Part two of a seven-part series with Gemma Grant

The tales of the fairy glen, where he now sat, were all true. Naoise wanted to leave, but the old man of the Sidhe, forbade it. Sensing his unease, the man of fairy spoke.
“What is it your fear boy? Did you not win one hundred guineas when you played with me before.”

Naoise, his voice barely recognisable, answered. “Yes. I did. But I thought you a crazy old man with more money than sense.”
“I told you then boy. Never judge a book by its cover. I also told you, I am compelled to gamble and to lose.”

Handing Naoise the dice he commanded. “Make your first wish, boy, and cast the dice.”
Taking the dice from the webbed hand, Noise cast. They numbered three. A gasp escaped his throat. A low score, he knew. One the old man could easily beat. What would it mean, he wondered, if he lost. Would he be taken into the other world, never to be seen again?

The old man picked up the dice and threw. His score – two. A sigh of relief left the boy.
“What was your first wish boy?” he asked.
“I wished that my mill would be repaired,” Naoise said.
“It is done,” the man of fairy replied. “Now! Cast again!” he instructed. Reluctantly, the young farmer threw again. This time his score was higher – seven.
“Why are you so uneasy, young farmer?” he enquired. “Don’t you remember? I am under enchantment. I can never win. Watch! Let me demonstrate once more.”

Throwing the dice, a wry smile payed across his ancient face. “You win again, young man,” he said. “Tell me your second wish and I shall grant it.”
Naoise, becoming a little more confident, told the old man he wanted his thatch repaired.
“It shall be done. I grant you your second wish. Here, share this with me,” and he handed Naoise a goblet, silver and filled with sweet mead.
The boy hesitated. He remembered the old stories of people eating and drinking with the people of fairy. They could be lost for a hundred years.
As though reading his thoughts, the man of the Sidhe spoke – softly. “There is no need to fear me. A lot of mistrust has built up between our peoples. Many stories, most of them untrue, have been told of us. We are not bad or malevolent; just misunderstood.

“Please, young farmer, drink with me. I am a lonely old man who enjoys pleasant company. I seek nothing more than to spend a little more time with you.”
Putting the goblet to his mouth, he drank from it.

“See. I mean you no harm. It is nothing more than a pleasant drink from my land. The likes, you will never taste again.” His smile brightened as he handed the goblet to Naoise. “You can take it home with you, as a reminder of the crazy old man you met in the lonely glen,” he said playfully.

Naoise took the goblet, but hesitated. He still retained enough of his senses to be wary of taking drink or food from the fairy folk. The sweet smell of honeyed mead drew his gaze into the goblet. The liquid appeared to swell and swirl like a whirlpool, pulling him down into a land of intoxication. The taste, beyond compare, he finished to the last drop.

Continue reading in this week’s Ireland’s Own