Sue Vincent has provided another image with her Thursday Photo Prompt to fit my WIP.
Aoife had the pool drained and filled in, but the mound of earth never settled. It quaked and shivered, and she wondered if she had done wrong in meddling, whether she had buried something beneath the earth that would not be still. The following year, three saplings appeared, green willows that bent in the spring gales but sprang back again, growing taller as the summer came and the next spring after that.
The mound of earth has grown to be a small hillock now and the trees have thickened, spread branches like arms that reach out to catch the hands of the other two. Their roots have spread too, but not below the ground. They race and twine about one another in a sinuous dance.
Not Guivre, they say, no longer.
The roots are like the patterns carved on old roof beams, on the stone slabs that mark the entrance to fairy raths, like the water that swirls from the source into the búllan stone. She would have asked Énna what it meant, but Énna is dead long ago, and none of his children have shown signs of having the gift. She doubts Ciar would have suffered it to flourish if they had. In any case, she has her own idea of the story in the trees, their roots and the pool that lives again.
She has made her peace with the fairy woman from across the sea, and laid to rest the anger and the misunderstandings that have caused so much suffering, these ten years since. She stands now between the trees, within the ring of trees for that is what it is, and she strains to hear their voices.
Perhaps it is only the breeze, but it recalls how Riseárd whispered to her in the dark of their nights. Sometimes she thinks she hears a child’s bright laughter, at others, the low murmur of a woman’s story-telling voice. They reach out their hands to one another, but there is a slight gap in the circle where they have made room for her, and she knows that one day, when it is her time, she will join them and take the hands of her loved ones again.