Introduction

An evocative and charming novel full of secrets and mystery, from the million-copy bestselling author of The Lost Bookshop

In a quiet village in Ireland, a mysterious local myth is about to change everything…

One hundred years ago, Anna, a young farm girl, volunteers to help an intriguing American visitor translate fairy stories from Irish to English. But all is not as it seems and Anna soon finds herself at the heart of a mystery that threatens her very way of life.

In New York in the present day, Sarah Harper boards a plane bound for the West Coast of Ireland. But once there, she finds she has unearthed dark secrets – secrets that tread the line between the everyday and the otherworldly, the seen and the unseen.

With a taste for the magical in everyday life, Evie Woods's latest novel is full of ordinary characters with extraordinary tales to tell.

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Excerpt

Thornwood House

Where Thornwood House now stands, was once ancient woodland. It is said that when Lord Hawley purchased the estate in 1882, as a marriage gift for his wife, he ordered the entire site to be cleared before building works could commence. However, in the middle of this site grew a gnarled old hawthorn tree; a fairy tree, and ’twas said that misfortune would befall any man who so much as scarred the twisted bark. A seeress from the locality warned the Master not to touch it, saying that The Good People would have their revenge on anyone who tampered with their dwelling place.

But Lord Hawley was an educated man from Surrey, England and held no truck with local superstition. The plans were drawn up for his mansion house and he paid the workers handsomely to get the job done. Yet the local men still refused to be a part of it, and Hawley was forced to employ workers from his own homeland to cut the tree down. The seeress foretold no end of misery, but for the first few years, everything in Thornwood House seemed perfectly content.

However, when Lady Hawley fell pregnant with twins, she did become mightily sick and there was a fear for her life. Mercifully, she and the babies survived, but the real horror was yet to come.

A few short weeks after they were born, the Mistress began to act very strangely and insisted that the children were not hers. The physician was sent for, and rumours spread that the woman was suffering from hysteria.

The seeress, on the other hand, knew that it was not Lady Hawley’s mind that had weakened. She knew that when a mother did not recognise her own child, it could only mean one thing: a changeling. The Good People had finally exacted their revenge by taking the human children and replacing them with evil, sickly souls. If they did not perish immediately, they would live to become mischievous and destructive individuals, intent on creating bitterness and hate wherever they went.

Before the Hawley twins ever saw their first birthday, Lady Hawley threw herself from the top window of Thornwood House.

Chapter 1

25th December 2010

New York

Were it not for that tacky ceramic sheep in the gift shop, Sarah would never have even heard of Thornwood, much less got on a plane to Ireland and spent the Christmas holidays there.

‘Have you got everything you need?’ Jack had finally asked, after an hour of silently watching her reclaim all her worldly possessions.

‘Um, yes I think that’s it,’ Sarah said, looking about her at all the empty spaces she was leaving behind. Most of her belongings were already boxed and shipped. ‘Well at least now you can have that snooker table you always wanted in here,’ she added, trying to sound cheery, but regretting it as soon as she heard it out loud. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘It’s okay,’ he said, touching her lightly on the arm and giving her a crooked smile. ‘I don’t know what to say either, but you don’t have to pretend, Sarah.’

The easiest thing would have been to fall into his arms and bury her pain somewhere neither of them could find it, but she’d tried that already and two years later, it still wasn’t working. They were living in a house of unspoken needs and muffled emotions.

‘Are you sure you want to leave today? I mean, it is Christmas after all,’ he said, nodding towards the lacklustre tree that blinked optimistically in the corner. ‘You could wait till New Year’s…’

‘What difference does it make, really? We’d just be delaying the inevitable. I have to leave now or I never will. Besides, your family’s expecting you for the big Natale Zaparelli, so you better get a move on too.’

He exhaled a long and weary sigh, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sarah wondered bitterly what bothered him more: her absence from the Zaparelli family Christmas or him having to explain it.

‘I wish it didn’t have to be like this.’ Jack shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t know where to place himself and finally, like an unwanted object in his gallery, he leaned against the nearest wall.

‘Come on Jack, it’s taking all of my strength to do this. Please don’t go soft on me now or I might just crack,’ Sarah said, reaching for her purse and coat.

‘All right then, beat it lady and don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Better?’ he asked, with a half-smile.

‘Much.’ She hugged him, briefly but fiercely and turned on her heel, dragging her suitcase behind her. ‘I’ll call to let you know I’ve landed safely,’ she called behind her.

‘Maybe just a text message,’ he said, adding in almost a whisper, ‘I don’t trust myself not to beg you to come back.’

*

Newark airport had a sense of business as usual but with a half-hearted nod to the holidays. It reminded Sarah of when she was a child and spent Christmas in the hospital having her appendix removed. The worn-out decorations only served to remind her of where she wanted to be, but wasn’t, and now the airport felt the same. Where were all these people going? Were they all leaving their husbands? Most of them probably didn’t even observe Christmas. Was all of this really going on every year while Sarah tucked into her turkey, naively assuming that everyone else had the same traditions?

Her sister Meghan would probably be serving her famous Christmas pudding about now. She wished she didn’t have to impose on their holidays, but you can’t always choose the timing of a marriage breakdown. After three years of marriage, she had precious little to show for it. If anything, her life had shrunk since she met Jack. Her only option was to move back in with her parents or stay in her sister’s spare room. It wasn’t much of a choice: failed daughter or failed sister. Meghan’s was the lesser of two evils.

Sarah absent-mindedly wandered through the gift shops, hoping to distract herself from the recurring thought of what Jack would be doing now. He was putting on a brave face, like herself, but she was sure he would be feeling as lost as she was. At least she could go back to Boston, remove herself from the familiar, everyday things that would bring memories of their life together flooding back. Feeling certain that her hometown would act as some sort of restorative power, she booked the flight like a homing pigeon.

Coming back to herself, she realised she was standing in front of a display of ceramic sheep, in varying shapes and sizes. She must have been staring at them for quite some time, for the shop assistant stepped forward, sensing the possibility of a sale.

‘They’re super cute, right?’ said the young girl, with an overly painted face and nose ring.

‘Uh, I suppose, if you like sheep,’ Sarah replied, not wanting to offend. ‘What shop is this?’

‘The Emerald Isle Gift Store. You get a 10% discount with your Aer Lingus boarding pass,’ she added, as if this would sway her decision. ‘What part of Ireland are you going to?’

‘Oh no, I’m not going to Ireland, just home to Boston,’ Sarah assured her, deflecting the sales pitch. She grew up knowing that there was some Irish blood in her family tree (hardly a novelty in Boston) and had always promised herself that, if she ever had the money to do it, she would visit one day. Her honeymoon had seemed like the perfect opportunity, but Jack had argued that two weeks in the Maldives would be much more romantic than shivering in the damp and dreary Irish countryside. Perhaps he’d been right, but the mysticism and charm of the fairy tale castles she’d saved on her phone called to her in a way that aquamarine waters never did.

The young assistant sat back behind the counter and was now testing the stretchability of her chewing gum. Given the day, Sarah took pity on her and picked up a rather startled looking sheep and an Irish newspaper for good measure. She hardly registered tucking the half bottle of Irish whiskey under her arm.

‘Thank you ma’am and Happy Holidays!’ the girl smiled as Sarah took her gift bag and headed for the departure gates.

Grabbing a cup of coffee to go, Sarah sat apart from the other passengers by the window, where she could see the aeroplanes being refuelled. A light flurry of snow had begun, illuminated by the airport lights to look like flecks of gold dancing through the air. Looking at the screen, she could see that her flight was delayed by two hours. Opening the screw cap, she nonchalantly poured a healthy measure of whiskey into the paper cup. A medicinal measure. The coffee was bitter, but mixed with the whiskey it flushed her bloodstream with a reassuring warmth. It all felt so surreal. Knowing that you’re going to leave your husband and actually going through with it are two very different things. Her emotions were only now beginning to catch up with the reality of the situation. She twisted off the cap again and refilled her cup.

She wasn’t getting much sleep since ‘The Big Bad Thing’ as she now referred to it. Somehow it was easier than saying it that way, contained it somehow, so the feelings couldn’t get out. Going to bed was like buying a lottery ticket; some nights you won and grabbed a few hours of sleep. Other nights, which were becoming more and more frequent, she woke in a blind panic, hardly able to breathe.

‘You’re suffering from an anxiety disorder,’ said her doctor, with her perfectly coiffed hair and rather inappropriate high-heeled shoes. I mean, how could you attend an emergency in those heels, Sarah wondered, while the doctor’s explanation washed over her. Giving it a name didn’t help matters. Pills were offered and refused. Jack had a lot to say about that. He had a lot to say about everything and often drowned any thoughts Sarah tried to have of her own. She was advised to cut down on the drinking. She didn’t tell Jack about that part and had somehow managed to convince herself that this was a generic piece of advice that didn’t really apply to her. She just knew that if she could be on her own for a while, she could sort herself out. Except, she wouldn’t be on her own in Boston. It was only now beginning to dawn on her that the price for familial support would be more interference. More well-meaning platitudes from people intent on ‘fixing’ her.

‘Another coffee please,’ Sarah said, when a young man in an apron came to wipe her table and clear her cup away. She tried not to meet his eyes, surely he could smell the whiskey. Not that it mattered, she was well over the legal age. But there was a feeling of guilt there that she couldn’t explain. She wasn’t drinking for fun or because she had a fear of flying. She was trying to forget. She busied herself with her bag and spotted the Irish newspaper inside it. She took it out, purely for something to look at, when a photo caught her attention on the back page. An image of a beautiful hawthorn tree, blooming with tiny white flowers, standing alone and beside a busy road in County Clare in Ireland. The headline read: THE FAIRY TREE THAT MOVED A MOTORWAY.

‘Huh!’ Sarah said a little loudly, then bent her head to focus on the words.

“Clare County Council finally bowed to local pressure to alter the proposed route of a major new motorway currently under construction, all in an effort to protect a very special hawthorn tree. Ned Delaney, a local folklorist and storyteller, placed an objection against the motorway being built in the area, saying that the hawthorn tree was “an important meeting place for the fairies”. According to folklore, this is the spot where the Munster fairies would meet when planning a battle against the Connaught fairies, and Delaney (known locally as “The Fairy Whisperer”) insisted that to cut down the tree would “vex” the little people and cause untold misfortune for the workers on the motorway and future users of the road.”

Sarah felt as though she were suddenly back in her father’s truck, as a teenager, driving through the country to gather bits of dead wood from the forest. He would let her drive on the quieter roads and it felt so freeing, just the two of them, the road ahead and the trees lining the route. They would spend hours together in his workshop making impossibly crooked birdhouses and desk tidies and anything else that could be fashioned from rough wood and a few rusty nails. He always encouraged her and even got her to start sketching plans on paper for more sophisticated projects like coat racks and shelving units. It was thanks to those early days in the workshop that she finally decided to go to college and study art. She had such high hopes when she graduated, but New York didn’t exactly work out as planned, on any level. Her working class roots had always made her feel like an outsider in the galleries of New York, but now she felt like she didn’t belong at home anymore either. Her stomach churned at the thought of setting up home in her sister’s spare room. She turned her attention back to the newspaper.

‘Locals were hesitant to admit that they actually believed in fairies, but one resident summed up the general feeling when she said, “It’s better to be safe than sorry”.

Sarah blinked and shook her head. Could this be possible, in this day and age? She flipped the paper over and double-checked that it was in fact a genuine newspaper and not some kind of joke. Then she began to smile to herself and thought again of her father and what a kick he would get out of it. Her mother, on the other hand, had no time for such trivialities. Her mother and Meghan were the practical ones, but Sarah and her father were the dreamers. Or at least she used to be. All of the magic seemed to seep out of her after The Big Bad Thing. Maybe Ireland was the place to find it again?

Glancing out over the concourse from her little table at Dunkin’ Donuts and realised she had walked quite far from her departure gate. In fact, she found herself slap bang in front of the Aer Lingus departure lounge, with the flight number EI 401 bound for Shannon flashing on the screen. An advertisement on the near wall showed the striking image of the Cliffs of Moher, standing majestically above the wild Atlantic Ocean, with the tagline:

‘Ireland: The land of a thousand welcomes’.

Something inside her shifted, then settled. The decision was made. It was made the moment she saw that silly sheep.

Chapter 2

Sarah woke with a jolt when the plane touched down on the tarmac. Peering out of the window, she couldn’t tell if it was day or night, for the torrential rain lashed the window in such persistent bursts that it was impossible to see out.

‘You’re lucky you slept through that,’ came a lyrical Irish accent close to her ear.

Turning around, Sarah saw her neighbour smiling kindly at her, while wrapping up what appeared to be a hooked needle and a large ball of wool.

‘I dropped a few stitches, I don’t mind telling you!’ confided the lady. ‘I thought the wind would flip us over, but you slept soundly all the way through, you lucky duck.’

Sarah tried to compose herself and covertly wipe any drool from her face. She felt completely dehydrated and her head felt like it was being drilled at the temples.

‘Sorry I wasn’t much company,’ she said, flattening her wayward hair into what should have been a bob.

‘Oh don’t worry about that, you obviously needed the rest and besides, my crochet always keeps me company. In fact,’ she said, digging back into her bag, ‘Happy Christmas!’ she enthused, handing her a hat. ‘I crocheted eight of them during the flight.’ She pulled out a perfectly stitched beanie hat in a lovely berry shade and handed it to Sarah.

‘You’re kidding me, you’ve been knitting these the whole time?’

‘Oh God yah, I couldn’t go anywhere without my crochet. It keeps me calm and Lord knows I hate flying, so this passes the time nicely.’

Sarah tried on the hat and it fitted perfectly.

‘Thank you so much, that’s really very kind of you.’ Sarah realised that she really wasn’t in New York anymore. People hardly made eye contact there, much less offered handmade gifts.

‘Listen, my brother-in-law is picking me up so if you need a ride anywhere…’ Sarah said, feeling seasonably charitable.

‘Not at all. I’ll get the bus straight from Shannon into Ennis so I’ll be fine dear,’ she replied.

Sarah had no idea what the woman was talking about. Shannon and Ennis didn’t sound familiar. But rather than get into a tiresome discussion, she just nodded politely and fished for some tissues in her bag.

The pilot calmly announced that it was 06:45 a.m. local time and a chilly three degrees Celsius (whatever that meant in Fahrenheit).

Rather oddly, he also mentioned something about Shannon.

‘Holy shit!’ she cried.

‘Don’t worry love, it can’t be much colder than New York,’ her companion assured her.

‘Where are we?’ she gasped, grabbing the woman’s arm.

‘What? We’re in Ireland love, I told you, you slept right through!’

Sarah had that sickening feeling that was becoming all too familiar. The cold sweat and the uncanny sensation of popping candy in her bloodstream. It was starting to come back to her – the sheep; the whiskey; the doughnuts. And something about a tree?

‘We’re not in Boston, are we?’

‘Do you not remember love? Well, I suppose you were a little worse for wear. I think the air hostess only let you on to shut you up!’

‘Oh God.’ Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the lock on her lost memories. She remembered laughing, possibly wishing people ‘Top of the morning’, but that was it.

‘How did I even get a ticket?’ Sarah shook her head, but still no memories came loose.

‘You told me you were flying standby. Sure, they were only delighted to fill up the seats, weren’t they? It’s half empty as it is.’ The woman was packing up her knitting and taking all of her valuable information with her.

Looking out the window, all Sarah could see was darkness and the blurred lights of the airport through the rain. It was clearly not Logan International. She dug her cell phone out of her bag, powered it on and dialled Meghan’s number immediately.

‘I’m so sorry Meghan,’ she began remorsefully.

‘And so you should be. Poor Greg was stuck waiting at the airport for you for hours last night. On Christmas Day Sarah! What the hell happened to you? Didn’t you get my messages? Are you staying with Jack?’

The plane finally came to a halt and the passengers began to unclick their seatbelts and open the overhead lockers. Sarah cupped her hand around her ear to block out the noise.

‘No, I…’ Sarah hesitated. She knew the least she owed her sister was an explanation, but she was almost embarrassed to admit what she had done. ‘I’m not in New York,’ was what she finally settled on.

‘Well you’re not in Boston either, I can vouch for that!’ Meghan snapped.

Meanwhile, the hat lady joined the line of passengers queuing to exit the plane, giving Sarah a supportive thumbs up. She obviously had more faith in her than Sarah had in herself.

‘Look Meghan, I really needed to get away. I thought it might be good to be on my own for a while, try and work things out in my own space.’ This sounded good, Sarah assured herself. It sounded like a coherent plan.

‘Well I wish you would have thought of that before I spent all of Christmas Eve getting your room ready and half of Christmas Day calling the airline. How could you be so thoughtless? It’s not like you,’ Meghan replied.

‘Okay, you’re right, I deserve that. I just… I acted on a whim. I didn’t even know what I was doing myself until I was on the flight and then I fell asleep and…’

‘So you did take a flight, to where?’

‘Um, well I’m in Ireland.’ The line went silent. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I seem to have arrived in the middle of a hurricane,’ she added, looking out at a stiffly horizontal windsock.

‘Sarah, what are you doing?’ came her measured reply.

‘Well, this is just a rough guess, but I might be having a midlife crisis.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘I disagree. It’s the first truly funny thing that has happened in the last two years. In fact, it’s hilarious. I’ve just arrived in a country where I know nothing and no one, and it’s Christmas for God’s sake. I haven’t a clue where I’m going, or what I’m doing, and another thing…’

Sarah suddenly noticed that an air hostess was standing by her seat, giving her a weary smile. Sarah raised herself up and realised that the entire plane was empty, save for her and the remaining crew. ‘Listen Meghan, I’ve got to disembark. I’ll call you once I get settled.’

‘Settled where?’ Meghan shouted, exasperated.

‘Well, in Ireland.’

‘You mean you don’t even know what part of Ireland you’re in?’ Meghan accused in a high-pitched voice.

‘Sorry, you’re breaking…’ With that, she rang off to the sound of her sister saying how they were all so worried about her and she instantly knew she had done the right thing.

Inside the terminal, Sarah dragged her lone sky-blue suitcase across the concourse. She’d packed the rest of her worldly belongings in a removal company van, which would probably be arriving at Meghan’s house about now.

‘What am I doing?’ she whispered under her breath.

The place was deserted, apart from two tired-looking men in high visibility jackets leaning against the customs counter. She hauled her suitcase off the carousel and headed for the exit.

‘Anything to declare, Madam?’ the larger one asked in a deep baritone voice.

Sarah couldn’t think of anything to declare, except that she was now officially homeless, so decided to keep her mouth shut. As the sliding doors opened, she felt the disappointment like a physical blow to her gut. Even though she hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there, the sadness of knowing that nobody cared whether she was here or not still hurt. ‘What kind of oddball travels abroad on their own for Christmas?’ she wondered bitterly to herself. Still, there was nothing to do but get on with it now. A nice warm hotel room with a hot bath and some delicious food would make everything seem better, she assured herself and began to search the concourse for an information desk.

After walking the length and breadth of Shannon airport (which took about two minutes) Sarah couldn’t find any desk open. She could feel the panic beginning to rise; that feeling of inexplicable yet imminent dread. Her only option was to try to outrun it, which was not a great option considering she didn’t know where she was running to. The only people who seemed to be working were two security guards who looked at her askance when she demanded assistance.

‘Why is nothing open?’ she gasped, her throat tightening. ‘I need to book a hotel room.’

‘It’s Saint Stephen’s Day, the girls at the information desk won’t be in until nine at the earliest,’ responded one.

‘There’s an airport hotel across the road if you’re stuck,’ offered the other.

‘Saint who?’ Sarah was already experiencing culture shock and she hadn’t even left the airport yet. ‘Fine, I suppose that’ll do for now,’ she conceded, as she fought the revolving door and finally met with her first breath of Irish air. The gust almost lifted her off her feet and threatened to part her from her coat and suitcase. She struggled to button her coat and pulled her newly acquired beanie hat down over her ears as she made her way across the concourse and towards the hotel. She swiftly blew into the reception and took a moment to steady herself before stepping up to the reception desk. To her relief, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman sprang up to greet her with all the agility of Fred Astaire.

‘You’re very welcome to the Shannon Airport Hotel, how can I help you?’ he rattled off with practised ease.

‘Hey there, Marcus,’ she said, reading his name badge. ‘I just need a room for tonight please and if you can tell me where I can get some breakfast, that’d be great.’

‘Ooh,’ he said, sucking air through his teeth, ‘unfortunately we don’t have any rooms tonight, but I can offer you a twin room for tomorrow night?’

‘You’re kidding, right? How could you be booked up when this place is a ghost town?’

‘Oh no, we’re not booked up as such, but there’s been a slight problem with the plumbing on two of the floors, so we’ve had to close up most of the bedrooms until we get it sorted,’ he explained.

Sarah slumped into one of the leather tub chairs facing the view of the car park outside. Despite the fact that she had slept for most of the flight, she still felt like an emotional wreck. An emotional wreck with a raging hangover.

‘I’m not normally…’ she trailed off.

‘Ah sure, it’s the time of year, makes us all a bit funny, doesn’t it?’ He stepped out from behind the reception desk and made a swift appraisal of the situation. ‘Right, follow me.’

‘What? Where?’ But he was already making great strides through the lobby and towards a door marked ‘Dining Room’.

Once settled at a table with a large plate of bacon, sausage, egg and soda bread, Sarah began to relax a little. Marcus joined her with a large pot of tea and two cups on a tray.

‘Marcus O’Brien, at your service,’ he said, introducing himself formally.

‘Sarah Harper,’ she replied, offering her hand. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Skeleton staff at Christmas,’ Marcus said as he poured a liquid black as tar into her cup. ‘Anyway, what brings you to the Banner on this Stephen’s Day?’

‘The Banner?’ she echoed.

‘Oh, it’s a nickname really, UP THE BANNER!’ he said, waving his gangly arms about. ‘Never mind,’ he said, on seeing her blank look.

‘Would you believe me if I told you that it was a newspaper article about a fairy tree that brought me here?’

‘The hawthorn, of course. Are you a journalist?’ he quizzed excitedly.

Great, she thought, he did believe it. She had her cover story. Anything was better than the truth.

‘Not exactly. This is delicious by the way, I’ve never tasted anything like this back home,’ she said, buttering her soda bread. It was magically curing her hangover too.

‘Well if you can’t get a good Irish breakfast here, we may as well all pack up and go home!’ He excused himself with efficient courtesy and left to sort out some hotel business, wiping his finger along the tables checking for dust as he went.

Sarah took a moment to gather her thoughts, which basically consisted of how relieved she felt to stumble into the path of a man like Marcus. Sometimes you just needed to be looked after, especially after a night drinking whiskey and buying a plane ticket to Ireland. She started to think that maybe this rash decision wasn’t so bad after all. She could spend a week or two having a nice little holiday for herself; enjoying the country and its people (if they were all like Marcus), before returning home with a clear head.

‘You’re in luck,’ Marcus said as he returned to the dining room. ‘I’ve found you the perfect place to stay in the village,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

‘The village?’ Sarah wondered if he meant the New York or the Irish version.

‘Thornwood. It’s just a twenty-minute drive from here. It’s what we would call in the business “a home away from home”.’

All she could do was smile; a home away from home was just what she needed right now.

*

Breezing through a landscape of stone walls and green fields, Sarah couldn’t help but smirk at Marcus’s leather driving gloves. Everything he did was so correct and proper. To every task there was an order, a precision that made you feel as though you were in safe hands.

‘You really didn’t have to drive me, I could have taken a cab,’ she said, as they glided around a roundabout.

‘Not at all, we often send guests over here when the hotel is fully booked. It’s a small village but it’s also a popular spot for tourists, so we keep busy. And you said you were from Boston yourself?’ he asked, shifting the gear stick with practised ease.

‘Yep, although I’ve been living in Manhattan for a couple of years with my…’ she stumbled, memories flooding back. ‘With my husband Jack.’

Marcus O’Brien had not spent the last thirty-odd years working as a hotel manager and learned nothing. He casually steered the conversation onto safer ground and chatted easily about all manner of subjects. Sarah marvelled at his ability to hold an entire conversation on his own, with little or no need for input from her.

Marcus wasn’t exaggerating about the distance or the size of Thornwood. As the car rolled over the humpbacked bridge into the village, Sarah was amazed to see that ‘the village’ was simply a cluster of houses; a shop and a pub, with a quaint little church overlooking the river. Instead of streetlamps, the village was lit by old-fashioned cast iron lanterns, which were all festively dressed in red bows. The whole place looked so well maintained and cared for, with brightly painted shopfronts and window boxes bursting with evergreens.

‘I have to give it to you Marcus, this is one pretty little village,’ she said finally.

‘Well, we’re very proud of it and we have a very successful Tidy Towns committee,’ he replied.

‘Let me guess, you must be president?’ she joked genially.

‘Vice president, but I’ve got my eye on the prize,’ he said, tapping his nose.

‘Now,’ he announced, as they arrived at a pretty stone house, which was guarded by two bay trees lit up with fairy lights. ‘It’s not a hotel, but I’m hoping you’ll be open-minded.’

‘It looks lovely, is it a guest house?’

‘Oh, this isn’t where you’ll be staying, no it’s the owner who lives here,’ he explained.

‘The owner?’ Nothing seemed to be straightforward in this place. You had to go from A to C, just to get to B, which probably wasn’t the place you were looking for at all.

‘Yes, Mr. Sweeney, he rents out a gem of a little cottage down the road,’ he said, checking her reaction.

‘Sounds… very… authentic!’ she said, secretly hoping that it would be plumbed with hot water.

‘Oh it is, full of all those “original features”.’

It sounded like a euphemism for cold and damp, but Sarah kept her reservations to herself.

Marcus insisted on taking her to the front door, which was adorned with a beautiful holly wreath. Sarah noticed the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree in the front window and she hoped they weren’t disturbing these people. The shape of a person appeared in the coloured glass at the side of the door and they were greeted by a towering, grey-haired man with a ruddy face and a strong nose.

‘Marcus,’ he acknowledged, reaching out to shake his hand.

‘Hello Brian, how are you?’ Marcus asked, but before the man had a chance to answer, he ploughed on. ‘Listen, you’re great to look after us at such short notice,’ he said, touching Sarah’s arm, ‘and I’ll leave ye to it now, you don’t want to be overcrowded!’

Sarah marvelled at his ability to speak without pausing for breath and while she shook hands with Mr. Sweeney, Marcus had her suitcase out of the boot – insisting that no guest of his would carry their own luggage, not on his watch.

‘You’ll be alright now, won’t you?’ he asked, as though talking to a child. ‘You will of course,’ he said, answering his own question.

Rather abruptly, the vital force that was Marcus had disappeared off back down the road, leaving Sarah and her new charge in an awkward silence.

‘I’ll just get the keys,’ Mr. Sweeney said, lacking the vitality of her previous companion.

‘I’m sorry, I’m interrupting your Christmas.’

‘Ah sure, it’s over now,’ he said in a very practical way. ‘It’s not very far, but I’m sure you don’t fancy lugging your suitcase down an old boreen.’

Brian Sweeney was the polar opposite to Marcus. He was calm and unhurried, using his words only sparingly. There was a reserve there that made even small talk challenging.

They sat in a decrepit-looking jeep, with mud and manure caked on the sides. After a sputtering start, the engine eventually agreed to turn over and they set off down the road, past the church and back over the humpback bridge. The road forked into two and he indicated to turn left onto the narrower road.

‘Is this a one-way street?’ Sarah asked, which earned her a hearty laugh from her driver. There were no road markings, just a barely visible ridge of tarmac that, over the years, had formed something of a spine in the centre of the road. Like a prehistoric animal, asleep for now. ‘You can’t be serious; how are two cars supposed to fit on this road?’

‘They’re not! One of you has to reverse until you come to a layby or an entrance to a field,’ he said, reassuring Sarah that it was all perfectly normal in the country.

The car heater was blowing out hot air furiously, making Sarah feel drowsy and slightly queasy. Despite the bright sunshine, everything still glistened with a light whisper of frost. To the left, there was a large woodland, with the top of a hill peeking out above the conifers.

‘What’s up there?’ Sarah asked, pointing up at the verdant hillside.

‘That’s Cnoc na Sí,’ he said. ‘It’s a lovely spot for walking.’

‘Canuck na Shee?’ Sarah repeated, trying to form the strange Gaelic sounds.

‘It means hill of the fairies,’ he translated.

‘Seriously?’

‘I’m not codding you; “Cnoc” means hill and “Sí” is the Irish for fairies. Did you think it was something we just made up for the Yanks?’ he said, winking at her. She was glad to see he was thawing out a little.

After a slight dip in the road, the countryside opened out in front of them once again. The little river from the village reappeared, almost leading the way to a solitary cottage standing proud and dignified on its own little patch of land bordered by a whitewashed stone wall. He glanced furtively at Sarah to gauge her reaction as he pulled up at the little blue gate.

‘Welcome to Butler’s cottage. It’s just been newly thatched and you know, despite what people might think, thatched houses are very warm,’ he pointed out.

Sarah, however, did not need convincing. The cottage was like something from a postcard. The single-storey home was painted white with a neatly trimmed thatched roof that boasted a beautifully scalloped design. They trod carefully up the frosty garden path that was made up of a jigsaw of flagstones and came to the matching light blue door. As he jiggled the key in the lock, Sarah noticed that the door seemed to be split into two sections.

‘Oh yes, it’s an authentic half door,’ he explained, slipping into his role as tour guide. ‘It was a great way to let air into the cottage, without any four-legged friends getting in.’ On seeing Sarah’s face he continued, ‘You know they used to say that if you were stood leaning on the half door, you were passing time; but if you were stood leaning against an open doorway, you were wasting time!’

Marcus was right about the original features; it felt like stepping back in time.

‘When was it built?’

‘Oh probably in the mid-1800s. My son bought it back in the nineties, but we still call it Butler’s cottage. That’s just how it is around here; the Butlers built this house and worked the farm for over a century, so it’ll always be Butler’s. It’s pretty much open plan,’ he continued, ‘but it should be enough for you.’

The ceiling had been knocked through to the rafters, giving the place a light and airy feel. Sarah was relieved to see a small but modern country kitchen with a sunken porcelain sink and on the opposite wall was a giant hearth with two cosy-looking armchairs upholstered in plaid. A toy-sized window with four little square panes looked out onto the back garden. The place was certainly working its charm.

‘Now here’s what we used to call the “back bedroom”,’ he continued, opening a door to the side of the hearth where Sarah could see a double bed dressed with a homely patchwork quilt. ‘Can I afford this?’ she asked, concerned that her budget might not stretch.

‘I hope so,’ he laughed, then saw the look on Sarah’s face. ‘Well it’s low season anyhow, so I’m sure we can hash out a deal,’ he assured her. ‘But of course, it depends on how long you want to stay…?’ he said, trailing off.

‘Oh you know, maybe a week, or two. Just checking out the old family tree,’ she said, cringing at the cliché.

‘Right so; I’ll leave you to it. My son dropped off a few essentials earlier on; tea and the like,’ he said. Without much further ado, he was gone. The stillness he left in his wake was almost startling after the day's events.

‘Hello Butler’s cottage’, Sarah whispered to herself, as she kicked off her boots and turned to look at her new home.

She couldn’t recall the last time she had done something so impulsive and purely for herself. She kept expecting the panic to set in, but as she took in her new surroundings, all she felt was joy. ‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘this is what following your heart feels like.’ view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher - added by Pauline

 1. What role do myths and legends play in The Story Collector?
2. How would you describe the role of the hawthorn tree in the story?
3. To what extent does the natural environment in the story influence the unfolding events?
4. How are various characters' reactions to folklore and superstition depicted?
5. Can you trace any symbolic elements in the story and their relevance to the plot?
6. How does the narrative explore the concept of tradition against modern sensibilities?
7. What role does societal expectation play in shaping the actions of the characters?
8. How are the elements of loss, grief, and healing tackled within the narrative?
9. How does the author utilize the supernatural to enhance the overall theme of the story?
10. How do the shared stories and experiences within the narrative underline the universality of human experiences across different time periods?

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