Home

I was home. That is, back in Ireland. I wasn’t actually born here, but my grandmother had emigrated during the years of the famine. As a small child I listened enchanted to wonderful stories about her little village and what a beautiful place it had been before the Great Hunger drove everyone away. I longed to see it for myself and as I grew older I resolved to someday return to my roots. Some time ago I made arrangements to purchase a bit of land in the very county from whence my grandmother had come.

And now I had arrived. With a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment I surveyed my new holdings and decided right away where the stone house would stand. I pictured a modest cottage and small field set off against a backdrop of rolling green hills. A thick hawthorn tree stood alone in what would become my front yard. Perfect.

On the way to this spot I had passed another small house which a signpost declared to be that of the Flannerys. On my way back down the hill I decided to stop by and introduce myself to the neighbors. I knocked gently upon the wooden door, which presently creaked open a bit to reveal the thin, narrow, elderly face of a bug-eyed man peeping out.

“Faith and begorra, Elizabeth! ’Tis a stranger come to our very door!” He opened the door wide. “Welcome ye, Lad. Come in and tell us what ’tis that brings you to us.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the lilt in his voice, as if he couldn’t be happier to see me. “Hello! My name is Eric Barret and I’ve recently purchased a plot of land up the road a little way. So I’ve come to meet my new neighbors.” I shook hands with the little man whose grip was much firmer than I anticipated and stepped through the threshold into a modestly furnished room.

“I’m Tom Flannery. That’s me wife Elizabeth. Would you bring us a drop, Dear?” He motioned me to sit in one of the shaker-style chairs which was angled toward the hearth the inside of which had been swept clean. Mr. Flannery sat down opposite me.

The plump woman disappeared and soon re-emerged with two glasses of frothy dark Guinness.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said when she handed me the drink.

“’Tis a pleasure all me own.” Her pleasant sing-song voice and round, rosy cheeks reminded me of my grandmother. “Will ye be to building a house then, Mr. Barret?”

“Please, call me Eric. Yes, I’ve even chosen the very spot; behind the hawthorn tree.”

They both gave me bewildered looks as if I had just said ‘behind the moon’ or something. Mrs. Flannery took a chair from against the wall and moved it beside that of her husband. She sat down and finally broke the awkward silence. “Surely ye do nay mean to cut the tree down?”

“Oh no, of course not. It’s a beautiful tree. Especially now when it’s in full bloom. I rather like the white flowers.”

Mr. Flannery still looked concerned. “’Tis a powerful tree, the hawthorn is.”

“Yes.” I nodded in agreement. “It has the appearance of a very strong tree.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. It has magical powers. Ye must use caution around it.”

I had always heard that the Irish were a superstitious lot, but I hadn’t expected to be discussing magical trees with my new neighbors quite so soon.

Mrs. Flannery said, “The hawthorn tree is a favorite dwelling place of the Sidhe.”

“The what?”

“The Sidhe or Feadh-Ree, the fairy people.”

So, Tinkerbell lived in my tree. “That tree?”

“No, not just that one; all the hawthorn trees. The Sidhe consider them to be sacred.”

“Well, I don’t intend to bring any harm to the tree, so there should be no problem with these Sidhe people, right?”

Mr. Flannery leaned forward and looked at me gravely. “’Tis nay just the tree itself, Mr. Barret. Ye must be careful as well not to obstruct their path to it.”

“Their path to it?”

“Aye, they’ve a certain approach that they use to get to the tree. And if ye block it with this house o’ yours, they’ll put a stop to ye for sure.”

It suddenly occurred to me that these people weren’t keen on the idea of somebody building a house in the area. Perhaps this was their way of discouraging ‘the American’. But I certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by stories of fairy people. Still, I didn’t want to offend them, so decided instead to humor them.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Upon the spot that you’ve chosen for your house, pile up four hills o’ stones, one at each corner. Wait a fortnight and then check up on your piles. If they’re still intact, go ahead and build. But if your rocks be strewn about, ’tis a sign from the Sidhe and ’twould be wise o’ ye to choose another spot entirely.”

I struggled to keep my amusement in check, pursed my lips, and nodded with as serious an expression as I could muster. I did not intend to make piles of rocks and wait around for two weeks to see whether or not imaginary people were going to scatter them. “Well, it’s getting late and I need to get back to the village inn. Thank you both for your hospitality and your advice.”

Mr. Flannery called out as I took my leave. “Be sure not to take it lightly, Lad.”

I have to admit I chuckled all the way back to the inn.

The following day I spoke by telephone with the contractor who was scheduled to build my new house, telling him I’d already chosen the perfect spot for the cottage.

“But you’ve only just arrived in Ireland, Mr. Barret. You can’t possibly have checked out the spot yet.”

“Oh, but I have. I was there yesterday.”

“Mr. Barret, sir, am I correct in my recollection that a hawthorn tree stands on that property?”

“Yes, there is a hawthorn tree on the property. I don’t intend to have it removed, though.”

“By God in Heaven, I hope you wouldn’t think of doing that!”

“What’s the matter? Are you worried about the Sidhe or something?”

He instantly lowered his voice. “That’s not something to joke about, Mr. Barret.” After a slight pause he said, “Listen, I couldn’t possibly begin work on your house for a couple of weeks anyhow, so in the meantime why don’t you collect a few rocks and build—”

I cut him off. “What? Piles? Surely, you’re joking!”

“That’s not something to joke about, Mr. Barret. And it could save you a lot of trouble down the road.”

He hung up the phone. It’s a conspiracy, I thought. He must have already heard from Flannery.

I drove over there in my little rental car and knocked on the door intending to inform Mr. Flannery that I would not be intimidated by him and that I knew he had been talking to my contractor. The door opened and the old man peeked out.

“Aye, Laddie, do ye want me to help with your rock piles? I’ve got some experience with that, don’t ye know.”

“Mr. Flannery, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I fully intend to build this house.”

“I’m nay telling ye not to build it, Lad. I’m just trying to help ye keep it once ’tis built.”

“Did you tell the contractor about the hawthorn tree?”

“Nay, he seen it for himself. He found out the land was sold and figured the new owner might be after getting a house. I’m actually surprised he did nay warn ye himself about the precautions ye need to take.”

As he spoke he was pulling on his light jacket and heading out the door. I followed him to the back of his farmhouse where he took hold of a wheelbarrow. “Let’s go get some rocks.”

I decided again to humor him and before long we had erected four structures upon the spot where I meant to build the cottage, one at each of the corners. They resembled miniature towers about two feet high.

“If they last a fortnight, ye’ll know ’tis safe to build it here.”

I couldn’t believe I was doing this.

Four days later I couldn’t believe how angry I was. The rocks were all over the place. Fairies, indeed! Flannery had done this himself! Of course he would say it was a warning and that I’d have to choose another spot. Then we’d go through the whole thing again. And again and again. But I wasn’t going to let him have his little joke on me. I would play his game. Carefully I rebuilt all four of the towers. Every time he knocked them down, I would rebuild them. In two weeks I would tell the contractor everything was good and he could start building.

It happened again on the twelfth day. After I had rebuilt the structures, I was driving down to the village and spotted Flannery outside in front of his house. He waved and I stopped the car.

“How’s it going up there?”

“So far, so good.”

“Well, give it the entire fortnight before ye do anything. Maybe ye’ll get to have that spot.”

Maybe, indeed. I thought. I waved and drove off.

One last time I had to rebuild the foolish things. But on the twenty-first day, I called the contractor and told him the spot had ‘checked out’. He came up and I pointed out the four little towers that marked the place I wanted the house built.

He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m a bit surprised ’tis so close to the hawthorn tree.”

“I have patiently waited twenty days and if it’s all right with the Sidhe it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Construction began the next day. One unfortunate worker somehow broke his arm while on the job. The contractor eyed the hawthorn tree and then me suspiciously.

I shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

“Aye, that they do.”

Finally, the cottage was finished, as beautiful and scenic as I had first imagined it. I paid another visit to my neighbors.

“Well, Mr. Flannery, the house is finished.”

“And a fine house it is as well.”

“Mr. Flannery, I know what you tried to do, but I assure you that I won’t be a bad neighbor. There’s no reason we can’t get along.”

His bushy eyebrows furrowed over squinting eyes and he leaned slightly forward like he hadn’t heard me. “What’re ye talking about?”

“I know it was you that kept tossing the rocks around.”

“What?!?”

“I understand you’d maybe rather not have a foreigner as a neighbor, especially an American. But I promise not to be a problem for you.”

“What did ye say?”

“I said I won’t be a problem—”

“No! Ye said the rocks were tossed about?”

“You don’t have to act surprised. I know it was you and really, I understand.”

Mr. Flannery turned white as a ghost. “Listen to me and listen well. ’Tis very important. Here is what you’ve got to do. Ye must take leaves from the hawthorn tree and make a wreath to hang upon your door. And keep a fire burning in the hearth at all times. Fire is the only thing more powerful than fairy magic. There’s not a creature in the forest that can control fire, including fairies. But humans can. ’Tis the only thing that makes them fear us!”

I backed away as he carried on about wreaths and fire, seeming like a man gone mad. Perhaps this was his way of concealing his embarrassment or anger or both. But I’d had enough talk about fairies and spells and magic trees. I wasn’t about to try to make a wreath out of hawthorn leaves; I wouldn’t even know how to do it. And there was no reason for a fire in May. I ran up the hill, leaving him ranting at his doorstep.

For a week I lived peacefully in my new cottage. I stayed away from the Flannerys and they from me. One day around dusk I returned from a trip into the village and as I approached my hill I could hear a strange rumbling like the roll of thunder. When I came into view of my house, I saw it shaking as if in the grip of an earthquake. I ran the rest of the way and burst through the front door. The vision that greeted me will remain etched in my mind for all the days of my life. Hand prints in blood were upon every wall of the room! The thunderous roar reached a crescendo and erupted in a violent explosion. The great boulders of the house blew skyward and came crashing down all around me. I stood trembling, surrounded by rubble which had once been my beautiful home. A light rain began to fall just as I started screaming.

Mr. Flannery comes to visit me now and sometimes Mrs. Flannery bakes me cookies.