On March 18, 1895, in County Tipperary, Ireland, two
miserable figures sat on a limestone wall.
In his peripheral vision, he could see his friend nodding off.
“Look alive, Jack,” Michael said. “This be the third night, you still think the procession will pass by the ringfort?”
Jack sat up straight. “In the name of God, Michael, I do! Look for the white horse. You cut the reins as it passes by and your wife will be freed. The white horse, Michael…”
Four days later, the burnt mangled body of Bridget Cleary was found in a shallow grave a half mile away. Even as he was being arrested, Michael swore that it wasn’t his wife. It was a fairy. He’d only tortured and burned the changeling in order to get his beloved back. Why couldn’t they understand?
Michael’s twisted face told the tale. He was living in a
fog, on the verge of collapsing. He’d not eaten well nor had proper sleep in 14
days. Since his wife had fallen ill. Or rather, since she’d been exchanged for
that… thing… that had occupied her bed. He’d made daily four mile treks through
the snow and rain and cold only to find the doctor not at home. And when the
doctor did at last call upon his door, he was drunk and dismissive. When he
walked four miles in the other direction to find Father Ryan, he at least did
come to administer the Anointing but he refused to return again. No matter. By
that time, he was sure that the Seanchaidhe was right. It was not pneumonia and
that was not Bridget. The sudden unexpected flippancy of the beast was what
finally led to his decisive actions.
But the question still nagged him: why hadn’t it flown up
the chimney?In his peripheral vision, he could see his friend nodding off.
“Look alive, Jack,” Michael said. “This be the third night, you still think the procession will pass by the ringfort?”
Jack sat up straight. “In the name of God, Michael, I do! Look for the white horse. You cut the reins as it passes by and your wife will be freed. The white horse, Michael…”
Four days later, the burnt mangled body of Bridget Cleary was found in a shallow grave a half mile away. Even as he was being arrested, Michael swore that it wasn’t his wife. It was a fairy. He’d only tortured and burned the changeling in order to get his beloved back. Why couldn’t they understand?

















