The Stone in the Glen

It was the summer of 1994 when I finally returned to the land of my birth. I’d been raised in the sun-baked plains of Australia, but my heart had always yearned for the damp, green hills of Ireland. I stayed with my cousin Maeve in her whitewashed cottage in County Kerry, nestled between a dark pine forest and fields that shifted through five shades of green in the changing light. After a fortnight of her warm hospitality and endless cups of tea, I felt the itch to explore. I borrowed a sturdy bicycle from the neighbor and set off, my rucksack heavy with a tent and a dog-eared map.

I pedaled along the rugged coast for days, the salt wind in my hair, sleeping in hostels and small farms. But soon, the lure of the interior called to me. My map showed a shortcut over the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, a mountain pass that would cut hours off my journey to Killarney. The locals warned me against it, muttering about ‘the old ways’ and ‘strange happenings’ in the hills, but I dismissed their tales as superstition. After all, I was a modern man, raised on logic and reason.

The track was rough, more a sheep path than a road, and my bike groaned with every turn of the wheels. As I climbed higher, the air grew cool and thin, carrying the scent of peat and damp earth. The sky, which had been clear, began to bruise with dark clouds. Soon, a fine drizzle settled over me, and I pulled my raincoat tighter. The path became treacherous with loose stones, and I decided to dismount and walk, pushing my bike up the steep incline.

It was then that I noticed the stones. They were scattered along the slope, not naturally, but arranged in a crude circle. Each stone was about knee-high, moss-covered, and etched with spirals and lines that seemed to writhe in the dim light. I stopped, my breath misting in front of me. A shiver ran down my spine, not from the cold, but from a deep, primal unease. I told myself it was just an old sheep pen, but the pattern was too deliberate. I took a photo with my disposable camera, the click sounding unnaturally loud.

As I pocketed the camera, I noticed a gap in the circle where a stone was missing. In its place lay a smooth, dark stone, almost black, the size of a fist. It seemed out of place, too perfect against the rough grass. I bent to pick it up, and as my fingers closed around it, the air grew still. The rain stopped, and a profound silence descended, as if the world had held its breath. I heard a whisper, but it was not in my ears—it was in my mind. A voice, ancient and cold, said, ‘You have taken what is not yours.’

I dropped the stone as if it were hot, but the damage was done. The circle’s energy shifted. The spirals on the standing stones seemed to spin, and I felt a pressure in my skull. I scrambled back to my bike, mounted it, and flew down the mountain path, not caring about the bumps and jolts. The descent was a blur of green and gray, and I didn’t stop until I reached the valley floor, panting and drenched in sweat.

I found a small village, its houses huddled around a stone church. I checked into a bed-and-breakfast, the owner a plump woman with kind eyes and a suspicious glance. She asked me where I’d been, and I told her, leaving out the stone. She crossed herself and said, ‘You must have found the fairy ring. Best not to disturb them.’ I laughed it off, but the unease lingered.

That night, I had a dream. I stood in the same circle, but now the stones were taller, looming like ancient giants. The missing stone was back in its place, but it was not black—it was flesh-colored, pulsing like a heartbeat. A figure emerged from behind it, a woman with hair like seaweed and eyes like deep pools. She wore a gown of woven leaves and spoke in a language that was not English, yet I understood her perfectly. ‘You have brought me back,’ she said, ‘but you must pay the price.’ I woke with a start, the image seared into my mind.

Over the next days, I tried to continue my journey, but I found myself drawn back to the mountains. I would plan routes that avoided the pass, yet somehow, my pedaling always led me upward. It was as if an invisible force was guiding me. I fought it, but one evening, exhausted and disoriented, I found myself once more before the stone circle. The black stone was gone, but in its place, a small, white flower bloomed, its petals shimmering with an ethereal light.

I knelt to inspect it, and as I did, the ground beneath me trembled. A fissure opened in the earth, and from it rose a thin, reedy music, like a pipe played by someone who had forgotten the tune. The flower began to glow brighter, casting long shadows. I heard the voice again, but this time it was softer, almost pleading. ‘You must restore the balance. The stone must be replaced.’

I knew then what I had to do. I scoured the ground for the black stone, but it was nowhere to be found. In desperation, I picked up a different stone, a pale gray one from the circle’s edge, and placed it in the gap. As soon as it touched the earth, a shockwave rippled through me. The music stopped, and the fissure sealed itself. I felt a release, a lightness in my chest. The flower withered and turned to ash, and the circle seemed to settle into an ordinary set of rocks.

I stood there, trembling, and then I wept. Not from fear, but from a profound sense of loss, as if I had been given a glimpse of another world and had failed to grasp it. I walked back to my bike, and as I left, I saw a faint shimmer among the stones, like a woman waving goodnight.

I never spoke of this to anyone until now. I finished my trip, but I never felt quite at ease in the world again. Sometimes, when the rain is just right, I catch a whiff of peat smoke and hear that ghostly pipe, and I remember the stone circle on the mountainside. I know now that I was privileged, or cursed, to touch the veil between worlds. And I know that the fairy folk are real, and they have long memories. But I carried no stone away with me, only the memory of a place where the green is so deep it’s almost black.

I’ve tried to return, but the path is never the same. The mountains seem to shift, hiding the circle from those who would seek it. Perhaps that is for the best. Some doors are meant to stay closed. And some songs are only sung once.