The Whispering Fields
Eithne was a girl of sixteen years, born during a time when the old gods were whispers heard only in a songbird’s melody, the call of the raven, or in wind weaving songs through fields of wildflowers. They still lived in the rush of rivers and in waves that broke against the storm-battered cliffs of Ceann Gaerbh.
The year was 570 CE. Eithne lived with her very strict and devout Christian aunt, Caitríona, and her uncle, Fáelán—a quieter, gentler man who read scripture but still felt the echoes of the old ways deep in his heart. Often, he would find Eithne alone near an ancient, abandoned grove, its stones cracked and broken, lying half-buried in wet earth and winding curtains of ivy. He would watch her gently trace the jagged edges of a leaning stone, whispering things he could not hear.
One early spring morning, when the air was still cool and frost coated the grass as if Cailleach’s icy fingers had not yet let go of the earth, and when the rising sun tinted the horizon with vibrant purples and oranges, he found her once again sitting among the old stones.
“Maidin mhaith, a ghealach bhig,” he said warmly as he approached her. “Your aunt will not be so kind if she learns you still come here.”
He paused, running his fingertips along the rough edge of a broken stone. A shadow crossed his face, and for the briefest moment, Eithne swore she heard a woman’s voice on the wind — lyrical, ancient, as if rising from a time the world itself had forgotten.
“A Uncail mo chroí,” Eithne said, smiling as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “A Aintín need never know I still visit. I do not come here often,” she added, peering up at him, his storm-grey eyes full of tenderness and quiet knowing. “Only when I seek solitude.”
“Aye, aye,” he murmured, cupping her cheek. “We all have moments when solitude brings peace to the heart and mind. Now, off you go. Make sure to handle your chores before dinner.”
“Buíochas ó mo chroí,” she said, her smile lighting up her entire face. She turned and skipped through the field of red clover and buttercups, with butterflies and bees dancing among the vibrant blooms — unbothered by the girl named Eithne, as if they, too, recognized her as one who whispers to the earth and fields, to trees and rivers...
…and who, in their quiet way, whispered back.
᚛ᚌᚒᚈᚆᚐᚅᚆᚇᚓᚔᚈᚆ᚜
It had been at least a fortnight since Imbolc — or so Eithne preferred to believe. Her aunt had very sternly and coldly reprimanded her for saying the word.
“We do not speak those pagan words in this household, a chailín cráite!” Caitríona had hissed, the sound of it cutting straight into Eithne’s heart.
“Come now, Caitríona,” Fáelán said, his gentle voice turning into quiet steel. “She meant no harm. There is no place for cruelty in this home.”
Her aunt’s breath caught. With a stiff huff of indignation, she turned and walked away.
“Now, child,” her uncle said, warmth returning to his voice even though his words stayed firm, “you will take the sheep to the field today and then clean the stables. Off now — mind your chores.”
Eithne’s lip trembled, but she refused to let her tears fall. “Yes, Uncle,” she whispered, and she walked calmly out of the house.
Fáelán said nothing more, but the familiar ache stirred in his heart — the ache he felt whenever Eithne’s eyes shone with that quiet, breaking pain. He had seen it too often in her sixteen years.
She had never known her parents. Her mother died just days after giving birth, and her father, driven mad with grief, wandered off into the mists and was never seen again. No child could understand why a father would choose to leave behind a daughter.
Fáelán had no answers gentle enough to give her.
᚛ᚌᚒᚈᚆᚐᚅᚆᚇᚓᚔᚈᚆ᚜
The afternoon had grown warmer — a sure sign that the Cailleach was finally falling back into slumber, and the first true breath of spring was spreading across the land. To Eithne, this meant the Goddess Bríg would soon bring renewal, protection, and quiet blessings to their home and way of life.
She guided the sheep to the grazing field and settled among them in the soft grass, her thoughts drifting like petals in the wind. The air carried the sweet scent of apple blossoms and meadowsweet. She had found a large piece of oak bark and had been carving poems into it — not scripture, as her aunt demanded, but her own words, written in Latin, Caitríona insisted she learn so she could read Christian texts.
“Oh, Goddess of sacred flame and protector of hearth and home,” she whispered. “Why have they taken your name? They forget their ancestors and gods. They claim the word ‘Imbolc’ is heresy. They take your name and carve you into their Saint. Oh, Bríg… why do they forsake you so?”
Her heart ached for something it could not name.
Songbirds trilled in the hedgerows, their melodies weaving through her thoughts. She breathed deeply — earth, grass, flowers, and faint hearth-smoke.
Afternoon gently faded into evening. Noticing how long she had stayed, she got up to gather the sheep — but a shadow cast itself over her.
Hoping it was her uncle, she turned with relief.
Instead, her aunt stood before her, arms crossed, face cold and tight with anger.
“A-Aunt Caitríona!” Eithne stammered, panic rising. “I am truly sorry, A Aintín uasal! I must have fallen asleep and lost track of time. I was just about to finish my chores, if it pleases you?”
“A chailín!” her aunt hissed, her voice sharp as snapped briar. “What is that in your hand?”
She yanked the oak bark from Eithne’s fingers. Her face twisted through confusion, horror, and disgust, as if she were holding some cursed relic of fae-creatures.
“What wickedness is this?” she cried. “You take holy letters and carve them into spells!”
“That is not true, a Aintín uasal!” Eithne pleaded, tears burning in her eyes. “If you let me explain — it will make sense, I swear it!”
“You will mind your tongue, child! Gather the sheep and come to the hearth. You will explain this wretchedness to your uncle!”
Without another word, Caitríona turned and strode back toward their roundhouse.
Surely, she means to burn it, Eithne thought, her heart twisting.
Weighing heavily on her soul, she herded the sheep into their stables and then reluctantly headed home — her mind racing, her stomach twisted with fear that her uncle might cast her aside.
On her way back, she passed the ancient oaks lining the grazing fields — trees that stood like sentinels guarding a secret only the land could understand. A raven called from deep within their shadowed branches. Glow-worms lit up at the roots, shimmering like fallen stars.
The veil is thin, she thought, a small smile easing her fear. Do you still remember us? she asked silently — to no one, and to anything that might hear her soul.
When she reached her home’s threshold, it suddenly felt unfamiliar, as if she no longer belonged there. A gentle breeze brushed her cheek, and in it she heard whispers — ancient, timeless whispers from a time when fire was sacred, wind was the land’s breath, and birds carried the songs of gods and goddesses.
Part of her longed to run.
But she loved her aunt and uncle deeply, and her heart would not let her flee.
So, she gathered every trembling thread of courage she had — and stepped through the doorway to face whatever fate awaited her.
᚛ᚉᚑᚔᚋᚔᚇᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚅᚆᚓ ᚉᚑᚔᚋᚔᚇᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚋᚐᚉᚐᚂᚂᚐ ᚔᚄ ᚄᚔ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚄᚐᚔᚏ ᚃᚑᚅ ᚒᚔᚉᚄᚓ᚜
