Maggie was an American tourist when I first saw her, hiking across the Irish hills with a group of other college students. It was raining. Maggie had no umbrella, and when the drizzle turned to a downpour, the water plastered her hair to her cheeks in black curls. The other students ran back to the bus, but Maggie lingered, her camera dangling at her hip, and when everyone else had gone, she pulled a pennywhistle out of her pocket and played it for ten minutes before she turned and trudged back up to the road.
I made a door, so that I could slip out of the hill and follow her. My elder brother caught my hand and said, “Don’t do it, Gaidian. Bring her here, if you must have her.” When I didn’t answer, he shook his head. “You get nothing but grief when you follow a mortal.”
“I just want to see where she goes,” I said, and went out into the rain. {read}
Published in Mar. 2015 (Issue 58) | 6583 words