“Don’t dilly-dallay now, you old lump of a horse,” said the tinker.
All day long, something was eating at his belly, making him jumpy at the drop of a twig.
“Horse, we must get out of the Kaira before the sun goes down, or we’ll have the Sluagh to attend with,” the tinker muttered.
Unsure of which path to take, the tinker gave the animal a swift kick in the ribs. He hoped it would choose the quickest way across the river.
“Damn you, beast, you’ve taken us in a circle. Now we’re done for. The Sluagh will feast on our endtrails this very night,” cried the man.
As darkness crept across the path, the tinker was sure he saw shadows darting to and fro.
“Saint Bartholomew, help me out of this mess. I’ll light a hundred candles for you this solstice,” mumbled the tinker.
Ahead of him, something stood on the path. “Oh, Mary in heaven, it’s one of them buggers come to feed on us,” cried the man.
Unable to turn his steed around, he leaned hard on the whip. This caused the animal to lurch forward right into the shadowy mass.
“Eeeee, we’re done for,” screamed the man.
To both the tinker and the horse’s shock, they found themselves at the river’s edge.
Behind lay a fallen limb whose dead leaves rustled in the evening breeze.
“There’s the bridge,” cried the tinker as he pulled the reins hard over and gave the horse another kick.
As the tinker reached the other side, he dared to gaze back.
“Beast, look at their eyes all aglow coming for us,” the tinker cried.
With the horse in its stable, the tinker thought he would head to the pub for a pint to soothe his weary nerves.
“I tell you it was the Sluagh, their eyes glowing, reaching out from the trees,” the tinker had told his mates at the pub.
Most chuckled or nodded. Others said he was daft, and the eyes were fireflies dancing at dusk.
The tinker knew what he saw, and no amount of ripping could change his mind.
Father Michael Fitzpatrick smiled at the sight of 100 candles aglow on the summer solstice and wondered who was thanking the Saints.
Folksburywoods 
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