I have always been fascinated by the Lord of the Wild, Cernunnos. There is something about him that has tugged at me since childhood. I have a deep interest in the ancient Britons, the Celts and the Gauls, who lived with a natural respect for the earth and did not imagine themselves as separate from it. Their stories and rituals were woven into the turning of the seasons and the land beneath their feet.

In later centuries, especially after the Roman occupation and the spread of Christianity, many of those older ways shifted or were absorbed into new traditions. But that prickle you sometimes feel at the back of your neck when you are far away from manmade landscapes; the sense that something old and watchful is standing just beyond the edge of sight, I’ve always imagined to be him. And the girl in this story is, in truth, a small echo of my own childhood longing to slip away from the ordinary and run headlong into the green world.

As I have grown older, the yearning hasn't faded. I’ve simply learned that I don't need to run anywhere…the wild is never far away and always willing to open a door if you pause long enough to notice it.

This piece is one I’ve been shaping since last summer, and I loved preparing it for Beltane and reflecting on all the old customs and folklore associated with this time of year and this land. I offer it in celebration of the season and the quiet magic that still lingers in the ancient woodlands here.

I hope you enjoy it & may Beltane blessings be yours!

K x

We lit a fire as dusk grew deep while garden birds began to sleep.
Our apple tree in blossom pale bent low to hear the goblin’s tale.
Rowan watched the embers glow and asked, “What stories do you know?”
Then Moggin spoke, his voice a tune that curled like smoke around the moon.

She lived here once, a girl of grace with pock marked skin and dreaming face.
She woke within a treetop’s sway; Walpurgis waned from dark to day.
Fire had burned, the night grown thin and May Day waited to begin.

She wore a crown of cowslips gold, their petals kissed by rites of old.
Her feet were bare, the grass was cool and kept the path of ancient rule.
She held a ribbon, scarlet red, to knot where hawthorn blossoms spread.
She tied it where the branches part and whispered from her gentle heart…

“Let healing come to skin hard worn and make me whole this Beltane morn.”

She knelt where morning dew was laid and touched the leaves in silver shade, Then bathed her face in drops so clear and let the soil drink all her tears.

Then figure stood where none had been, with shoulders bent in robe of green.
Her voice was scratchy, thin as reed, and in her eyes the glint of greed.

“You seek a face the world will bless, so let me take your tenderness
to thaw the frost from rheumy eyes and help my withered bones arise.
I’ll take it with a single thread plucked gently from your heart and head.
No blood will spill or cry be heard, just silence where your soul once stirred.
You will bloom, but never truly feel, no joy to stir or grief to heal.
Your heart will hold the frost I bear and beat without a single care.”

She said no more and did not press but knew the girl would acquiesce, For those who seek what dew can’t give must trade the heart that helps them live.

The hawthorn leaned and creatures stilled, the pact unspoken, unfulfilled.

Then from the oak, its hollow deep, stepped Cernunnos from his winter’s sleep.
He came not veiled in fear or dread but crowned with leaves about his head.
His antlers rose like temple spires, wreathed in blossom, bark and briar.
His ears were keen as elven kin; his cloak was woven fine and thin.
And oh, his eyes! Like green-brown nut, with gaze so sharp it stilled the gut.
He was the wild, the might and flame, the woodland’s breath and hunter’s name.

The witch stood still, her thread unspun, a faded shape beneath the sun.
She’d sought to mend what time had torn, to feel her strength become reborn.
Cernunnos’ voice like gentle rain, spoke not with wrath or cruel disdain.
He touched her hand and treetops sighed, her cold withdrew and years untied.

“You have wandered far and lived alone; let warmth return to flesh and bone.
The May renews your weary part and thaws the frost within your heart.”

The girl looked on, her breath held tight, unsure if wrong had turned to right.
Cernunnos stepped and bowed full low, his crown of leaves leaned soft and slow.

“You need no dew to make you fair or blossoms woven through your hair.
I see the scars none else can see, the quiet strength you’ve come to be.”

He held her gaze, the silence grew, the woodland breathed in something true.

“Come walk with me if that feels right; the wild will hold you in the light.
But only if your heart would dare, no vow is asked, just if you care.”

So it was they walked away, through leaf and light and softest day.
They fell in love as wild things will, and through the woods they wander still.

And if you watch the trees in May, you just might see them pass this way;
a leafy crown, a fleeting trace, still twining through this greening place.

I have been wrestling with a story for weeks now, or perhaps it has been wrestling with me. Some stories arrive like a tide, steady and inevitable. Others lurk at the tree line, watching, waiting, and refusing to step forward no matter how gently you coax. This one has dug in its heels, good and proper. My head feels full of fog and half‑formed sentences, and Moggin has taken to tapping my forehead with a wooden spoon as though checking for echoes.

“Give it a rest,” he told me last week, hands on hips, looking exasperated. “Your brain’s gone all knotty. Do something sensible. Get some fresh air. Eat something, and for goodness’ sake, stop frowning!”

If my story refused to emerge, Moggin reasoned, perhaps it was time to turn our attention to something more cooperative, namely, himself. While we discussed this, it occurred to me that when I mention Moggin, I’m expecting everyone to instantly know who I’m talking about, which is rather unfair to those who have not yet had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Not everyone, I’ve realised, will immediately know that Moggin Boggin is a goblin who has lived with us for years in a manner that he describes as unexpectedly permanent. I mention him so off‑handedly that I sometimes forget the rest of the world hasn’t been sharing a house with a magical being and associated biscuit crumbs, an Elsewending gramophone, or his ongoing feud with the neighbour’s incontinent cat.

He suggested we invite our friends on Substack to send in any questions they might have for a goblin of his standing. They could be about faery lore, perhaps how it feels to Elsewend, or how a goblin fills his days. “Humans are curious creatures,” he said, “and who am I to disappoint them?”

We were delighted by the questions that came in, both publicly and those that slipped quietly into my DMs. Moggin has been carrying them around on scraps of paper in his pockets ever since, pulling them out at intervals like shiny treasures.

We decided that if we were going to answer these questions properly, we ought to make an occasion of it, and the only way a goblin knows how to make an occasion of anything is with food. Any food, really. Moggin (like me) is a strict vegetarian, but within those parameters he considers almost everything “his favourite,” which makes planning a menu both wonderfully simple and utterly impossible.

Moggin insisted we dress for dinner, prompting Rowan to clutch his chest like a scandalised Victorian maiden and declare, “Excuse me! I always dine fully clothed.” It’s a long‑standing joke between them, ever since Rowan’s toddler years, when he was prone to parading cheerfully through the house in his birthday suit. Moggin’s eyes twinkled. “I’m just saying, some diners have a… history.” Rowan groaned and left the kitchen, muttering about slander, leaving Moggin and me to prepare our feast.

We settled on a menu that felt suitably celebratory. To start, we made a chestnut‑and‑mushroom pâté served with what Moggin calls crackle‑bread (toast to you and me), followed by giant Yorkshire puddings the size of upturned bowler hats filled with swede‑and‑carrot mash, vegetarian sausages, and cauliflower cheese with just the right balance of ooze and crispy bits. Because Moggin insists that every celebration in this house must have one, trifle was for ‘afters’ and if there was room (I’m assured there always is), a platter of assorted crackers accompanied by the stinkiest cheeses a goblin could procure.

We poured the fizz, a small ritual in itself; though Moggin can rarely get through a glass without sneezing, which delights him enormously. “It feels sooo nice to sneeze!” he laughed, sneezed twice more for good measure, then declared the bottle “excellent.”

Moggin lit the candles next, jewel‑bright tapers in magenta, amber, and deep forest green, each one perfectly matched to the tulips and linen napkins he had selected earlier with great solemnity. The effect was unexpectedly beautiful, a little theatrical, very faery, and entirely Moggin.

He’d also dragged through his old gramophone, polished for the occasion until it gleamed like something rescued from a dragon’s hoard. From it drifted a collection of classical pieces, some familiar, others unmistakably from Elsewhere, played on instruments that sounded a cross between a cello, a kettle, and a disgruntled goose. Moggin assured us it was very fashionable in the Unseen Realms and we, of course, took his word for it. Most evenings, the radio burbles away in the background, but Moggin insisted that the strains of modern music (anything from the reign of Charles I onward, in his opinion) were not fitting for an occasion of such gravitas. “You can’t interview a goblin to the strains of Taylor Swift,” he said, horrified.

The food was very much enjoyed, and all the while we talked through the questions our readers had sent in. Moggin kept patting the pockets of his lavishly embroidered waistcoat to make sure the precious scraps of paper were still there.

Between courses, Rowan and my husband cleared the dishes and restored order to the kitchen. This was partly an act of kindness and partly self‑preservation, as neither of them can bear the “stinkies” - Moggin’s assorted cheeses - and wished to escape before they made their appearance.

And so, while they fled to the safer air of the sitting room, Moggin and I retired to the sunroom with our prized cheeseboard, a stack of rosemary and walnut crackers, and a view of the garden where the sun was sinking behind the treeline. I was certain I couldn’t have managed a single caraway seed by that point, yet somehow still found room for a few delectable morsels. Moggin, of course, managed considerably more.

I settled back into the blue velvet sofa, feeling for a moment like Michael Parkinson about to interview someone truly fabulous, which, of course, Moggin is. He straightened his back in my dad’s antique leather chair, folded his hands, and gave me an expectant grin.

Living with Moggin is a little like living somewhere beautiful, which I am blessed to do. York draws people from across the world to marvel at the Minster, medieval streets, the Roman walls, the museums, and the river winding through the city like a silver ribbon. And yet, when you live here, you sometimes forget to look, to actually see. Sometimes you need to brush the scales from your eyes to notice your own surroundings again.

This interview with a goblin, smoothing out questions on the coffee table with great ceremony, reminded me of that. It renewed my wonder. It made me look at Moggin not just as the creature who interferes with my life, has opinions on everything, and loses his reading glasses in the fruit bowl, but as he truly is. A being of Elsewhere, ancient, curious, and entirely magical.

Before we start, it seems only right to describe Moggin properly, or as properly as one can describe an individual who refuses to stay the same shape for long. Like all faery, he can shift his appearance when it suits him, but at home he tends to look, to our eyes, like a “well‑built man” (a phrase my grandma used when she meant stout). He is strong and nimble for his size, which he has mentioned before is “shin‑height,” though to me he appears to stand at a perfectly respectable five feet. Faery logic is like that.

His moustache and beard are greying, often wild and unruly, as though he has recently stuck his head out of a fast‑moving train carriage. On this occasion, however, they are smoothed into submission, his moustache curled subtly at the corners of his mouth in a way that makes him look rather dapper, almost courtly, dare I say.

His clothes rarely change in style, only in shade. He favours linen shirts (fresh every day, he insists you know), corduroy trousers that remind me of my grandpa, in the earthy palette of bottle‑green, russet, and brown, and waistcoats… so many waistcoats. Some are tweed or thick wool for colder months; others are lighter cotton for summer, embroidered with tiny flora and fauna as though the woodland and all its inhabitants had crept up and settled on him while he wasn’t looking.

So now you can see Moggin as I can, I’ll return to the interview.

I cleared my throat, picked up the first question, and Moggin leaned forward, eyes bright.

The first question concerned his name, and this requires a little explanation. Faery are bound by strict rules, and one of the oldest is this: you never give your true name. Names are power. To speak your true name aloud is to hand someone the key to your very self, and no faery worth their salt (or their cheese) would dream of doing such a thing.

Moggin Boggin is not his true name, of course. It’s the name Rowan bestowed on him as a toddler, when “goblin” tumbled out as “moggin,” and later, in bolder attempts, “boggin.” Moggin was so enchanted by it that he claimed it on the spot, and it has been his ever since.

I read the next question to him. “Moggin, how old are you?” and he let out a delighted little snort.

“Oho! How ruuude!” he said, wagging his finger at me. “Faery time doesn’t run like yours,” he said. “It loops, folds, wanders off and comes back wearing someone else’s hat. In Elsewhere, I’m not any particular age at all, I simply am.”

He gave a small shrug, as though this explained everything.

“But if you insist on mortal reckonings,” he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I’d be almost four hundred years old.” He winked. “Where I’m from, that’s barely grown.”

The next question I read to him concerned how he came into my life, and whether others might ever be chosen by faery. Moggin grew still and a bit misty‑eyed for a moment. He rested a hand on his lanthorn, lit on the coffee table between us; it’s a very old wooden one with cow‑horn panes that glow whenever someone or something is in need. “It lit for you that winter,” he said simply. “Bright as midsummer, though a glow alone doesn’t decide things. I stayed because you and your household felt… companionable. I love that you talk to yourself, inanimate objects and to trees, as I do. You notice how sunlight behaves in a room, pay attention to the seasons and your son is a fine lad… I want to see him grow! Places like this are easy for a goblin to settle into.”

He tapped his chair arm lightly. “And if others hope to commune with the elementals or the garden spirits, it’s much the same. Nothing grand, just small courtesies, of course food offerings always help, and in all areas of your life, try to give more than you take.” He gave a small, satisfied nod at that.

He was still watching the glow of the lanthorn when I mentioned a reader wanting to know how the fox was faring, and at once he came back to himself. “Ah, Æled,” he said, with fondness. “Old Saxon name. Means blazing fire… it rather suits him.” He chuckled. “After he brought me that enchanted pinecone from the woodland folk at Christmas, he got himself very busy with a vixen. Rowan can attest to the racket… their winter courtship lasted for several nights, yowling outside his window!” He nodded toward the garden. “They’ve a litter tucked away in the den near the house now. The little ones will be out in May, blinking fluffballs tripping over their own paws. Poor Æled looks a bit tatty with all the running about and hunting; they’re certainly keeping him on his toes!”

When I posed the question about the Ledger of Unfinished Deeds, he let out a heartfelt groan, the sort that suggested he’d hoped I might forget to ask. “Oh, don’t bring that up,” he said, though a small, smug smile tugged at his mouth. “I have made progress, though. The coat is finally mended, wriggly blighter, and I returned the missing Tuesday to Elder Bratch after I finally tracked it down, hiding in the lining of my winter coat. He’s restored order to time and space, so that’s one thing off my mind.”

I asked what other unfinished business lurked in there, and he straightened a little, as though considering how much to admit. “One or two seasonal obligations,” he said vaguely. “There always are. A promise to check on something, a favour owed… small matters really, nothing dramatic,” he muttered evasively. “I’ll get to them. Elder Bratch will make certain of it.”

I brought up another reader’s question, this one asking whether flowers are faery. Moggin gave a thoughtful little hum.

“It’s not really about faeries hiding in petals,” he said. “It’s that everything has a spirit. Mortals forget this, which is baffling, because your own ancestors knew it perfectly well.”

I asked him what he meant, and he warmed to the subject.

“Norse tradition observes the Landvættir, spirits of land and hill while Qi, the life‑breath in all things is honoured in China. Some Indigenous North American peoples speak of Manitou, the presence in every being, and the Celts had the Sídhe. Different names for the same truth. The world is full of company.”

I asked, then, what one should do if one wished to kiss such a flower… the reader had been very specific about that part. Moggin’s moustache twitched.

“Well,” he said, “as with harvesting, you should ask first, you touch lightly, and you give thanks.” He paused, then added, “And yes, it has been known for mortals to catch sight of a faery after bestowing a kiss. Not always, mind you. But it happens. Courtesy thins the air between realms.”

When I asked him about his favourite time of year, Moggin didn’t hesitate. His whole face softened, as though he’d stepped into a memory.

“I love all seasons but will settle for two,” he said. “Midsummer… I love the long days, the return of the swifts, billowy meadows, and strawberries eaten warm from the garden. And deep winter for rest,” he went on. “The quiet. The blankets and hunkering. Woodfires and hot, comforting food.” He gave a small, satisfied sigh, the sound of someone who has known many winters and found them all delightful.

The mention of winter’s comforting meals nudged us neatly toward the final question of the evening: his favourite food. Moggin looked personally offended by the idea of having to choose.

“I love all food,” he declared, as though this were a point of honour. But after a moment he relented. “If I must pick… it would be a mature blue cheese of some sort… or perhaps freshly baked scones.” His voice trailed off as he pondered. “And if beverages are part of this… I must have hazelnut coffee of a morning and a rich sherry in the evening.”

By now the night had fully descended, so dark we could see no more than a few feet beyond the patio door where our lamplight pooled through the glass. The garden had vanished into a soft, velvety nothing. Our tummies were comfortably full, and that sudden post‑supper drowsiness; the kind that arrives all at once and makes the eyelids heavy, settled over us.

Moggin blinked slowly, then announced with great authority, “It is time for hot cocoa and bed.”

He wasn’t wrong. We had a busy day of allotmenting and heavy work ahead in the morning.

We blew out the candles and made our way to the kitchen. While he whisked milk and chocolate in the saucepan, we talked over the remaining reader questions. There were more than we’d anticipated.

So we agreed to make little chapters in the Almanac for them, pieces on faery lore, the rules and terms of mortal engagement, the ways of woodland dwellers, the spirits of the earth, air, and water, all in the hope of bringing a little wonder back into a sometimes dark world.

When the cocoa was ready, I hugged Moggin goodnight before he slipped through the portal to his rooms in the hallway. I stood there for a moment, marvelling that I share my home with a goblin, then padded off to bed.

One morning on the verge of Spring when blackthorn dares its buds to bring,

Rowan found some pawprints pressed in softened mud, an unseen guest.

Not bird, not cat or otter’s stride but longer, lighter…slightly wide.

They looped past bee skeps, over stones beyond the path and garden gnomes.

He followed, heart both calm and stirred until he met a watching bird,

The one who always seems to know when ancient magic wakes below.

Moggin met him at the stile, his beard was full of cheer and smile.

He muttered, squinting at the track, ‘‘the hollow hill…. it’s bloomin’ back!’’

It rose where daffodils had been, a swelling mound of vivid green.

Too grand for mole too round for plough- it hadn’t been there until now.

No door but just a twist of light that shimmered at the edge of sight.

A veil of roots and mossy stone, a stillness deep as buried bone.

Inside the hollow, dim and swept, where hares in spirals danced and leapt.

They tuned the dawn, they roused the day; their paws composed the seasons ways.

They circled round a ring of green where sat one hare, aloof, serene.

Its fur was pale as birchwood bark, its gaze was knowing, still and dark.

Rowan stepped with quiet care and met the eyes of that old hare.

No word was said, no need for sound, he knelt and touched the trembling ground.

Beside him Moggin whispered low, ‘‘the dream seed’s lost and cannot grow.

To turn the wheel and lift the shade, a token must be freely paid.’’

Rowan took light from days gone by…a name, a wish, a summer sky

Then gave them up with heart so kind and left his warmth for spring to find.

He offered words the earth might keep, a spell to wake the seeds from sleep.

Then heat rose up from stone and seam and chased the shoots from winter’s dream.

The spiral turned, the hares broke wide, raced through the winds at springtide’s side.

The hill exhaled then slipped from sight, a hill no more just morning light.

They walked back home through primrose sweet with glowing cheeks and muddy feet.

Moggin lit his pipe and said ‘‘your dream was planted, winter’s fled.

Balance kept, now spring can grow and you my lad have made it so.’’

A Georgian house of weathered red brick stood halfway along Henrietta Street, its colour softened by nearly three centuries of Dublin weather. Tall sash windows stretched elegantly, framed by pale granite lintels and the front step that was cut from the same stone, was hollowed and smooth from generations of feet. The cobbles of the street held the faint memory of carriage wheels and inside the house, the air was cool and clean. It might have felt austere if not for the woman who moved through it like a small, determined whirlwind.

Finn’s grandmother swept through those rooms with cheerful force, her presence warming the house more effectively than any fire. She hummed as she polished the banisters, sang loudly along to the strains of the radio as she vacuumed and kept the place orderly but homely. Her infectious laughter carried throughout the place and softened its stubborn creakiness, turning the grand, echoing house into a home.

Finn grew up mostly in her care. His mother had died when he was very young…so young that his memories of her were more feelings than images. The soft lilt of a bedtime story, the warmth of being held close while her perfume soothed him into slumber. His father, a good but busy man, travelled constantly for the family’s estate management firm. He came home with tired eyes and a briefcase full of paperwork, proud of his son but always half pulled back toward the world of contracts and clients.

So it was that his grandmother shaped his days, and the house was a place of warmth because she was in it.

In late summer, before the new school year began, Finn’s grandmother took him on the short walk down toward the river Liffey, turning off Capel Street into one of its narrow side lanes where the pavements tightened and the buildings leaned in as though to gossip. Halfway along that lane stood a little shoe shop with a façade of deep bottle green timber and above the door hung a hand painted sign in glamourous gold leaf- O’Driscoll & Sons, Bootmakers Since 1847.

The window frames held old bullseye glass, each circular centre caught the light like a pupil. As Finn approached, the reflections shifted and curved, following his movement with a soft, liquid shimmer. He liked to think that the shop looked out for him, recognising him from the year before and was happy to see him return.

Behind those watchful panes, leather bags, gloves and footwear of all sizes and colours stood on dark wooden risers polished to a soft sheen; brogues, boots, sensible lace-ups and patent sandals with silvery buckles that winked in the light.

Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and leather. The floorboards were rich mahogany, glossy from the passing of a zillion customers. Counters were glass topped and brass edged, their surfaces gleaming. Overhead, clusters of frosted glass light fittings cast a warm, honeyed glow, their tulip shaped shades suspended from slender brass stems. Their radiance pooled across the polished counters and picked out the faint gold scrolls and leaves of the plaster cornice.

Finn loved visiting the shop; partly for the delicious anticipation of new shoes, the tickle of the sliding metal mechanism that measured his feet, and the proud feeling of stepping out in a new pair that made him feel just a little more grown up. But the real reason he loved it so much stood at the very back of the shop.

An enormous clock dominated the wall like a great wooden doll’s house; its balconies and windows carved with exquisite detail with painted shutters pierced with shamrock shaped holes. The figures inside; a milkmaid, a fiddler and a dog were each the height of a cat and Finn could never quite decide if they too were carved from wood because they appeared so lifelike. On the afternoon of his ninth birthday, Finn drifted-as he always did, toward the great clock. His grandmother, thinking he was simply deciding between slip-ons and lace-ups, stayed at the counter chatting with the shopkeeper. Her laughter rose and fell in loud, familiar bursts, but Finn barely heard her. The clock had its own pull, and today it felt stronger than ever.

It was almost three o’clock…the long hand crept toward the number twelve then three clear notes rang out softly followed by a decisive click from deep within the wooden case. The painted shamrock shutters gave a tiny tremble, then eased open to allow the figures to emerge.

The fiddler lifted his bow to draw out the liveliest reel while the milkmaid clapped her hands in time, her skirts swaying as she stepped neatly from side to side. At her feet, the little black and white dog pranced in cheerful circles, paws tapping the beat with perfect precision, as though the music itself propelled his small body. Then, from the shadowed doorway at the centre of the clock, a figure that he’d never seen before stepped forward.

Finn’s breath caught as his eyes found those of a leprechaun.

He wore a moss green coat and a leather apron, his braided beard the colour of a new copper coin. A tiny hammer rested in one hand and a half finished shoe was held in the other. His polished chestnut boots clicked softly on the wooden balcony as he lightly danced to its edge.

The little man smiled and began to sing, his voice wove itself through the reel the fiddler played, rising and falling with the milkmaid’s claps and the dog’s tapping paws:

Gold you’ll seek in years to come,
And in your purse you’ll gather sums.
But mark my words and know them true
The brightest hoard is hid in you.

The final note lingered, then dissolved on the warm air and faded as though it had never been. The figures retreated and the shutters closed once again.

Finn stood rooted to the spot, the words echoing through him, repeating over and over in his head as he tried to make sense of them.

Behind him, his grandmother gently chided, “Finn, love? Which shoes will you be having, now?”

He turned, still dazed, and something in her bright, busy face told him she already knew the world held small magics, but that this one was his to keep alone.

In the years that followed, Finn returned to O’Driscoll & Sons less often. School grew busier, then university busier still, and those small rituals of childhood softened into memory. Then his grandmother’s health began to fail- firstly in small, easily dismissed ways, then with a quiet inevitability, leading to her slipping away one pale winter’s morning. His father, practical and well‑intentioned, stepped in with a firm hand, guiding Finn toward the family firm as though it were the natural order of things. And Finn, still raw with grief but eager for something solid to hold on to, allowed himself to be carried along.

The world he entered was one of glass, steel and polished boardrooms, where success was measured in profit margins and the steady accumulation of wealth. Finn adapted quickly and rose through the ranks with a relentless determination that impressed his colleagues and pleased his father, and for a long time, believed this was what a good life looked like. The sums in his accounts grew handsomely, and the half forgotten prophecy from the leprechaun seemed to fulfil itself in the most literal way. But there was a cost…friends drifted and his marriage ruptured under the strain of his absence. When the markets shifted and the threat of bankruptcy loomed, Finn found himself standing alone in his glass‑walled office, Dublin city glittering beneath him like a scatter of coins in the sunlight. The fear of ruin pressed in on him with a cold, unyielding weight. It was then, exhausted and hollow, he stared absentmindedly at his reflection in the window, seeing a man he barely recognised stare back that a memory stirred.

Before he had time to question it, Finn left the office and strode through the city with purpose. The streets were slick with spring rain and soon he was standing before the bottle‑green façade of O’Driscoll & Sons.

Inside the shop, the air still carried that familiar blend of beeswax and leather and there, at the back, the great clock waited. When the long hand reached twelve, the clock chimed three clear notes. The shutters trembled; the fiddler lifted his bow, the milkmaid clapped and the dog pranced just as he’d remembered. And then, from the shadowed doorway, the leprechaun stepped forward.

This time, Finn did not stand entranced. He moved with the swift, decisive certainty of a man who had run out of choices. He reached out, seized the little figure, and stuffed him into his briefcase and snapped it shut. Finn rushed out of the shop without looking back, heart hammering with adrenaline.

Back in his office high above the river, he set the briefcase on the desk and opened it with trembling hands. The leprechaun stepped out, brushing off his moss‑green coat with a dignity that made Finn feel suddenly, sharply ashamed. When the little man looked up, his copper‑bright beard bristled and his expression held a weary disappointment, as though he had seen this moment coming long before Finn had.

“You’ve travelled far from yourself, lad,” he said quietly.

Finn swallowed, the words he had meant to say dissolved in desperation “I’m losing everything,” he said. “The business… my marriage… it’s all slipping away. I thought…” He faltered, unable to finish.

The leprechaun stepped onto the desk, his tiny boots clicking softly on the glass. “You never heeded my song,” he said while lightly touching Finn’s chest. “The gold you sought was never meant to be coin…the treasure was always in you- that spark of creation we’re all gifted, the spark your granny tended in you so carefully. You buried it under your projects and spreadsheets, but it’s in there still, waiting.”

A warmth spread through Finn’s heart then, subtle and steady, like the first glow of a fire coaxed gently back to life. In that quiet bloom of heat he understood the truth of the leprechaun’s words. His business and the future he had tried so desperately to force into shape could not be rescued by three wishes or by clinging to the ruins of ambition. But he could choose how things unfolded now. He could let the company go, before it collapsed entirely, and step away with dignity intact and with something far more valuable than the empire he had spent years trying to hold together.

The leprechaun looked up at him then, “Let the treasure within guide you to your true path,” he said, the words carrying the quiet weight of a blessing. He patted Finn’s chest once more and then his form began to loosen, softening at the edges until he became a drift of white blossom, swirling gently before lifting toward the open window. The petals caught the breeze and scattered into the city beyond, rising and falling with the March wind.

By the time the had sun dipped behind the rooftops, the business had a new owner. Finn left the building feeling lighter than he had in years; lighter even than the blossoms that had drifted from his desk. As he stepped onto the street, a familiar tune reached him on the evening air. A busker stood on the corner, bow dancing across the strings of a battered fiddle, playing the same lively reel that had echoed from the clock in the little shoe shop.

Finn paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The busker’s eyes glinted with a mischief that felt strangely familiar, though his face was half‑hidden beneath a cap pulled low.

The reel lifted, bright and sure, and Finn felt the spark inside him glow in answer; the spark he had carried since childhood and had nearly lost, the spark that was his true hoard.

He walked on, the music following him down the street, and for the first time in a very long while, Finn felt entirely and unmistakably himself.

I have never fully explained why Moggin came to live with us, only that he appeared the winter that Rowan was born. For years I’ve skimmed over the details, as though the full story might unravel something I wasn’t ready to face. Until recently, I’d never really examined the why of it at all - despite the fact that a goblin lodger is, by any measure, a hugely unusual development. Explaining his presence to my husband back then was complicated to say the least. The truth was far messier, and far more human. It was grief that brought him to me...the kind that hollows you from the inside, leaving you brittle, lost and never-to-be-quite-the-same-again. Our first precious son, my auntie and then my beloved grandma; all gone within months of each other, as though the universe had conspired to test the tensile strength of my heart.

I’ll never know how Moggin knew. Goblins have their own ways of sensing things like sorrow and thresholds, and he came at exactly the right moment, stepping into my life with the quiet certainty of someone who had been watching from the edges for far longer than I’d realised. He helped me navigate the darkness, piece by fragile piece, until I could breathe again and welcome Rowan into the world with something like steadiness. I will always be grateful, to my husband whose heart was in pieces too; to Moggin, who arrived uninvited but entirely necessary and to Rowan, whose tiny heartbeat tethered me to the world when I might otherwise have drifted away.

When things get tough, Moggin helps me go to a place in my mind. If you can imagine a dark room, the kind where the air feels thick and unmoving and in the centre of that gloom stands a bright blue doorframe painted with wildflowers with a matching cornflower coloured wooden door that stands just slightly ajar. This is my doorway and all I must do to escape the darkness is push.

Sometimes it opens into a sunlit meadow, warm, sweet and humming with bees or leads me to my grandma’s kitchen, where the kettle is always just about to boil, the gentle hum of BBC Radio 4 greets me and I see her diminutive frame from behind, clattering china in the sink corner. Other times, I am in the mountains of Glencoe where I spent many a wild childhood summer with my family or I amble into the woodland near my home where the loamy air fills my nostrils and birdsong soothes my jangling nerves. The point is, it’s mine, a place shaped by memory and longing and the powerful magic of survival.

Moggin says we all have doorways like this in the mind that open when the world becomes too heavy. He knows because he has one too. This story is about those doorways and how being broken apart can uncover paths we’d never have seen without it, leading toward unlikely friendships, quiet healing, and extraordinary possibilities.

Moggin didn’t come to me by accident. He came because he recognised something in my darkness that echoed his own. Long before he was my lodger, long before enchanted objects, the talk of Elsewending and magical gramophones were commonplace in our home, Moggin had already lived a life shaped by magic, love and loss. He was left for mortal parents who’d begged for a babe on a black‑moon night, a gift asked for in desperation and answered in the only way the faeries know how. His mother and father loved him without question, raising him as their own, never minding the quiet strangeness that clung to him from the very beginning. Moggin loved them fiercely, in that goblin way that burns brightly and never quite fits the shape of the world he was given.

It was after their passing, in that grief‑stricken chapter of his life, that Moggin met Valentinos di Camaldoli, the man whose quiet acts would eventually be polished into the Valentine tales we hear today. Some say he was a Roman priest, others a bishop or a martyr writing love letters from a prison cell. The truth has been knotted and re‑knotted by poets, priests, and those who prefer their history dipped in sugar like a stick of sour rhubarb. But Moggin, who has lived longer than most stories, has little patience for mortal embellishment, insisting that the tale I’m about to tell is the one that matters.

Moggin does not often speak of what happened after his parents died. Grief had begun to pull at the seams of him, loosening the careful magic that had always kept him safe amongst mortals. Glamour, in the faery sense, is a shimmery quiet magic laid over the self that helps the faery‑born blend into the mortal world. It keeps the edges softened and camouflages the strangeness. But grief unravels it, and Moggin’s was coming apart stitch by stitch.

Fear spreads quickly in small places, and the curious glances from his neighbours that had followed him since childhood sharpened into something far colder. When his magic finally flared, a great crackle of light rattled shutters and sent animals close by into a frenzy, tipping the people past unease. By nightfall, that fear had curdled into something cruel, and they came for him under the cover of darkness.

He remembers the crash of the door, the rough hands and confusion of being dragged through the house that still smelled faintly of his mother’s lavender soap and his father’s pipe smoke. By dawn, the cottage he had grown up in was burning, and Moggin, beaten, dazed and stripped of everything he owned, lay abandoned on the village green beneath the old stone trough. He lay there barely conscious, wishing with a clarity that still startles him that he could simply slip into the afterlife and find his parents waiting there.

By the time the sun lifted over the rooftops, someone else had reached the village green. Valentinos, travelling at first light, paused when he saw the smoke drifting from the ruined cottage and then noticed the small figure curled on the churned, cold wet earth. Valentinos stepped closer, his boots squelching in the thick mud, and knelt beside Moggin with the steady care of someone who understood how easily a wounded soul might lash out.

“Friend,” he said softly, “let me help you.’’

Moggin could not answer, he could barely lift his head, yet something in him eased at the sound of the man’s voice.

Valentinos gathered him with slow, deliberate care, and for Moggin, who had lost everything in a single night, that simple kindness was enough to let the world tilt, ever so slightly toward hope.

Valentinos took Moggin to a small inn beyond the village, a place far enough away that no one recognised him and no one cared to ask questions. There, he tended Moggin’s wounds and coaxed him back to strength, giving him space to rest and remember how to be in the world again.

When Moggin was well enough to travel, the two set out together. Their paths simply aligned, and neither of them saw reason to part. Over time, Moggin learned about the plague that had taken Valentinos’ betrothed, and how it was, in the long wretched time that followed, he had travelled from the sun‑drenched hills of Italy to England. He had worked in the great hospitium of St Leonard’s in York, learning the ways of herbs and the tending of troubled souls.

As the brutal winter softened into spring, they found themselves in a small market town where Valentinos hoped to restock his herbs. Moggin, still rebuilding his strength, wandered the stalls while Valentinos bartered with an apothecary. It was there, among the jostling noise and colour, that Moggin first noticed how many people moved through the world carrying quiet sorrow and something in him stirred with a yearning to ease it.

That evening, while Valentinos prepared their supper, Moggin sat by the hearth with a few simple things he had gathered… a sprig of hawthorn for protection, meadowsweet for comfort and a smooth heart-shaped river pebble he warmed with a thread of his own magic. He wrapped them in a scrap of russet cloth and a twist of twine- a small charm for a lonely elderly woman he had seen earlier.

Valentinos watched him for a long moment, then smiled.
“You have a healer’s hands too,” he said.

Before dawn, Moggin slipped out into the still‑sleeping town and set the little charm on the lady’s doorstep. Later that morning, as he and Valentinos prepared, Moggin spotted her in the square. She held it close to her chest, her expression softened, as though a corner of her sadness had eased.

In the months that followed, the two men travelled quietly from place to place, offering comfort where they could. Together, they left simple, anonymous tokens for those who needed them most.

In time, these small kindnesses began to travel farther than they did. A trinket left on a doorstep in one town would be spoken of in the next, and a balm given to ease a widow’s sleep would be remembered long after the two travellers had moved on. People began to look for these quiet gifts, though no one knew who left them or why.

But sadly, in a time when fear and suspicion ran high, word reached a local priest that someone was leaving enchanted objects among the townsfolk. Healing without church sanction was already frowned upon, but charms that mingled herbs with faery magic were another matter entirely. Such things were easily twisted into accusations of sorcery, or worse… heresy.

When Valentinos was recognised in a tavern- a foreign healer with his strange remedies and quiet companion, it was enough. Moggin’s glamour kept him largely unseen, but Valentinos was seized; accused of practising forbidden arts and leading souls astray with unhallowed cures.

Valentinos was taken under guard to York, to face judgement in the great city where he had once tended the sick with gentle hands. On the night before his execution, Moggin slipped into the gaol. The guards were weary, their torches guttering in the draught. Moggin whispered a thread of faery magic into the air… a soft, shimmering lull that drifted through the dank prison like dust motes. One by one, the guards slumped into a stupor. He reached Valentinos’ cell and pressed his palms to the thick bars.
“Wake,” he hissed and Valentinos stirred, blinking in disbelief.

“There is not much time,” Moggin said. “I can open a way for you but it must lead somewhere you truly wish to go.”

Valentinos stepped closer, his face shadowed. “Then let it be home,” he whispered. “To the place where she and I once walked in the sunshine.”

Moggin nodded. He drew a large rectangle over the bars that kept him captive, his long fingers leaving faint trails of light. The bars wavered and then softened into a doorway shaped by longing and memory, and through it, Valentinos could see the rolling Tuscan hills of his childhood, olive trees stirring in a warm wind.

“Go,” Moggin said, voice low. “Before the spell breaks.”

Valentinos hesitated only a heartbeat before pulling Moggin into a fierce embrace, the kind shared by brothers who had carried one another through sorrow and emerged stronger than before.
“I’ll never forget you,” he whispered.

Moggin held him just as tightly.
“And the world will never forget the man who was kind to the forgotten and the heartsore,” he said. “Now go.”

Then Valentinos stepped through the doorway, and the light folded around him like a closing book. The enchanted doorway sealed itself, leaving only the cold unyielding bars behind.

At daybreak, the guards awoke confused as the locked cell lay empty. Some whispered of miracles and others of sorcery, but no one could say what had truly happened.

Moggin kept Valentinos’ kindness alive, tending it quietly through the years as repayment for the grace once shown to him. And unknowingly, we echo that legacy each mid‑February, when we make or buy small tokens of love to give anonymously to those we cherish.

So happy Valentine’s Day…may the spirit of selfless giving live on in all we offer to one another.❤️

This piece is a little glimpse of life with me, Rowan, and Moggin (our dear goblin lodger) during a season threaded with old meanings… juniper for cleansing and renewal, hazel for guidance and the quiet sense of choosing the right path and birch for beginnings and the courage to step into them. Some call this time Imbolg or Imbolc, when the earth stirs beneath the frost and hope begins to warm again. For us, it’s a time of hearth, craft, and looking after one another as the light slowly returns. Old friends and new are always welcome here… and Moggin, of course, remains the kindliest host of us all x x

The afternoon was grey with snow, each gust a whip and flake a blow.

I bent above the bench with care, the scent of compost in the air,

and worked with soil beneath my nails and pressed in pots the small bulbs pale.

Like heralds waiting underground for when the spring came back around,

gifts for those whose hearts still burn to mark the season’s quiet turn.

Moggin hunkered by the flames in woollen vest and socks that came

halfway to his knobbled knees, like knitted spells to ward off freeze.

He stirred some milk with practiced flair in pan all smoothed from years of wear.

Dark chocolate shaved with steady hand, melted slow as task demands.

A pinch of chili, crushed and red, to bring the warmth from toes to head.

No rush, no haste or powdered cheat, just kitchen craft and mellow heat.

Then hallway banged with bag and boot and mood as sour as moldy fruit.

Coat was damp, his shoulders low, still heavy from the classroom’s woe.

But through the air a scent took flight of chocolate rich and chili’s might.

It curled from Moggin’s hidden door, a spell he had followed oft before.

He shuffled in with sodden feet to firelight’s glow and wingback seat.

Moggin moved with quiet grace, a knowing smile upon his face,

and placed a mug in Rowan’s grip, steam twirling from its earthen lip.

‘For gloom,’ he said, ‘and leaky shoes… hot chocolate knows the cure for blues.’

Rowan held it, fingers sore, its heat a balm both deep and sure.

He did not speak, just closed his eyes, exhaled dramatic, heartfelt sighs.

I smoothed his fringe and kissed his brow, ‘It is Friday, lamb, you’re home for now.’

Upon a china plate nearby, the golden shortbread caught his eye.

He took a nibble, murmured ‘yum,’ as citrus pine lit up his tongue;

and nutty sweetness, warm and fine, ‘What’s in this, Moggin? It’s divine!’

‘Juniper for returning light, and hazel guides to all that’s right.’

Then Moggin grinned, all twinkle eyed. ‘Imbolg nears, the cold subsides.

The earth, it quickens in its sleep; the ewes grow round, their young stir deep.

We’ll honour hearth and lengthening day with birch and charm the old wise way.’

‘We will weave a charm for our front door,’ and placed a bundle on the floor

of birch twigs shed throughout the year and laid them out with quiet cheer.

The kitchen still, the fire low, the whips aligned in soldier rows.

I gathered sprigs and showed my son the way my mum had always done.

Rowan reached with cautious hand and tried to twist the twigs and strands.

His fingers slipped the pattern wrong, but Moggin hummed a patient song.

No scolding words or furrowed brow, just notes that said you’ll learn somehow.

The tune was old, the meaning clear; intent was all that mattered here.

‘Moggin, what is Imbolg meant to be?’ he asked with curiosity.

Moggin blinked, then gave a grin and tapped his nose with finger thin.

‘It is hearth and hope, the springtime’s start and stirring of the new growth’s heart.’

He reached the back of pantry shelf and muttered something to himself.

A jar appeared, sealed firm with wax, inside a flame that never lacks.

‘This light,’ he said, ‘is old and dear, kept safe by goblins through the years.

It’s glowed since the first stars were born, a light to bless each Imbolg morn.’

Then Moggin whispered words unknown, in tongue of moss and root and stone,

and dipped a finger in the light; no scorch, no smoke or searing bite.

An ember rose, a phoenix spark, a light of lights to chase the dark.

It danced once round the goblin’s lair, then up the chimney, through the air.

And somewhere deep beneath the snow, the daffodils prepared to grow.

Faery stories like you to think that the world is made of absolutes…the pure of heart, the wicked beyond saving, and the wolf who stalks the path somewhere between. But Moggin knows the truth beneath the tales. Good and bad are threads in the same tapestry, and wolves, especially the one in this story, are far more interesting than most stories would have you believe.

Last Saturday night was Wassail, the old Twelfth Night, observed by Moggin and most of faery on the seventeenth of January. Wassail, if you’re unfamiliar, is the midwinter rite of waking the orchard, offering libations of cider, hanging toast in branches, and making enough noise to chase away whatever ill‑luck or lurking spirits have crept in during the dark months.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of the curry we’d eaten earlier. The kitchen was warm and bright; the kind of warmth that settles in after a good meal and makes the house feel cosy. Rowan was upstairs in a group-chat with friends on the phone, hubby was dozing in the sitting room, half-watching something on the telly while I waited for Moggin and finished the dishes, taking them from the rack to dry while the last of the steam curled from the sink. Unusually, my beloved goblin lodger had left before supper to meet Red, and though he’d said nothing at the time, I knew it was Wassail business.

I’d just wiped down the worktops and was shining the hob when Moggin came stomping in from the garden, bringing a gust of freezing air with him. His coat was damp, his hair wild as a thicket, and he looked thoroughly put‑upon in the way he does when something has taken longer than planned.

Red wasn’t with him, she’d already gone home, back through the little gap in the hawthorn hedge that borders the garden and leads to Elsewhere- if you know where to look for it. She lives there in a small house with crooked beams, warm lamplight and winding ivy on the rose-pink walls. Moggin is her faery godfather, a role he carries with fierce pride. She’s nineteen in Elsewhere years but far older by mortal reckoning and is long limbed and graceful in that usual faery way. Her copper‑bright hair glints in the light like a struck match whenever she walks through Westfield Wood. People sometimes glimpse her there in the late afternoon sunshine- a flash of startling red between the trees and tell themselves it was just the sunlight catching a branch.

But this story is really about Eve…the old apple tree at the end of our garden, the one who has stood there longer than any house on this street. Her roots run under the Wood, threading into Elsewhere in ways only Moggin seems to understand and the reason she’s lived so long, he says. He calls her the matriarch as the younger trees respond to her in the quiet, unseen way trees do, their branches angled subtly toward her with roots listening for her strength beneath the soil. She’s as much a presence in this household as any of us, and when Moggin and Red go out together on Wassail night, the rite ends with her, for when she wakes, all trees wake with her.

Moggin shut the door firmly behind him, rubbed his hands together, and said, “I hope there’s tea in the pot…we’ve had a right to-do out there.”

The orchard had been anything but peaceful, he said. Even before they reached it, he could feel the tension in the air. Three of them had walked out together as the last light was leaving the sky, Moggin, Red, and the Wolf. The Wolf always appears on Wassail night, as much a part of the ritual as the cider and the toast, though mortals (including me) have never seen him. He pads at Red’s side through the wood with a low growl in this throat to remind the dark that he is awake and watching. He has walked with her since she was small enough to ride on his back, as her mother and grandmother had done before her. That’s where the old tale of Little Red Riding Hood began, though the Wolf remains deeply offended by the rumour that he ate anyone’s grandmother. In truth, he has guarded her line for generations.

Red walked a little ahead, carrying the Warming Light in the small wooden bowl her foremothers used before her. The Light is a sliver of Elsewhere‑fire, gifted to the first of Red’s ancestors long, long ago. It burns low and steady, never flickering or smoking but warm enough to ready a sleeping tree for the coming spring without scorch or harm. Her task was to warm each one they passed, touching the bowl to the bark so the Light could jump from branch to branch like a willow the wisp.

They moved through the wood in this way, Moggin watching the shadows, the Wolf pacing beside them with his ears pricked. The ground was hard underfoot and the air sharp and stung their nostrils. Finally, they reached the boundary where the woodland meets our street. None of the gardens along here have real boundaries at the back; no fences or wall, just a long sweep of adjoining plots that taper into rough grass and the beck before the trees take over.

By the time they reached the orchard trees, the Wolf’s growl had deepened. Moggin said he felt it through the ground more than he heard it. Something was wrong.

They saw it before they reached Eve, a restless, crawling movement across the lower branches of the nearest fruit trees. At first Moggin thought it was birds settling for the night, but the shapes were angular, their numbers too many and movements writhing. Blightlings. thousands of them and many more than Moggin had ever seen in one place.

He told me they look a little like grey stick insects but about the size of a man’s forearm, but there’s nothing harmless about them. Blightlings feed on the dreaming energy of trees, drawing warmth from the places where sap rests and magic sleeps. In small numbers they’re a manageable nuisance, but in a swarm they can drain a tree so deeply it can no longer feel the touch of the Warming Light and some never recover their strength to see the spring at all.

“They’d come in a huge mass,” Moggin said, rubbing his forehead as though the memory itched. “Not just on Eve, but plastered the neighbours’ trees as well. Every branch was thick with ‘em.”

Red tightened her grip on the wooden bowl, the Warming Light pulsing, as though sensing the danger.

The Wolf stepped forward, the fur along his spine a rigid peak. He moved with a kind of ancient purpose, circling the trees in a widening arc. Wherever he passed, the Blightlings chittered and clung tighter, their twig‑thin bodies knitting into a restless grey mantle. He drove them downward with slow, deliberate sweeps of his magical presence, herding them into a giant writhing ball that engulfed most of Eve.

Then he lifted his head and gave a howl no human ear could perceive but Moggin felt through his bones, a vibration rising from the earth itself. The Blightlings shrieked at the force of it, their bodies twisting as though the sound were pulling at their very shape. For a moment they held together, trembling…then they broke and scattered. Some dropped from the branches and scuttled away while others skittered straight toward the Wolf. Before Red or Moggin could move, they were climbing his legs, his flanks, moving with horrible speed and purpose. They swarmed over him, icepick little toes digging in as they hauled themselves higher. They reached his face; pressing over his eyes, his muzzle and nose, dulling his senses one by one. The Wolf shook himself violently, but the Blightlings clung tighter with hooked fingers, their limbs locking with unnatural strength as they drew at his magic. Frost feathered along his spine, the kind that forms when a life-force is being siphoned away.

Red saw his breath thin to a pale thread on the cold night air. The Wolf staggered and the Blightlings burrowed deeper into his thick fur, intent on draining the magic from the guardian of the trees. His legs folded beneath him and he sank to the ground, eyes dimming like coals cooling in the dark.

Red was already running towards him, the Warming Light flickered wildly in its bowl. She knelt beside him and pressed the wooden rim to his fur, hands swiping wildly at the horrid creatures.
“You must fight!” she sobbed into his neck.

For a heartbeat, the Light wavered, shrinking to a trembling ember. Then, with a soft, decisive pulse, it flowed into him, warmth threading through his ribs like sap stirring in deep winter. The Blightlings shrieked at the surge and scattered in a frantic rustle, fleeing into the dark places between the trees.

Moggin uncorked a small flask from his coat. The scent of hot spiced cider and rowan berries rose into the cold air. He poured a little at the Wolf’s muzzle, and the steam curled upward in soft spirals, carrying the shimmer of old magic.

The Wolf’s breath steadied and with great effort he pushed himself upright and nuzzled Red’s hand.

“That was our moment,” Moggin said. “Red had to move quickly.”

She stepped forward, the wooden bowl held close to her chest. The Warming Light brightened as she neared the matriarch, as though recognising her. Red knelt at Eve’s roots and held the bowl steady, letting the warmth seep into the bark. They watched as the glow travelled through every limb, then rippled outward into the surrounding trees.

With the tale told and the crisis averted, Moggin let out an exhausted sigh. For a moment he stayed where he was, blinking into the darkness through the window with that soft, faraway expression he gets when thoughts consume him. Then, with a small grunt he pushed himself to his feet and he shuffled over to fetch a small pan from the cupboard.

Together we warmed the spiced cider on the hob… some for us, some for Eve. Moggin stirred it with a wooden spoon, humming an old wassailing tune as the rich scent of cinnamon and apple rose into the kitchen.

When it was ready, we filled two mugs for ourselves and an earthenware jug for Eve. Moggin wrapped a scarf around his neck, tugged his boots back on with theatrical suffering, and we stepped out into the cold night together. We poured the cider at her roots, watching the steam rise in soft wisps, and hung toast threaded with twine in her branches as the old custom asks. Moggin murmured a few words in blessing and the branches gave the faintest shiver in reply.

On the way back toward the house, I felt a prickle at my neck, the sense of being observed with curiosity. Moggin must have felt it too as I caught the quick, sideways glance he cast toward the wood and the small, knowing smile that followed.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around us at once. Moggin set his mug and empty jug by the sink and stretched, his earlier weariness returning now that the night’s duties were done.

I hung up my coat and lingered in the quiet kitchen, letting the last of the cider warm me. The house creaked its gentle good-nights, and in that stillness I felt, deep in my bones, the slow turning of the year…subtle, steady and carrying us towards spring.

At the far end of the village, where the lane narrowed into a dirt track and the hedgerows leaned close as if to aid shelter, there stood a small, weather‑worn cottage. Its mossy roof sagged a little in places, its windows rattled like old bones in the winter winds, and the wallpaper peeled in more than one room. Elin, the woman who lived there, kept it as tidy as she could, but she had neither the money nor the strength to repair what needed mending.

Her neighbours’ houses were brighter and straighter. Their roofs did not leak during the autumn storms, their windows did not keep them awake at night and their kitchens did not smell faintly of damp as hers did. Elin was glad for them- truly, but sometimes, when she passed their warm, well‑kept homes, a knot tightened in her chest.
Why them and not me?
And then, just as quickly, shame followed.
You should be grateful. You have enough…there are others with far less.
She hated that cycle most of all.

Still, she gave what she had. A loaf to a neighbour with empty cupboards, a mended sleeve for a child whose mother had no thread and a warm fire for anyone who needed to sit and thaw their bones. She gave so freely that she often had little left for herself.

On New Year’s Eve, when the sky bruised into twilight and frost crept along the lane, Elin lit a single candle and lifted her old besom from its peg. Its handle was smooth from years of use, its bristles bound with faded red thread.

In her village, the old ones still whispered of the year end sweep… a custom older than the church, older than the lane itself.
Sweep from the back to the front, they said.
Sweep the old year out and the new one in.
Most treated it as a quaint tradition.
But Elin knew better.

As she held the besom, a faint rustle stirred within the broom‑straw… the soft, stretching sigh of something waking. A small face formed in the bristles…two dark little knot‑eyes and a mouth like a crease in bark. The Besom Wight blinked up at her.

“Come on then,” Elin whispered with a smile. “We’ve work to do.”

The Wight slipped from the besom and padded ahead of her, its twig‑thin limbs moving with the hush of sweeping. Elin began at the very back of the house, as the custom required. With each stroke of the broom, the Wight gathered what rose from the corners; not only the dust, but the heaviness of the year.

It tugged loose the shame she carried for her shabby home. It gathered the resentment she felt when she worked and worked and still could not fix the roof. It lifted the guilt that followed every moment of frustration and drew out the exhaustion she hid behind her smile. It even found the small, unspoken fear that she was not enough. The Wight bundled these into its twig‑body, which swelled and darkened with the weight.

Room by room they travelled, the candle accompanying them like a patient witness. When they reached the front door, Elin paused, her breath trembled. This was the moment the old year slipped away… a moment she had always met with quiet sorrow. Even the hardest years held memories she wasn’t ready to release. Another ending… another year older… and with age, a soft, creeping fear that things were moving faster than she could follow and more and more of those she loved would be gone. She stood there, feeling the burden of it all gather in her chest.

She opened the door.

Cold night air rushed in, smelling of frost and distant woodsmoke. But she was not alone on the threshold.

A tall, hooded figure stood just beyond the step… Janus. The old tales said the Romans had a god by that name, but most believed the empire had only borrowed the idea, a distant echo of beings like this one, older than any temple or story. Whether faery or god hardly mattered. What stood before her was a being of the hinge‑times, one who walked only the narrow seam between endings and beginnings. His form shimmered like moonlight caught in rippling water and when he lowered his hood, he bore two faces… one turned toward the house, seeing every year she had lived within those walls, the other gazed down the dark lane, watching for the year that waited. His eyes were calm, ancient, and strangely kind.

Above the lintel perched a barn owl, pale as breath, its dark eyes steady and knowing. It was said the owl was Janus’ companion, carrying the purest wishes of mortals into the new year.

Janus inclined both his faces.
A voice like a soft wind whispered:

“What will you lay down as the year slips away?”

Elin swallowed and the Wight trembled at her feet, ready to take whatever she named.

“I lay down the feeling that I am unworthy,” she said softly.

“That my home is too broken, too shabby… that I don’t deserve better.”

The Wight absorbed her words, its twig‑body swelling a little more.

“I lay down the guilty ice-shard in my heart when I see others living comfortably while I struggle, not because I begrudge them anything, but because I fear I cannot give my loved ones the security and comfort they deserve. And the shame that follows… the shame of wanting a good home for them, even when I know what I have should be enough.”

Janus nodded.

“And what is it that you most wish for?” he asked.

Elin closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was steadier, shaped by love rather than fear.

“I wish for joy in these rooms. For light, warmth, and laughter. For all my loved ones to gather here… and for none to be taken in the months to come. I wish for the strength to care for them, and the grace to let them care for me. I don’t care for riches, only a home that can hold us all safely.”

The owl lifted its wings, stirring the air, Janus stepped back into the dark with a soft smile and the Wight crossed the threshold and slowly dissolved into the darkness, carrying her burdens into the night.

The owl swept through the drifting motes, gathering her wish with the soft stir of its wings. With a silent beat, it rose into the sky, carrying her hopes toward the unseen places where new years are shaped.

Elin stood in the doorway, the besom light in her hands. The house behind her felt different, brighter and lighter somehow, as though space had been made for something new.

She whispered into the night, “Thank you.”

And somewhere above, the owl circled once, as if in answer, before vanishing into the wild turning of the year.

As the most magical night of the year approaches, I offer Moggin Boggin’s tale of snowstorms, Sámi magic, and the origins of Father Christmas himself. Along the way you’ll meet the Tomte, the small, red‑hatted guardians of Scandinavian homes, and discover that Julemanden, the old Nordic name for Father Christmas, simply means ‘the Yule Man’… the bringer of midwinter gifts.

May this story fill your heart with the childlike wonder we all still carry, no matter how many winters we have seen!

Thank you, dear readers, for following my journey with Moggin wherever it may lead.

Wishing you a joyful Christmas filled with love, joy, and of course, magic! xxx

The story starts, as ever, in Rowan’s cosy room,
With fairy lights a‑twinkle to cheer the winter gloom.
Moggin’s perched cross‑legged upon the old oak bed,
And peeping from the duvet is Rowan’s tousled head.

‘Tonight, my dear, I’ll tell you of a Christmas long since past,
When our friend Father Christmas feared it was his last.
To help you understand this tale, we’ll travel back in time,
And in your wild imaginings, through mountains we shall climb.

Through the frozen tundra, we’ll find the Sámi folk,
Who live in mossy, wooden homes, their chimneys twirl with smoke.
Native to the lands of snow, they are the reindeer’s friend,
Protecting wild, enormous herds from wolves they must defend.

Perhaps a thousand years ago, your Santa was a man,
The same as any other among the Sámi clan.
Mortal just the same as you, he had his hopes and dreams,
Of children and a loving wife, the simplest of schemes.

The kindest man you’d ever meet, appearance made to match,
Tall and dark and handsome… he made a proper catch!
One day, while trading wooden toys he’d carved from aspen logs,
He spotted strangers through the crowds with eight Siberian dogs.

Upon a sled he saw her, wrapped in fur and skins,

And sitting close beside her, her pale young sibling grins.
So it was, the older girl soon became his wife,
They settled in a comfy home and led a happy life.

Though their days were merry, children never came,
So adopting waifs and strays became their greatest aim.
And of the sister, you might ask, what became of her?
With snowflake skin and icy eyes, her voice a gentle purr.

Larsa did not marry, but travelled on her own,
Collecting herbs for tinctures bright; as healer she was known.
One morning in the forest, a vision filled her head,
Her sister was in danger; her stomach lurched with dread.

She knew at once that she must leave, the mountains she must go,
With weather unpredictable and whipped with gales and snow.
She loaded up her little sled with blankets, food and skis,
Calling to her trusty dogs, their barks hung on the breeze.

Larsa was a brave, sweet girl; her instincts led the way.
For many hours through drifts she trudged, ’til night replaced the day.
At last she found them, huddled close beneath some craggy stones,
Sheltered from the cruel snow, she heard their plaintive moans.

Wearied by the glacial storm, she slumped down by their side,
And had the gods not smiled that day, of cold they might have died.
As luck would have it, passing by were several of my kin,
Goblin features just like mine, no taller than your shin.

Taking pity on the three, they gave them all a draught
Of liquid gold elixir that they alone could craft.
And so, forever after, in happiness they’ve dwelt,
With Tomte of the frozen north, where snows will never melt.

Now, until the end of time, Julemanden will preside,
The Christmas gifts and offerings he brings to you worldwide.
His dearest wish was granted (as all good wishes are),
For now, you’re all his children, both near and very far.’’

I’ve loved Hans Christian Andersen for as long as I can remember. His stories have always felt like spells to me, woven from sorrow and wonder. I read them avidly, watched Tommy Steele bring his life to the stage on my birthday when I was about 6, and watched the 1952 film with my Grandma’s beloved Danny Kaye over one memorable Christmas. This poem is a small tribute to the enduring love I have for him and his stories.

You’ll meet Larsa here, keeper of the Yule-fire and in my next post, I’ll share how she came to know the Tomten and Julemanden himself.

We gathered round the kitchen table, mugs piled high with cream,

Rowan’s chocolate rich and spiced, a winter’s sugared dream.

The oven wafted stollen bites, their scent a merry spell,

And Moggin cleared his cocoa throat; he had a tale to tell.

“Now listen, lad,” he chuckled, “for this yarn’s one of light,

Of Andersen the dreamer, and a gift that shone so bright.

From Odense’s streets, shoemaker’s son, poor and oft alone,

He turned his sorrow into tales the whole wide world has known.

From match-girl’s flame to scarlet shoes, his pen gave heartache wings,

And through his words the people found the light each story brings.

One snowy eve in Denmark, when drifts lay thick and deep,

Hans wandered through the market square, too sad to fall asleep.

He spied a spool of copper wire half hid beneath the snow,

Strung with tiny crystals clear, no spark, no flare or glow.

But when he stooped to lift them, the gems began to gleam,

They woke beneath his trembling hands, like stars within a dream.

For only when he touched them did their hidden fire ignite,

His inner warmth had woken them…those wondrous fairy lights.

He knew at once they mattered, though they seemed a trifling thing,

A length of wire, a humble thread-not jewel or golden ring.

‘They must belong to someone,’ he whispered soft with awe,

‘For only hands of faery folk could craft the glow I saw.’

For days he searched the city streets, through alleys laced with frost,

Determined he would find the one whose shining thread was lost.

He asked the baker, cobbler, the merchants at their stalls,

But none had seen a stranger pass beyond the town’s great walls.

At last, upon the seventh day, the market filled with cheer,

Through the crowds came lady fair, with sled and small reindeer.

Now if you’ve not yet met her, Larsa was her name,

A healer, sage and wanderer, ward of the solstice flame.

Her eyes were pale as winter skies that held a quiet will,

She looked at Hans with knowing gaze, as if all time stood still.

‘Dear keeper of the Yule fire, its glow is born of you,

It shines with childlike goodness, a flame both pure and true.

They are the glow of memory, the spark to banish gloom,

The joy that keeps the heart alive when shadows start to loom.

Return them now, but keep the tale, and write it for the earth,

So every child may know the flame that kindles hope and mirth.

For though this wire seems very plain, its magic is profound,

It wakes the glow in mortal hearts, wherever it is found.’

Hans bowed his head and gave them back, his eyes alight with tears,

For he had felt their comfort deep, the balm for all his years.

And so, he wrote his final tale, though few have heard it told,

Of fairy lights that chase away the sorrow and the cold.

And when his earthly journey stilled, the Yule-fire lit his way,

To Larsa’s hearth with Tomten near, Julemand and kin all stay.

There Hans found joy and gladness deep, his tales forever told,

And bids us tend our inner flame, a light that won’t grow cold.

So, Rowan lad, remember this, when winter nights grow long,

The fire you keep inside your heart will fill the world with song.

(If you love Danish Maileg pixies as much as I do, you might recognise him…our beloved Snegulf)

Once upon a winter-time, when frost bejewelled the air,
Breathing icy crystals on the garden, grey and bare.

From the kitchen window, I watched the birds enact
Such drama over seed cakes; some fed while others lacked.

Squabbling over toast crumbs and peanuts by the door,
A commotion at the suet balls that I’d made the day before.

So engrossed was I in this, the most beguiling scene,
I hadn’t heard the door knock announcing post had been.

Awoken to my senses by the final rat-a-tat,
I bounded down the hallway and collided with the mat.

There, atop the coir tufts, was a little card of red…
‘Parcel in the porch,’ the swirling letters said.

A brown manila pack there, tied with baker’s twine,
Nestled in the corner in the wintry-weak sunshine.

With care, I took the box inside - an unexpected prize,
Quite heavy and of awkward shape despite its modest size.

But most alarming was the fact within came muffled squeaks,
I thought I was mistaken - perhaps the floorboards creaked?

I looked a little closer and, dotted here and there,
Were tiny holes pierced through the box for circulating air!

‘If only Rowan weren’t at school,’ I murmured to myself,
‘Shall wait for his return, leave the parcel on the shelf?’

But then, as if in answer, I heard a little shout,
And though the voice was very small, I heard ‘Please let me out!’

You may recall some time has passed since telling you the tale,
Of our lodger Moggin Boggin- your memory cannot fail.

Not many households hereabouts can claim beneath their stairs
Lives a goblin of advancing years for whom we really care.

Despite the pungent cabbage pong exuded from his door…
Embarrassing when guests are round; there’s no time to tell you more.

So, as I’m staring quite perplexed and fathom what to do,
Moggin shambles in the room and says ‘Good day to you.’

Then, following my gaze, he huffs and gives a tut,
And, sucking his vanilla pipe, says ‘I would keep that shut.’

Nodding to the box with his smoky, narrowed eyes,
‘No good can come of opening it - this ill-gotten surprise.’

‘I can hear you!’ said the voice within its cardboard walls,
‘If you don’t let me out of here, I’ll give Julemand a call!’

Moggin’s face then faltered, his eyes were wide as plates,
‘Quickly, rip the paper before it’s much too late!’

On seeing Moggin’s panic, I did as I was told,
I tore the cardboard carefully, avoiding goblin scolds.

I peeped inside the package, unsure what I might find,
Amongst the shredded paper was a pixie, small and kind.

No bigger than a plant pot, a woollen smock he wore,
A red felt hat with such a point, birch clogs to dance the floor.

‘Snegulf at your service,’ the tiny pixie said,
‘I’m all the way from Denmark, I even packed my bed!’

I gaped back in confusion, lost for what to say,
Moggin Boggin rolled his eyes and gestured ‘Please, this way.’

Showing him the sitting room, they both appraised the tree,
Snegulf beamed at all the fairy lights, ‘This is just the place for me!’

‘Julemand sent me here for Advent to count away the days,
Until the celebrations- but I’m thinking I might stay.’

So, underneath the Christmas tree, we have a pixie bed,
It’s piled with hand-sewn eiderdowns and pillows for his head.

Upon his cupboard every night, he’ll chalk the next day’s date,
And leave a little chocolate beside the Advent slate.

Rice pudding laced with Christmas spice is his dish of choice,
‘Please sprinkle it with fruit and nuts,’ so says his little voice.

Strange, the hot potato that he tucks between his sheets,
To keep him toasty all night long, it’s not for him to eat.

We’re learning new traditions from Snegulf of the North,
He prompts our preparations ‘Write your cards, today’s the fourth.’

On our tree, he’s hung for us red toadstools with white spots,
‘They help with flying magic and reindeer love them lots!’

A hundred paper snowflakes we’ve snipped in Snegulf’s name;
They float above the table and adorn our windowpanes.

In the counting down to Christmas, of this you can be sure,
That Snegulf brought us so much joy since coming to our door.

So, however you spend Christmas, may magic be a part,
And that our pixie Snegulf may also warm your heart.

Kaeli x

Another bedtime story, another year has flown,
Tucked inside his cosy bed, a boy, but how he’s grown.

The goblin perches at the foot, with knees drawn to his chin,
And slowly sucks his long clay pipe and gives a rueful grin.

For a fleeting moment his eyes cloud grey with grief,
As he ponders how the sands of time erode a boy’s belief.

Would Rowan oft remember his goblin friend of old?
Remember fondly, with a smile, the stories he was told?

‘No matter,’ Moggin Boggin huffed, while shaking off the thought,
‘The little fella needs me now, and time with mortals short.’

The smell of sage smoke filled the air and hung in little wisps;
Each smoke twirl was a story, some vague and others crisp.

I see enchanted forests and a dragon’s hidden lair,
Winged elephants and horses, and mermaids comb their hair.

Moggin squints into the smoke and plucks with fingers long
A wisp that hangs above his head and hums a tuneless song.

With his eyes closed he softly sings, more pictures start to form,
A clock face and a turkey, their colours rich and warm.

Of all the stories Moggin’s told, this one by far most strange,
Rowan mirrors my bewilderment as our eyes exchange.

‘This tale is of a clockmaker and how, one winter past,
He helped me save a turkey, from it being his last.

It starts as life is wont to do, with fragile little egg;
After long and patient waiting, first beak, then tiny leg.

Emerging on a bright spring day, the little chick was born,
Cosy in the poultry shed, in hay all fresh and warm.

Fed on wheat and soy and oats, with siblings quickly grew,
Roaming round the farmyard under sky of blue.

His favourite place, the cherry trees, where he would seek out shade,
With blossom softly snowing down upon the spot he laid.

Many months passed in this way; he’d browse, then eat and sleep,
Till distant hills engulfed the sun and to the barns he’d creep.

But by and by he noticed that something felt quite wrong,
The shed becoming emptier, devoid of clucking song.

The day I met young Tyrell, for Tyrell was his name,
He was searching for his sisters; he’d call, but no one came.

Peering through the thicket, I saw his doleful eyes,
Seeing me stare back at him, he jumped back in surprise.

‘Don’t be alarmed, young fella,’ I bowed and doffed my hat,
‘I am a traveller passing through, please be assured of that!’

Now Tyrell was a trusting soul and did not know his fate,
I had to liberate the fowl before it was too late.

I ushered him through hawthorn hedge, down to a winding road,
And over frosted fields we trod, up to a neat abode.

At the village edge it stood, with door of stout green oak,
And from its tallest chimney there spiralled coloured smoke.

As if the man expected us, he opened up the door,
‘My dear old Moggin, you are late, it’s almost half past four!’

He welcomed us into a room filled floor to ceiling high
With cogs and wheels that ticked and tocked, and a clock that made me sigh.

Proudly by the craftsman’s bench, in shining case it stood,
With face of primrose crackle glaze set into adze-carved wood.

A coronet of darkest blue was set above its face,
Plotting sun and moon and stars, traverse across the space.

Pulling out a pocket watch, the clockmaker looked down,
‘We cannot wait a moment more,’ his brow creased with a frown.

Just as he had said the words, there came the heavy tread
Of bulky farmer and his dog across the flower bed.

Tyrell turkey understood and gobbled in alarm,
A dreadful fate awaited him if he went back to the farm.

Within a blink, the clockmaker shoved us to the case,
He flung the door wide open and pushed us in with haste.

And there, behind the panels, the truth began to show,
Not a humble clock of wood, but one the faeries know.

For time within its casing was neither straight nor true,
It folded like a silken cloth and slipped away from view.

Each tick a whispered secret, each tock a silver thread,
That wove the loom of hours and stitched what lay ahead.

Concealed and safe behind the door, we heard the farmer shout,
‘I know my turkey’s in there, you’d better bring him out!’

And then the magic happened as the dog burst through the room,
We vanished in a poof of smoke and saved Tyrell from his doom.

When we peeped out of the clock case and waved away the fog,
The only trace of Tyrell’s foe, the lingering smell of dog!

We had travelled in the future by just an hour or three,
Said our friend with merry smile, ‘You’re just in time for tea!’

(And so it was that Tyrell lived happily ever after.)

I hope you enjoy it

KJ x

One winter’s night at bedtime, there padded up the stairs, a boy of eight and goblin small…a most disarming pair.

‘It’s getting late!’ I hear the words, impatient from my lips. They sigh and roll their impish eyes, and to the bathroom skip.

‘Wash your face and brush your teeth,’ I call from Rowan’s room. Triumphantly he reappears, his cheeks like rosy blooms.

‘Moggin’s promised me a story,’ he waves towards the door. The little fellow grinned at him and shambled o’er the floor.

With a leap and happy squeal, they plump down on the bed, with coverlet of patchwork green and sheets of berry red.

Two pairs of eyes regarded me until I settle down. Glancing at the bedside clock, I cannot help but frown.

Moggin Boggin clears his throat and twiddles with his beard. With care he smooths the tangles, and from it crumbs are cleared.

‘I’ll tell you of Great Grandpapa, who lived long, long ago, in the foothills of the mountains that oft were topped with snow.

His name was Fjornir Advar. The home he chose, a farm. He toiled to keep the family safe, and their animals from harm.

Northmen called him Tomten, sometimes Nisse or Hob. Like me, he was a goblin; protecting was his job.

Each evening, while the mortals slept, he’d creep into each room, bend to kiss each furrowed brow, comb free their dreams of gloom.

Once satisfied they slumbered well, out to the barns he’d head, to check the chickens, horse and goats, peep in the cattle shed.

One night, with lantern raised aloft to light the darkened track, from somewhere in the tree-lined path, he heard a clear, loud crack.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out in the dark, his breath festooned the air. ‘Show yourself! I challenge you, I know that you are there!’

He brandished forth a birch branch he’d collected for his fire, and peered into the inky night, and held his lantern higher.

Twitching round a tree trunk appeared a pointed snout. Sloe-black eyes there followed, darting all about.

Russet ears with sooty tips flicked with every sound. Coal-black paws slunk one by one across the haw-frost ground.

Great Grandpapa was fearful that the fox may eat his hens, but Fjornir had the kindest heart of all the Tomten men.

‘I’ll guess you’re feeling hungry, Fox,’ he leaned to stroke her ears. ‘I hear your tummy rumbling, your ribs to me are clear.’

‘Walk with me, young vixen. You’re not the savage beast. Come into my kitchen, and I’ll make for us a feast.

First we’ll have some cherries, picked from the Master’s tree, adorning our rice pudding, as hot as hot can be.

Then there’ll be warm pastries with cinnamon and cream…no need to eat my feathered friends; this is a fox’s dream!’

‘I shall repay your kindness,’ the fox bade as she left. ‘Whenever you have need of me, just shout…my paws are deft.’

’Twas just a short time later, while Fjornir picked mushrooms, in swirling mist, became quite lost, and almost met his doom.

The night too was descending, and with it came the cold. It gnawed into his aching bones and made him feel quite old.

Just when Fjornir feared the worst, he called out, ‘I am lost! The fog and snow has made me blind, my limbs are numb with frost!’

Vixen heard him calling across the icy waste, sprang from her den on nimble legs that carried her in haste.

She ran so fast her bushy tail upon the snow struck sparks. Those cinders floated in the air and pushed away the dark.

Aurora Borealis was born that very night, To light the sky for Fjornir with majestic northern light.

The colours guided Grandpops home in hues of pink and green, and ever after, he and Fox, together always seen.

‘So ends this winter story,’ our fine friend Moggin said. He kissed dear Rowan on the cheek, ‘Night-night, sweet sleepyhead.

Rowan stepped into the garden just as dusk began to settle, the air cool and edged with woodsmoke. He spotted Moggin crouched among the cabbages, carving into a turnip with a blade that gleamed like frost. Around him, a circle of lanterns flickered, faces shaped from root and flame, some sorrowful, some impish and sly.

“You’re making goblin heads,” Rowan said, half teasing.

Moggin chuckled, the sound like water gurgling in the beck. “Not goblins, lad. Ancestors.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “They look like goblins with toothache to me.”

“That’s the point,” Moggin said, setting one down. “The Hollowing Lights serve two purposes. They welcome the souls we love, the ones who linger but they also frighten off the ones who come hungry and mean.”

He gestured to a lantern with a jagged grin and hollow eyes. “We carve them fierce for a reason. A crooked smile, a wild stare….those faces guard the threshold. They say…you may pass if you’re known, but if you come with ill intent, turn awaaaay!’’

Rowan stepped closer, watching the flames dance. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Moggin didn’t look up. “Of course I do.”

Rowan blinked. “Really?”

Moggin glanced sideways, eyes glinting. “Why, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Rowan said. “I want to. I really do, especially because of my brother. We always speak of him but I’ve never… felt him. Not properly.”

Moggin nodded, still carving. “Wanting is a door half open, the other half is making space.”

Rowan frowned. “Making space?”

Moggin held up the turnip and gestured with his knife to the hollowed space inside. “This space. Carved with care and lit with love from within. A Hollowing Light is more than just a lantern y’see…it’s symbolic of a hollowing of the self, becoming a vessel, where love and light may dwell.

He gestured to the circle of flickering faces. “In faery, we hollow to honour. It’s a rite far older than me. The old folk did it at Samhain, when the veil grew thin and the dead walked gently among the living. They carved soul lights into turnips… hard, stubborn roots that grow close to the bones of the earth. Each flame was meant as a guide, each face a welcome… and a warning.”

Rowan eyed the turnip Moggin was carving, its cream and purple skin mottled and awkward. “Why turnips?” he asked. “Pumpkins are easier. Bigger too and less…rock-hard.”

Moggin snorted softly. “I know you like to grow your enormous pumpkins with y’mother lad, but they’re flashy newcomers. Turnips remember the cold and the earth. That’s why the old ones used them for soul lights, for the Hollowing.”

He turned the small, antler-handled blade in his hands. The handle was worn smooth with age, engraved with a crescent moon.

“This was my father’s,” Moggin said, offering it to Rowan. “He carved his last lantern with it.”

Rowan hesitated. “Did he know you were leaving?”

“He did,” Moggin said. “He expected me to marry a girl from the village. But she saw what I was faery-born and thankfully, the match never came to be. I travelled after that. Through realms and seasons but I loved my mortal kin and visited them often.”

He paused, eyes distant. “They’re long gone now…it’s been hundreds of years. But I still light lanterns for them, every year.”

Rowan was quiet, then asked, “Does grief ever go away?”

Moggin shook his head. “It gets easier to carry. But it never leaves. And sometimes, if we let it, it becomes a gift. It can harden us, make us bitter and closed. Or, if we’re lucky, it cracks the heart open and makes us softer. More empathetic and more able to see and help the ones who are quietly hurting.”

Rowan took the knife gently, the antler warm in his hand. “You still mourn them?”

“I do,” Moggin said. “Because love doesn’t end with time. And Hollowing is how we remember and how we make space.’’

He reached into his satchel again and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside were round, golden cakes, marked with crosses on top.

“Soul cakes,” he said. “We used to leave them with the lanterns. One for the living, one for the dead. They’re a gift and a way of saying you are always welcome here and you are remembered.”

Rowan took a cake, warm and spiced. Then Moggin paused, setting down the lantern he’d been working on. “This isn’t just a story,” he said softly. “It’s memory from the days when faery and man walked side by side ….before the severing.”

Rowan leaned in, sensing the shift.

“There was a barrow at the heart of the land… Ealdfæder Barrow, they called it. Not just a tomb, but a gathering place. It was a hollow hill where the ancestors of both kin, mortal and faery were honoured equally. Each autumn, at this time of year, folk came from glen and grove, village and vale, to light Hollowing Lights at its threshold and held a feast for the living and the dead. Offerings were laid in a spiral to represent the soul’s journey….spiced bread and berries, roasted roots, apple tarts, honey-baked chestnuts, and hot cider. It wasn’t about indulgence, it was about honour. A way of saying, your journey continues and you are still part of the wild turning.”

He traced the features of the lantern he’d just carved with his thumb. “The lanterns were hollowed from roots just like these, lit with beeswax and birch bark. Their faces were fierce to guard the sacred ground, and gentle to guide the wandering souls. It’s said the barrow sang on those nights- low and deep, like the earth remembering.”

Rowan blinked. “What changed?”

Moggin’s voice grew quiet. “The severing came slowly. Not through war, but through forgetting. Mortals turned their eyes inward…they began to name, classify, and measure everything, as if knowing meant owning and as if mastery mattered more than mystery. They stopped listening to the land, stopped honouring the unseen. The ties to our collective kin; to faery, to the wild, to the ancestors, all began to fray.”

He looked out toward the beck. “Some say the last shared lantern burned at the hollow hill was left by a mortal child who still believed. After that, the barrow fell silent. And faery and man walked apart.”

Rowan listened intently.

“But the Hollowing Lights remain,” Moggin said. “We still carve them, still light them. Because the path is never truly lost and it’s faery’s hope that one day man will remember.”

Rowan chose a smaller turnip, its skin stubborn and sweet-smelling. He carved it with care for his brother, shaping a face that felt familiar and strange all at once. Not a copy of his own, but something close, like a dream half-remembered.

When the candle was lit, the flame flickered, then steadied. Rowan blinked, and for a moment, he thought he saw a boy in the mist…around his age but a little older, watching from the edge of the trees.

“I hope he’s with me,” Rowan said quietly. “I think he’d like it living here, near the woods.”

Moggin placed a kindly hand on Rowan’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sure he does, lad.”

Rowan didn’t speak. He just placed the lantern beside the others and let the light do the talking.

Moggin handed him another soul cake. “Leave this beside your lantern,” he said.

Rowan nestled the cake beside the flame. “You are welcome,” he whispered. “You are remembered.”

The garden grew darker, but the lanterns glowed brighter, some of them lined up on the garden bench. Somewhere beyond the beck, an owl called and the trees of Westfield Wood rustled with unseen wings.

Rowan looked up. “Will they come tonight?”

Moggin nodded, hoisted himself to his feet and made the involuntary groan that older people make when they move. He hobbled to the chiminea, stacking kindling and newspaper with practiced hands. The fire caught quickly….birch bark and elder twigs and soon the garden was wrapped in warmth and flickering light. He took a flat pan with holes in the bottom and tipped a large bowl of glossy sweet chestnuts into it to roast over the flames. Then he plonked himself nearby, cloak drawn close, eyes reflecting the embers as he poured hot spiced cider from a battered flask into two enamel cups for Rowan and himself. Rowan snuggled beside him under a thick woolen blanket, the mist thickened, but the fire and lanterns burned steadily as the chestnuts softly cracked and popped in the heat.

“We’ll keep vigil,” Moggin said. “The Hollowing isn’t finished until the last light goes out.”

Friðr sé með þér, lifandi ok liðinn…. ljós fylgi þér á leiðinni. Peace be with you, living and departed….may light follow you on your journey.

Everyone knows the year, whether they’ve read a history book or not. 1066….it’s ingrained in the land itself and stitched into our bones, the way it was sewn into the Bayeux linen, thread by thread and wound by wound. Most never question why that date is so memorable, but I’ll tell you…it’s because of what followed, the bits they never told you at school.

My great-grandpapa Fjornir lived through it all, and even centuries later, the memories brought tears to his eyes as he told me the stories. Like me, he was a goblin of Haxebi, then, a humble hamlet on the outskirts of old Jórvík. He was a cooper and a wood-turner; a man whose hands knew the grain of every tree in Eoforholt or Boar Wood as you would say. That was its name before the Normans came and claimed it, renaming it the Forest of Galtres.

Fjornir told me about the comet that came, swift as a fox with a long blazing tail, streaking across the sky. The people gathered in the fields to watch it, open mouthed, hearts thudding in their chests like runaway horses. Some said it was a blessing for Harold Godwinson, newly crowned and noble-hearted. Others feared it was an omen of doom but Fjornir remembered the hush that fell over the grove the night it was first seen and the way the Ljósvegr pulsed beneath the birch roots.

Now, the Ljósvegr, that’s Old Norse for light-paths, are the living threads of energy that are woven through the land like veins beneath skin. They carry rhythm and nourishment, feeding the rivers, the trees, the soil and all beings. And they are tended by the elementals who move through them like wind through trees. When the Ljósvegr hum, the land is well but when they fray, everything falters. And something wrong was coming, Fjornir knew it.

Tostig, Harold’s own brother, cast out and bitter, returned from banishment with fire in his belly and vengeance in his heart. He joined with Harald Hardrada, the thunder-king from the north, and together they struck at Stamford Bridge. Harold met them there, swift and fierce, and after many hours, victory came, but it was short-lived. For even as the last Norse blade fell, William of Normandy had landed in the south.

The march to Hastings was desperate, ranks thinned, men hollow-eyed with exhaustion and the battle itself was brutal. When Harold fell, whether by arrow or blade, the kingdom cracked. The old ways; the woven laws of the Danelaw, the rhythms of kinship and the turning of the land were torn asunder. William took the crown, and believing himself the instrument of God’s wrath, did not merely conquer. He erased, he burned, poisoned, and razed all that stood before him. Especially here, in the North.

The Harrying came like a winter without end. The great metropolis of Jórvík was irrevocably destroyed and the villages between here and Northumbria lost three quarters of their population in the years that followed. People either died, scattered or starved.

Just as I live with you, Fjornir lived among mortals, Eadric Hakrsson and his family, who welcomed him as one of their own. Throughout all the devastation, Fjornir never left Eadric’s side. Together, they shaped wood like it was story, never cutting without asking or carving without a song. They worked together with the slow, deliberate rhythm of those who remember what the world once was and refuse to let it be forgotten. They chose ash wood, strong and sacred. They turned it slowly, patiently, shaping a bowl so large it could cradle the grief of their people. They called it the Hvíslskál…the whispering bowl, made to hold offerings….tokens of memory and fragments of a collective past, Each one was placed with great reverence, each one a story.

The night the bowl was placed in the sacred grove, it whispered. A low, steady rumble stirred the earth, thrumming up through the soles of the people’s feet and through the roots of Eoforholt itself. Then the Ljósvegr awoke….and sang. The elementals that had retreated deep into the earth finally stirred, and by morning, the offerings were gone.

In their place lay tiny seeds, warm to the touch, glimmering faintly, as if lit from within. Dream seeds, they came to be called; not because they grew in sleep, but because they carried the shape of what might be…of what had been and of what could be again. The people planted them in the razed fields, in the scorched hollows, in the poisoned places where nothing had grown since the burning. They sang as they worked; songs of tending, of sorrow and return. And the land, slowly, began to breathe again.

But listen…this story isn’t just about the people who lived almost a thousand years ago. It’s about now. Because after every war, folk say “never again.” And yet it does, again and again. The burning takes new forms and the scattering wears new names but the wounds are the same. We need the dream seeds today more than ever. We must plant them….not just in soil, but in story, in our actions and the way we speak to one another. We must carry hope like a lantern, even when ill winds try to snuff it out. We must remember that peace is not a lofty unobtainable thing…it is who we are meant to be.

If he were sitting beside you now, warming his toes by a good fire, Fjornir would say this. Every age has held the good and the bad and no people are wholly cruel, nor wholly kind. All beings; goblin, mortal, bird, or mouse are all the same beneath it all. We all need warmth, food in our bellies and to belong to someone. Even William of Normandy. And we must stop arguing like fleas on the dog’s back about who has dominion. The dog doesn’t care. The dog just wants to run through the meadow and roll in the grass.

So let this story be a seed. Let it be planted in your heart and may it grow into something that hums with great power. Something that heals and something that remembers.

The Ljósvegr are listening.

Please help me to keep the ink flowing!

I’ll tell you a tale as old as the hills of a girl as alone as could be,

No father or mother, sister or brother; a lone twig on the family tree.

How life dealt her this fate, nobody knew for her lips were unable to tell,

If ears never hear the beauty of words, a tongue will be held in mute spell.

No lullabies sung or soft warm embrace, no caress or kiss for her cheek,

No stories at night by a crackling fire, you might think her existence quite bleak.

But the earth has a way of claiming her own, little orphans and mites without name,

And gives them a home in the bower of trees; clothes of mosses and leaves for their shame.

The shade of the woodland protects them from the heat of old grandfather sun,

And blankets of bracken she gives them when the winter’s wrath has begun.

And so it was with this maiden, in her home of the willow and birch,

Her companions were birds of the hawthorn, the oak trees and ash were her church.

The spring blew papery blossoms that showered her dark chestnut head,

In the summer she’d wander lush meadows and there make her soft fragrant bed.

As slick as an otter she’d swim a fast stream and emerge like a silvery fish,

On the banks she would bathe in the moonlight; to the stars she would give up her wish.

Lips stained by the berries of autumn, she’d run russet fields like a hare,

The wild northern winds of the winter would whip over moors grey and bare.

One day toasted golden by sunbeams, she chanced by a strange unknown track,

A persistent shrill bird encouraged her on while the sun slipped away at her back.

Down the winding dim path she travelled, mossy-clad trees lined the way,

Their limbs outstretched and beseeching, ‘Turn away!’ their plea seemed to say.

But still she followed the bird’s call, as he flitted impatiently on,

Till they reached a lake dark as pewter over which the wondrous moon shone.

And there in silence before her sat a crone on a mound of small rocks,

With a hood obscuring most of her face save quick eyes with the gleam of a fox.

We’ve waited for you,’ the old woman said in a voice as crisp as dried leaves,

‘We know how you long for your family, for loved-ones how your heart grieves.’

Her words were mocking and scornful; her mouth had the twist of old rope,

Shrouded thin arms in brown mottled folds; ‘Of a friend I am your last hope!’

The maid looked curiously at her with the innocent eyes of a child,

And though she dreamed of belonging, her heart drummed a beat free and wild.

‘My life is near to its ending; soon it will come to a close,’

‘While you have the youth of a sapling and the beauty of a new rose.’

‘So with you I shall make a bargain; an exchange of your youth for your kin’,

‘To be with forever and always; disobeying is surely a sin.’

‘A few years is all that I ask for, vital life to course through my veins,’

‘Imagine your life a mountain of sand; all I’ll take is a matter of grains.’

Bright-eyed with real trepidation, the girl moved her head in assent,

In triumph the witch heaved herself to her feet extending a hand aged and bent.

They shook to fix their agreement; the contract a thinly veiled snare,

Intending to make the girl’s life-force her own, the witch snatched a strand of her hair.

Winding the wisp round her finger, she then plucked a thread of her own,

She twisted and bound them together; the darkest enchantment now sown.

A sputtering fire appeared at their feet, the witch cast the charm at the flames,

Gone in a moment of hissing, belying her secret foul game.

‘Our pact makes us sisters forever, now you must do as I say,’

‘Before the night’s done you must capture the moon; before sun brings about the new day.’

‘If you fail to accomplish my bidding, the years you have left will be mine,’

‘The magic is already working, your life will taste sweeter than wine!’

The crone’s rheumy eyes grew brighter as she shrugged the cloak from her back,

‘My bones already feel stronger!’ she crowed as she reached for her pack.

‘Of hope there is just a glimmer; that you might succeed in this task,’

‘Catch the moon for me in this little glass jar and then in your glory we’ll bask.’

‘Before you set on your journey with the orb of the sky in your sights,’

‘Take my cloak old and dull from many years wear; it will give you the power of flight.’

The bird, the witch’s familiar felt a sorrow deep in his heart,

Of the twisted ploy of his mistress, he could play not even small part.

And so together in darkness, the girl and the little bird flew,

Like two dandelion seeds in the meadow as the gentle night breeze softly blew.

Higher they climbed in the heavens till on earth they appeared just a spec,

They disappeared into the azure as the witch stretched and craned her old neck.

Closer they flew to the goddess; the lady who lights the night sky,

With her lantern aloft for good travellers whom she guides on their way by and by.

But soon they came to a stand-still; the pair could climb higher no more,

Reaching out to catch moonbeams; with all their might they did soar.

Grandmother moon smiled upon them, with her beautiful luminous face,

‘Fear not your task little children,’ she whispered to them with such grace.

‘I will help you accomplish your mission though this errand should not have been asked,’

‘The wretchedness of the old woman’s test will surely be of her last.’

‘Fly back to earth now my dear ones with my promise that you shall be saved,’

‘For you, the spell will be broken, my two precious infants so brave.’

Down to the land the pair spiralled to alight on a lush grassy mound,

The ancients once called it a barrow, an elf-fort of soft mossy ground.

And as they sprawled on that hilltop, from exhaustion they lay in a swoon,

The crystalline jar set beside them while down from the sky sunk the moon.

Lower she fell from the cobalt till at last her skirts brushed the land,

She bent to kiss the sweet children; they were showered with dust from her hands.

The witch watched on in her horror in the cover of trees from afar,

What she saw was the moon sinking lower and at last seemed to fall in the jar.

Her wicked ill spell had been broken, vanquished, defeated, undone,

The old woman vanished into the night for her quarry had certainly won.

When the pair awoke the next morning they found of the moon not a trace,

But their bodies shimmered like silver; ethereal dust on each face.

Now that the thrall of enchantment had released the curse on the bird,

The eyes that he opened were those of a boy as the sister beside him now stirred.

So together they wander forever, in the fields and fells they now play,

The woodland rings with their laughter, I daresay you’ll hear them some day.

And tiny moths always remember, their dusty wings like the girls cloak,

Ever searching the moon in the night-time; in her glow they quiver and soak.

Help me keep the magic steeping!

Fergus MacCraith lived at the edge of the birch-wood, where the land sloped gently toward Loch Maree and the wind carried the scent of heather and rain. His family’s croft crouched low against the weather, built from the mottled bones of the land. Lewisian gneiss and Torridonian sandstone, stacked thick and uneven, limewashed long ago, now softened with lichen and time. The roof was slate in parts, though tufts of old thatch still clung to the eaves like memory. A single chimney puffed peat smoke into the sky, and the door creaked like an old fiddle when the wind turned. Each morning, his siblings read from the Bible, their voices low and dutiful, eyes cast down as they recited psalms and parables. They were taught to be good, to be grateful and to honour the Sabbath. Though Fergus listened, he did not feel God in the kirk. He sat, where the air was heavy with dust and duty but always felt something greater when he walked among the trees and where the mountains rose vast and indifferent beneath the sky. It was there, in the raw beauty of the land, that he felt peace.

At twelve, he was the youngest of five, and unlike the others, who carried feed, mended fences, and shouted across fields, he moved quietly. He lingered near the shallows of the loch and could spend whole days lying in the bracken, daydreaming and drawing in a tiny sketchbook while listening to the skylarks. His mother said he was soft-headed, his father said he’d grow out of it and Fergus didn’t much care either way.

It was on one of these quiet days that Fergus, standing at the loch edge, was first mesmerised by a shape in the shallows. Ghostly still and watching and slick with loch-water…its mane was tangled and eyes gleamed like polished coal.

He kept the secret to himself. Had they known, his mother would have knelt in prayer, his father would have sworn a curse and his siblings would have seen a devil where he saw a dream. He held onto it, the hope of another encounter, and that hope was answered. With each sighting, the world grew still…the wind ceased, the birds hushed and the loch itself seemed to hold its breath. Fergus constantly haunted the water’s edge, forgetting to eat or sleep…he just watched for the enchanted creature.

Then one morning, when the sky was the colour of bone and the mist hung low over the water, the kelpie stood waiting. It bowed its neck low in quiet invitation. Fergus tentatively stepped forward, brushing his hand along the warm flank before swinging onto her back. Beneath him, muscle shifted like river-stone. She waited, patiently until his fingers found her mane. Then, without warning, she reared with a wild cry and plunged into the loch, a blur of power and spray before he could draw breath and the waters closed around him, cold and crushing, filling his lungs and pulling him down. The kelpie dissolved into weed and current, its body no more than foam. Fergus sank, limbs slack, breath stolen and the light above fading into oblivion.

They say the Ghillie Dhu is a guardian of the birchwood, a solitary faery spirit who dwells among the trees, wary of strangers but gentle with the lost. He is clothed not in fabric but in the forest itself; garments grown from birch leaves, moss, and bark, stitched by wind and time. His hair is a dark tangle of lichen, his skin mottled like dappled shade and eyes that gleam green-gold, like dew caught in shadow.

When the kelpie took Fergus, it was the Ghillie Dhu who came with the hush of old things waking. He stepped from the grove and walked into the water as if it were a path he had always known. He slipped beneath the surface, descended through cold and shadow, past the bones of forgotten things and found Fergus suspended near the loch-bed, drifting like a leaf caught in the undertow. He lifted him gently, cradled him like a fallen bird and carried him to the safety of a warm moss-bed beneath the trees. As he hung an amulet of rowan on nettle cord around his neck, the kelpie’s claim unravelled, though Fergus did not wake all at once. His breath returned slowly and when he opened his eyes, his world was changed forever.

After what Fergus felt to be a few hours, he returned home, dazed and confused. But nine days had passed and his family had presumed him drowned, or taken by wolves from the high passes. In the days that followed, Fergus tried to explain what had happened, though no one believed him.

Years later, with an old voice raspy as dried twigs, he told his grandson Alasdair the tale of the loch, the kelpie and the Ghillie Dhu who walked into water and carried him to safety. He gave Alasdair the rowan amulet he’d worn ever afterward, marked with the ogham Luis, the symbol of flame, clarity, and protection. Life had never felt the same for Fergus; food lost its flavour, colours dulled and the whispers of trees and birds, once clear, became distant, like echoes from a world he could no longer reach but hoped to find again one day. Alasdair was the only one who truly listened and the only one who believed.

It was this story, and the ache it carried, that led him to study theology and philosophy at the University of Edinburgh…in search of proof, and a theory that could explain the unseen. There, Alasdair found kindred minds in Arthur Conan Doyle and James Matthew Barrie. The three met through the literary society- an eccentric gathering of students who debated metaphysics and the nature of belief long after lectures had ended. Arthur was studying medicine, precise and empirical, yet increasingly drawn to mysteries that science could not explain. James, immersed in literature, spoke of lost boys and faery islands with a wistful certainty that made even sceptics pause. Alasdair, with Fergus’s amulet tucked beneath his shirt, told tales of the Ghillie Dhu and kelpie lore that made the room fall silent.

They didn’t always agree. Arthur found Alasdair’s fervour unsettling. James, though gentler, questioned whether faery was truth or metaphor. But they listened and they wondered and returned, week after week, to the same candlelit room with its cracked windows and scent of old leather and paper.

As Alasdair’s obsession deepened, he began attending unusual and at times unsavoury places. He visited backroom dealers who claimed to sell the fossilised remains of faery, and wandered through obscure museums filled with bottled wings, bone fragments, and dubious relics labelled changeling jaw or selkie skin.

Arthur and James were disquieted. Arguments erupted at the Speculative Society…Arthur demanding evidence, James pleading for restraint and Alasdair always insistent that he would find the truth.

It was at the society that Moggin appeared without announcement or invitation, wearing his cloak of a thousand whispers in order to remain largely unnoticed. To most, he was just another eccentric scholar, slightly stooped, soft-spoken, blending into the candlelit shadows. But Alasdair felt it immediately… the pull, the wrongness and the shimmer of something not quite human.

He watched Moggin speak in riddles, quote texts that no one else could find, and vanish before the final vote was cast. On the third night, Alasdair came prepared. He slipped vervain and mugwort into Moggin’s ale, hoping to loosen his tongue, to coax out a true name…the key to catching faery.

Moggin drank. And then he turned with eyed darkened in fury “You would drug me? Trap me like a beast? Is that what truth means to you?”

Alasdair didn’t speak. He wasn’t cruel, only desperate and Moggin saw it.

His anger softened with recognition. “You are not wicked, Alasdair but misplaced….I see the mortal realm does not suit you.”

He leaned close, voice low and private, unheard by any other in the room.

“If truth is truly what you seek, trace the ogham on your grandfather’s amulet. Fergus could have returned, had he known how. But if you do this, you will not return. Not in body, not in memory and all who knew you will forget that you existed at all.”

Alasdair did not hesitate. He reached beneath his shirt and drew out the amulet, tracing the etched ogham with his finger- once, twice, three times, right there in the candlelit chamber. And he vanished.

No one noticed. No one remembered. Not Arthur, not James, not even the society’s records.

And yet, should you walk the paths along Loch Maree, some say you’ll glimpse them; Fergus and Alasdair, laughing and skimming stones across the water then vanishing with the Ghillie Dhu into the trees.

Help me keep the ink flowing!

When day and night stand toe to toe and autumn winds begin to blow, the courts convene in secret glade beneath the thorn and elder shade. Two tribes divide the faery kind; one seeks the light, one walks behind, The Seelie hold to leaf and place, take joy in laws of nature’s grace. Unseelie dwell in craggy hills, where truths are dark and shadows spill. They do not war with sword or flame but meet each year to play the game. 

The trial is held when Mabon calls to mark the shift when daylight palls. Four tasks are set by ancient rite, to weigh the dark against the light. And whoso wins this sacred test shall lead the tribes through winter’s quest. They hold the charge from Samhain’s veil to Yuletide’s fire and solstice tales. 

The courts draw near in dusk’s embrace to name the pair who’ll run the race. One fae from day, one fae from night, to walk the edge ‘twixt wrong and right. 

Alderwyne with steady tread, her touch had soothed, her words had lead. No sigil flared, no glamoured charm; just sun-inked black upon her palm. 
Thorne stepped forth from weathered stone, a whisperer of truths unknown. His eyes held storms, his smile a blade, a pact-born child of moonlight made. They bowed but did not touch or speak, for silence held what each must seek. The signal came from gold ram’s horn and so the trial was duly born. 

Four tests were set by ancient lore to weigh the worth of what they saw. Not might alone or cunning art, but balance held in mind and heart. First came air- the trial of breath; a skyward maze and dance with death. Each chosen climbed the wind’s domain, through mighty gusts and pelting rain. The goal; to reach the storm-heart’s eye, where silence holds a breathless sky. The winds grew wild, the routes too thin and icy blasts clawed at their skin. Alderwyne soared with grace and song, her breath in tune, her instincts strong. Thorne moved swift through cloud and gale but missed a turn and lost the trail. She reached the eye, the storm withdrew and wound her arm in windlace-blue. 

Then came fire, the trial of flame… not heat, but grief no soul could name. Each chosen stood where embers stirred, and faced the loss they’d never heard. No shield, no mask, no turning round; to face the flame was to be found. Alderwyne saw a child unborn, a life she’d love, a death she’d mourn. She reached, she wept, the flame withdrew, her breath undone, her courage flew. Thorne saw his father, grave and still, a bond once frayed, now healed by will. He did not flinch, the fire grew low and marked his brow with ember-glow.

Then came earth, the trial below, where roots entwine and secrets grow. Each chosen knelt in woodland deep, where silence held what trees all keep. The goal- to hear the hidden thread; mycelium of leaf and dead. Thorne reached with hands, not heart nor ear and found no thread, no voice to hear. Alderwyne bowed with open hand, and felt the pulse beneath the land. She spoke its truth, the trees bequeathed- in autumn's crown her head was wreathed.

Last came waves, a conjured tide, where chosen swam and none could hide. The current surged through joy and pain, the rise, the fall of loss and gain. No shore, no rest, no breath to keep but strength to meet each rising sweep. Alderwyne fought, but grief held tight, to child unborn and flame’s lost light. She sank beneath the trial’s great wave, too far to reach, too lost to save. But Thorne, who’d seen her sorrow burn, felt something deep begin to turn. He bore her up, the current stilled, and water gave its gift; fulfilled.

The chosen stood, revealed their worth, by flame and air and wave and earth. No victor crowned, no court unmade, but two who met where vows were laid. They raised the horn, its plenty blessed, a promise kept through winter’s rest. The tribes gave thanks while bonfires blazed, the feast began and toasts were raised. 
Through trial and gift, the year has turned...may goodness rise from all you’ve learned.

Help me keep the ink flowing!

This is just a very quick post to share the gentle gorgeousness of some of my neighbours.

A roe deer family visit our garden most evenings and early mornings, presently drawn from the surrounding fields and Westfield Wood by the fallen apples from our venerable and prolific tree. Roe deer are browsers, feeding on a varied diet of tree shoots, leaves, bramble, ivy, herbs, and grasses. Windfalls offer a seasonal treat, especially in late summer and autumn.

They’re most active at dawn and dusk, moving quietly along familiar paths. The young male, captured above in my very short (and clumsy!) animation, often leads, while the mother and this year’s fawns follow sometime after. My son caught one of the young in the photos below on an evening meander down the beck- having spotted the characteristic diamond-shaped white rump from some distance.

That’s all for now…I just wanted to share the love!