the sun still shined. Enough of its light had passed through the vines to singe the flesh of his left forearm. He growled in pain and hurried back to the pools, splashing cooling water on the puckering flesh. It was only a small spot but it throbbed as he moved.

He huffed and shuffled to and fro. When would that damned sun go away? He’d heard all he needed last night. They woman and her mate planned on renting the land out to someone who wished to graze his cattle on it. There would be much money to be gained from it. They’d spoken of his hill and the riches that might be dug out of it. Something they’d need to discuss further. A child calling out had ended their talk and they’d gone inside. He’d stood there in the darkness, speechless. The woman had forgotten him, forgotten the agreement made centuries ago and honored. There would be no basket tonight or ever again. He knew then the pact was completely and forever broken. Shocked and saddened, he’d climbed his hill and quietly prayed to Mother Éire for guidance. As he nodded off to sleep, he heard the faint whisper of her reply.

The sun was not but a sliver upon the horizon. The smell of cooking food and sweet smoke rose from the farmstead, making his mouth water. He flexed his long fingers, extending and retracting his claws. The answer had been simple. This was after all, his land, his law..Fey law. So, in just another a few minutes, the binding of the pact would end just as it had begun three hundred years ago, with the sound of a child’s scream.