Pursuant to the quiet murmuring of the land and the advisory council of three (plus Orla Merrin’s dream on Tuesday last), it has been resolved that one Structure, long-standing and questionably lawful, shall be MOVED this week. No appeals. No reversals. The wind has already agreed.
Night of the Rising Lints
Magpie, magpie, peck my stone,
Leave me one Lint all my own.
Peck it once, my trust is fair,
Peck it twice, beware, beware!
Last night, the lake was calmer than a priest’s breath with not a ripple or reed-whisper. Then, sometime past midnight, the children of the village woke first. It's always the children, isn't it! their ears sharper than ours. They tumbled from beds, calling: “The lights! The lights!"
Down at the pier, we gathered old shawls pulled tight, boots unlaced in haste. And there, under the boards, the water glowed as if a hundred candles lay burning on the lakebed. Orbs, clear, round, and pulsing faintly, drifted upward like bubbles, slow and certain.
Maudie O’Byrne crossed herself, swearing they were the souls of the unborn.
Tie One On muttered about drunken eyes, though his own token shone oddly bright in his pocket.
Orla Merrin whispered to her notebook: “The mine of stars is open tonight."
As the first orb reached the surface, it did not break like a bubble but hovered a moment, then dissolved into nothing, leaving behind a faint thread of light that wound itself into the Echo Shelf. The Magpie, gave a sharp caw, three times, for the ledger was shifting even as we watched.
By dawn the glow had faded. The lake lay ordinary again, ordinary as ever Lough Owel allows. But each villager’s token carried a new glimmer, a brighter pulse, as though the night’s mining had filled them all.
Filed by Fiddle at moonset.
Pier rail still damp with dew.
The Magpie Report
Coming Soon: THE CARETAKER
Fiddle believes it was a residual haunting of joy, a memory of comfort echoing forward, not back.
Hobs says some songs are sent ahead of time, like letters to who we’ll be.