06 October 2026
2024
R. Linda:
OK. This story be for me two fellow Irishmen who challenged me AGAIN. This time, I'm writing a story with a little romance.
I listened to me Mam's storytelling last night, got the story below from her, and embellished it with a bit of romance. This is a PG blog, LOL, most of the time, so nothing heavy. BUT this proves if I wanted to, I could write a silly romance novel. And to the two Irishmen, now that I have written this, you owe me. The challenge was that if I couldn't write a romance, I'd have to buy a donkey. BUT since that's not the case, THEY have to buy donkeys, one for each of them.
The October wind did not blow through the valley of Ballycree Beg; it bit. It carried the sharp, clean scent of the Atlantic and the heavy, damp smell of rotting ferns from the hillsides. By mid-month, a strange, mouldy frost had coated the grass in a brittle, sickly white. And that was when the trouble began.
Grainne (Grawn-yah) Buckley pulled her heavy wool shawl tight against her chin as she walked the narrow track near the parish crossroads. She was heading back from the creamery when a sudden, heavy silence made her stop.
Just past the low stone wall, in the ditch running alongside Murphy’s pasture, lay three young bullocks. They were stiff as wood, their legs thrust awkwardly into the air. Grainne gasped and climbed over the stones. No sign of a struggle, no blood, and no footprints of wild animals. The beasts looked as though life had simply been sucked out of them in the dead of night.
"God preserve us," a harsh voice muttered from behind her.
Grainne jumped, spinning around to find Tomás Murphy, Conall Murphy's hot-headed younger son, standing on the lane. He stared at the dead cattle, his face pale and hollowed by a fear he wouldn't name out loud.
"That’s nine of them this week," Tomás whispered, crossing himself. "It’s a blight, Grainne. It follows the frost. Or rather, it follows her.”
He looked toward the northern ridge. High up on the rocky slope, half-hidden by a cluster of gnarled, leafless ash trees, sat Siobhán’s lone stone cottage. A thin ribbon of blue turf-smoke rose from its chimney, bending sharply in the gale.
"Don't be talking foolishness, Tomás," Grainne said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Siobhán has been healing the people of this valley since before we were born.”
"Aye, when it suits her," Tomás snarled, his eyes darkening. "But the land is turning sour, and she’s the only one who doesn't attend Sunday Mass. The men are gathering at the crossroads tonight. We can't just watch the herds rot. If she won't lift the curse, we'll make her.”
He turned and strode angrily down the lane toward the village, leaving Grainne alone in the biting wind.
Grainne felt a cold spike of dread in her chest. She knew logic wouldn't save the old woman once the village was driven mad by fright. She needed to get up the ridge to warn her. But as she stepped back onto the lane to hurry away, her boot hit something hard buried in the frozen mud near the perimeter of the shared livestock water spring.
She knelt down, brushing aside a layer of dead leaves.
Half-concealed in the earth was an empty, amber glass bottle. It wasn't a local medicine vial, nor was it a jar Siobhán would ever use. It bore a clean, chemist's label from a London company. Grainne lifted it to her nose. A sharp, acrid smell clung to the glass—entirely masking the scent of the October earth.
Worse, just a few feet from the bottle, a distinct, heavy bootprint pressed deep into the soft, muddy edge of the livestock spring. It wasn't the cheap, split-leather work boot worn by the local farmers. It was the print of a tall, expensive riding boot with a fine, horseshoe-shaped heel plate.
The kind worn only by the English land agent, Mr Corcoran. In the back of her mind, Grainne remembered walking behind Corcoran and noticing the boot-print pattern as he walked.
Grainne’s breath hitched. She shoved the amber chemical bottle deep into her cloak's heavy pocket. The village was looking for a witch, but the real monster carried a walking cane and bought up their ruined farms for pennies.
Two days before the cattle died, the rain had turned the valley roads into a soup of tarry mud. Grainne slipped into the forge as the evening light died, the collar of her wet cloak tucked high against her chin.
The heat hit her first—a thick, roaring wall of warmth from the hearth, smelling beautifully of coal smoke and hot iron. Tomás' older brother Liam was alone at the anvil, his shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows, the heavy muscles of his forearms glinting with sweat in the amber glow of the fire.
He looked up at the sound of the door, and his face instantly brightened into a wide, easy grin.
"God bless you, Grainne," Liam said, setting his hammer down with a heavy clink. "Come on in out of that miserable weather before you catch your death. You look absolutely perished."
"I am, entirely," Grainne said, stepping closer to the hearth and extending her frozen hands toward the flames. "I’m just coming from Siobhán’s. She sent me down with a jar of clover honey for your father’s chest. He’s got a terrible cough, she says."
Liam’s smile softened, though a shadow of worry crossed his eyes. He took a clean linen cloth and wiped his soot-stained hands before stepping closer.
"Aye, he has. Fair play to her for thinking of him. But me father won't touch it, Grainne. He’s in a terrible way. He’s listening to me brother Tomás and the men at the creamery. They’re saying the sickness in the grass is Siobhán's doing."
"It’s not, Liam," Grainne said softly, looking up into his dark eyes. "You know she hasn't a bad bone in her body."
"I know that, a stór," Liam said, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble. He stepped into her space, his broad frame completely shielding her from the drafty door. He reached out, his large, rough hands gently covering her cold fingers. They were warm—unbelievably warm compared to the October chill outside. "And I tell them so until I’m blue in the face. But the men are driven mad with the fright of losing the stock. Corcoran is hovering around the farm like a hooded crow, offering a pittance for the land."
Grainne looked down at their joined hands. Liam’s fingers were calloused and black with soot, but his touch was incredibly gentle. A quiet, sudden heat flared in her chest, entirely separate from the forge fire.
"Do you believe them, Liam?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper against the coals' crackle. "Do you think I'm foolish for defending her?"
Liam squeezed her hands, his grip firm and reassuring. He tilted his head until she had to look back up at him.
"I think you're the bravest girl in this whole parish, Grainne Buckley," he said, his eyes intensely earnest in the firelight. "You’ve a good heart, and you stand up for what's right when the rest of them are acting like right eejits. I’d trust you over the lot of them any day of the week. Don't you ever doubt that."
The intensity of his gaze made Grainne’s breath hitch. For a long moment, the howling October wind outside vanished. Only the heat of the forge and the undeniable weight of the unspoken feelings that had been growing between them all autumn remained.
"Thank you, Liam," she murmured, her face flushing warm.
"Don't mention it," he whispered, a small, tender smile returning to his lips. He reluctantly let go of her hands, though his eyes didn't leave hers. "But promise me you'll be careful walking the ridge path after dark. If anything ever happened to you... well, I’d never forgive meself. So I wouldn't."
The sound of the mob came before the light—the low, rumbling murmur of angry men, punctuated by the heavy thud of marching boots on the frozen earth. Then, the orange glow of pine torches began to bleed over the crest of the hill, casting long, monstrous shadows through the gnarled ash trees.
Inside the dark cottage, Grainne’s hands shook as she secured the heavy iron bar across the timber door. "They're here," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Let them knock, a stór," Siobhán said calmly, standing by the hearth. "Sure, a wooden door never stopped a fool."
Suddenly, a sharp, rhythmic rap echoed against the back windowpane. Grainne gasped and spun around, her hand flying to the heavy iron fire poker.
"Grainne! Open up, for the love of God," a breathless voice called out from the dark.
Relief flooded Grainne’s chest. She unlatched the heavy door, and Liam Murphy hurried into the cottage, bringing a rush of cold October air. His eyes usually held a quick, easy humour—but tonight, they were wide with fierce protectiveness.
He immediately stepped close to Grainne, his large hands catching her elbows to steady her. "I slipped away from the crossroads when I saw which way the wind was blowing," Liam panted, his gaze intensely locked on hers. "Tomás has them completely whipped into a frenzy, Grainne. They're out of their minds with the fright. Corcoran is right out front leading them, whispering poison in their ears. I won't let them lay a finger on you. Not a hope."
The solid warmth of Liam's presence grounded Grainne's spiralling panic. She reached up, her hand resting briefly over his. "We don't need to fight them, Liam. Not with fists. We have the proof.”
A heavy boot slammed against the front door, rattling the iron hinges.
"Siobhán of the Ridge!" Corcoran’s voice boomed from the darkness outside, rich with artificial authority. "Open the door! The parish demands justice for the blight you’ve brought upon our land!”
Siobhán didn't flinch. She looked at Grainne and Liam and nodded slowly. "Open it, children. Let the winter in. We may as well see what these boyos think they're doing.”
Liam took his place firmly at Grainne’s side, his arm brushing hers, offering a silent wall of support as he threw back the heavy iron bar. The door swung open to reveal the shouting mob, their faces twisted by torchlight. Corcoran stood at the front, flanked by an angry Tomás.
"Step aside, Liam!" Tomás yelled, brandishing a heavy wooden club. "The old woman is a witch! She’s after poisoning our father’s own stock!”
"She didn't touch the cattle, Tomás, and well, you know it," Grainne’s voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the wind. She stepped forward onto the stone threshold. Liam moved with her, his shoulder anchored against hers. "But the poisoner is standing among you. Don't be making a holy show of yourselves for a liar.”
The crowd murmured, shifting uncomfortably. Corcoran let out a cold, mocking laugh. "A desperate lie from a witch’s apprentice. Push past them, men!”
"Is this yours, Mr Corcoran, or did it drop from the sky?" Grainne held aloft the amber chemical bottle, the torchlight catching the chemist's label. "I found it at the shared livestock spring. It carries the mark of a London chemical merchant. And the mud around the spring bears the print of a gentleman’s riding boot with a horseshoe-shaped heel plate. I know that heel, Mr Corcoran. I've seen its print before, and I've heard it clicking across the boards."
Every head in the crowd turned downward. Corcoran instinctively tried to shift his feet into the shadows, but Liam stepped forward and thrust a torch down toward the land agent's pristine, expensive leather boots, still caked in the dark, distinctive livestock spring mud.
"Father almost sold you the land that's been in our family for generations this very afternoon, out of sheer desperation," Liam growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. "You fouled our waters to starve us out, and you used our fears to hide your dirty work. Have you no shame at all?”
Realisation washed over the farmers like ice water. Tomás looked from the bottle to Corcoran’s boots, his face flushing with sudden, volatile rage. "You absolute scoundrel," Tomás snarled, turning his club toward the agent. "You had us acting like eejits while you robbed us blind!”
The mob’s anger pivoted instantly. Corcoran’s sophisticated facade completely shattered; his face went pale, and he backed away into the darkness as the furious crowd surged toward him, chasing him down the ridge path and away from Ballycree Beg for good.
As the shouts faded into the valley, a profound, peaceful silence settled over the mountain.
Siobhán stepped onto the threshold and looked out over the moonlit valley. "The frost is clearing," she murmured softly. "The land remembers who loves it, buíochas le Dia.”
Grainne let out a long, shuddering breath she felt she’d been holding all October. She looked up to find Liam watching her, his dark eyes filled with a quiet, profound admiration. He reached down, his rough, warm fingers gently sliding into hers, squeezing tightly.
"You were brilliant, Grainne," he whispered, stepping closer to shield her from the biting wind. "Fair play to you. I was worried sick, so I was.”
Grainne smiled, leaning into his side as the hearth embers glowed warm behind them. The village had looked for magic, but it was truth and the quiet strength of the person beside her that had saved them.
Gabe
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