“Father, I hear hoofbeats!” The boy tilted his head and pointed down the road in the direction they had come.

“Eh? Come again, boy?” The older man stopped, tense, as he listened, but heard nothing more menacing than the sound of the wind sighing in the trees and the creak of the leather straps that bound the bundle of wood he carried on his back. A woodcutter by trade, he and his son journeyed along the road, bound for Tara and the Lughnasadh feis. They carried with them fine, cured timbers, suitable for the manufacture of harp or bow. They hoped to make a bit of extra coin to tide them through the lean times of winter. The father was wary of raiders, for at this time of year, the fields and forests were thick with them. All throughout Samhain and beyond, tales of the bloodshed that befell Inver Colpa last summer echoed in the ears of the folk and chilled their hearts. If the mighty Niafer stronghold could be razed and torched, then what hope had their meager dwellings?

“Listen, father!” His son’s voice came again, more insistent this time. “Cannot you hear them? I hear horses coming along the road, and a chiming, like the sound of wee bells. What is it?”

Knowing the lad’s ears to be sharper, the father frowned and pointed to a thick brace of bushes just off the main track of the road. “Nothing that I want to catch sight of us, that is for sure. Let us hide ourselves until whatever it is passes.”

Man and boy disappeared behind the green curtain and crouched down; they waited, with hearts pounding. The wind picked up, heightening the loamy scent of the soil in their nostrils. The air closed around them, settling on their shoulders and pressing down; it was an invisible smothering blanket. Turning, the father saw his son tilt his head to one side; every muscle in his body was tense and strained and his gaze was fixed to the road, just visible between the leaves of their sanctuary. Cupping a hand to his ear, at last, the father heard it too. The distant drum of hoofbeats was accompanied by a faint tinkling sound. It swelled in volume and vibrated in his chest, like chords from a seasoned harpstring.

Shafts of sunlight filtered down through the canopy of trees, and, as the pair watched, Aine’s golden ribbons swayed and parted like a gilded curtain. Seemingly from nowhere, a group of riders appeared, surrounded by a haze of shimmering mist. The beasts beneath them seemed to be both solid and ephemeral at the same time. Long of leg and slight of build, the horses floated above the ground as much as they walked along it. Tiny bells and brightly colored ribbons were woven into gossamer manes and tails. With each toss of head and soft neigh, the small voices of the bells chimed in time with each step of crimson hooves. The animals’ red ears and white coats, adorned with swirling designs of ochre, gave testament to their stock; these were the horses of the Tuatha de Dannan.

Their riders were no less impressive than their steeds. The party of eight proceeded at an unhurried pace. In the lead was a tall man, wrapped in rich green raiment. Grey was beginning to show in his dark locks, but his face held the ageless quality common to his race. The fine lines of his visage were marred by a cross shaped scar on his left cheek. From his hidden vantage point, the boy wondered what terrible weapon had caused it; its bite was so deep that it could not be healed by de Dannan magic. Riding a pace or three behind was hunched figure with silver hair. His years of campaigning showed on his leathered skin. He was not quite so richly dressed…a steward or counselor, perhaps? Perhaps he had even seen action in the great battles against the Formor!, thought the woodcutter’s son.

The rest of the party were clearly soldiers, as evidenced by their keen gazes and by the finely wrought arms they bore. One carried a banner depicting a stylized battle between and boar and a raven.

The Sidhe cavalcade stopped before the awestruck pair hiding in the bushes. The man in front raised himself up in his stirrups and scanned the terrain ahead, one hand shading his eyes. “I would have expected that we would have caught up with my son by now, Master Steward.” Though his words were casual, they were delivered in tones more suited to commanding than idle chatter. “Perhaps he has thrice ridden the distance between our lands and Tara?”

“He would surely try,” was the Steward’s reply.

“Someone approaches!” A soldier gave a warning and all of the Men of Danu turned to see what was coming down the road at them. From beneath his leafy veil, the woodcutter’s son did likewise. What he saw was a lad who looked to be about his own age. Clad in the clothing of the Sidhe, he was clinging to the back of an enormous faery horse. The animal galloped like the wind, and seemed to take no heed that a host of other horses and men were before him. The boy thought they would all go down in a tumble of horseflesh and fine armor, but at the last moment, the Sidhe boy gave a practiced tug on the reins and brought the animal to a halt.

“Son of the King!” The Master Steward was cross. “Your reckless actions have caused us all much grief. Your father travels to Tara to seek counsel, and yet you delay his progress by galloping off and forcing us to look for you. What if you had found yourself in deadly peril? We would have been too far away to aid you!”

The Sidhe lad looked downcast at having his glorious ride end in a scolding. “I am sorry Master Steward,” he replied gravely. He was a serious minded youth, and still of the age where he wished to please the adults more often than anger them.

“As well you should be! By rights you should be thoroughly punished – “

“Stay your anger, Master Steward,” the Sidhe King of the North replied, looking fondly at his son. “Cannot you recall the days of your own boyhood when you would have liked nothing better than to gallop across a meadow on a summer afternoon? Although,” his voice turned stern, “you should be more cautious, Ciaran. It is the season where the Milesians clans war with one another.”

“But surely we fear no Milesians!” The Sidhe boy guided his horse to stand next to his father’s. Now, he was so close to where the woodcutter’s son was crouching, that the other boy could see the fine workmanship of his boots and the glint of argent that came from the hilt of the sword buckled at his waist.

He is my age, yet he rides a fine horse and carries a weapon! I would very much like to have a horse like that, thought the woodcutter’s son. He couldn’t help it and a small sigh of admiration escaped his lips.

Ciaran heard it and turned his head, peering into the bushes. The angle was just right and through the clasped hands of green and yellow, he could see the other boy crouching there. Their eyes met and the woodcutter’s son felt a cold hand seize his heart. The Sidhe knew they were there! They had been discovered! What terrible fate would befall them? Would they be slain, or turned into trees, or cursed with blindness?

“Something the matter, Son of the King?” asked the Master Steward, catching sight of the boy staring pointedly into the bushes.

The two boys stared at one another for the space of a few heartbeats, neither one of them quite sure what to do. Finally Ciaran offered up a small smile and the woodcutter’s son returned it. In that instant, despite the differences in race and status, the two became as one. They were simply two boys sharing a secret, and the adults were none the wiser about it.

“No, nothing is the matter, Master Steward,” replied Ciaran, looking away. “My horse is getting impatient to be moving again! Shall we go?”

And with that, the cavalcade of the Sidhe rode on, pulling their curtain of mist behind them. They left the young woodcutter’s son with a tale that he would tell for the rest of his days.

((The host of the Sidhe ride to Tara. See you there!))