Racconto inviato | Submitted story 8

Racconto inviato | Submitted story 8

THE WHISPER OF THE PÙCA

In the rolling hills of County Clare, where mists clung to the land and shadows stretched too
long, Aisling O’Malley walked quickly along a dirt path. The last light of the day faded into the
horizon, leaving the world steeped in grey. She clutched her shawl tightly, her heart heavy
with worry.
The farm was failing again. Her sheep were sick, her crops had withered, and a letter of
eviction weighed down her satchel. This land had been her family’s for generations, but now
it seemed destined to slip away.
Desperate, Aisling turned to an old tale. The stories of the Púca…tricksters, sprits or devils
the could bless just as curse. It could save a farmer or ruin one. But its help always came
with a cost.
“You’re desperate enough to try it, girl, but you’ll wish you hadn’t,” Mrs. Byrne had warned
when Aisling shared her plan. “The Púca doesn’t help for free.”
But Aisling didn’t care. If the Púca could save her family’s land, she was willing to pay the
price.
The path ended at a lonely hill called Cnoc na Sidhe, the Hill of the Fair Folk. The air there
was unnaturally still, and the gnarled blackthorn trees seemed to reach toward her in the dim
light.
Aisling swallowed hard and stepped into the glade. “I know you’re here,” she called, her
voice trembling. “I need your help.”
For a long moment, the glade was silent. Then, from the shadows, something moved.
It was a horse, but unlike any horse she had ever seen. Its coat was blacker than night, its
golden eyes glowed with a strange light, and its mane rippled as if touched by an unseen
wind. Aisling knew at once: this was the Púca.
The creature tilted its head, watching her with unsettling intelligence. When it spoke, its voice
was deep and resonant, as though the earth itself was speaking.
“Aisling O’Malley,” it said. “You seek a bargain.”
She nodded, though fear pricked at her skin. “The farm is dying. My family’s land… I can’t
lose it. Please, I’ll do anything.”
The Púca stepped closer, its golden eyes fixed on hers. “Anything,” it echoed, almost
amused.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.The creature’s hooves struck the ground softly, though the sound echoed like thunder.
“When the O’Malley line ends, you will give me the soul of the last one. No heirs, no
bargains, no escape. A fair price, don’t you think?”
Aisling froze. Her family’s soul—what could that mean? But then she thought of her father,
her grandfather, and the generations before them who had fought to keep this land. What
was one soul compared to all that?
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” she asked.
The Púca’s eyes flared. “Do not insult me with doubt. Agree, and you will have all you need.
Refuse…” The wind howled through the glade. “And I will leave you with nothing.”
“Yes,” Aisling said quickly, the word escaping her lips before she could stop herself.
The Púca laughed, a sound both beautiful and terrible. It raised its head, and the earth
beneath her feet seemed to tremble. The blackthorn trees burst into bloom, heavy with pale
flowers. The air warmed, rich with the scent of rain and fresh soil.
“It is done,” the Púca said, its golden eyes boring into hers. “Your farm will flourish. But
remember, Aisling O’Malley, the land always takes its price.”
Before she could respond, the creature vanished into the mist.
Years Later
The farm thrived. Crops grew larger and faster than anyone had seen, and the sheep were
strong, their wool finer than gold. Aisling married Eamon, a kind man, and together they
raised two children.
Life seemed perfect, but Aisling never forgot the deal she had made. Each harvest reminded
her of the Púca’s warning.
Strange things began to happen. Storms destroyed nearby farms but left hers untouched.
Neighbors whispered about a black stallion seen wandering near Cnoc na Sidhe.
One day, her youngest son, Fionn, went missing near the glade. They found him hours later,
pale and shaking, clutching a blackthorn blossom. When he finally spoke, he whispered,
“The horse… it said we belong to it now.”
Aisling’s blood ran cold.
That winter, a terrible sickness swept through the village. Eamon and their eldest daughter
died within weeks. Aisling was left with Fionn, her last child, and the crushing weight of her
bargain.
Each night, she heard hoofbeats in the distance. They grew louder, closer, as if the Púca
was reminding her of its claim.One stormy evening, she grabbed Fionn’s hand and dragged him to the glade. Rain lashed
at her face as she screamed into the night. “Take me instead! Leave my son!”
The wind stilled, and the black stallion stepped out of the mist. Its golden eyes gleamed, cold
and unfeeling.
“The deal was made,” the Púca said. “The last O’Malley will belong to me. There is no
escape from fate.”
“No!” Aisling cried, but the Púca reared, its dark form vanishing into the storm.
From that night on, the hoofbeats haunted her, growing louder with each passing year. She
knew the Púca would return, but not when—or for whom.
The land flourished. Her family’s soul was doomed.
And somewhere, in the hills of County Clare, the Púca waited.