Emrys always walked the moors at night. His family homestead was vast, the land grant dating back to Tudor times. He’d take his walking stick—a gnarled old thing he secretly felt made him look like a wizard—check in on the sheep, walk the perimeter, and take a wander through the hills.
He often visited the old stone circle. No one knew how it had gotten there. Its origins were far more ancient than the deed of property.
His grandmother had warned him never to enter it after moonrise. “If you find a hare waiting near the stones,” she’d say, “go home.”
She’d never explained why.
In all his eighty-three years of life, Emrys had never seen a hare at the stones.
That night, one was waiting.
In a ring of mushrooms, lit silver by the moonlight, it watched him.
No sound. No movement.
His breath caught.
He knew he should go home. But the sight was simply… magical. He moved closer. And closer still.
Until he was nearly upon the hare.
His foot entered the fairy ring. He reached down to touch the hare’s moonlit ears. They were like velvet.
The world shifted around him. Lights danced. Golden fireflies and blue will o’ the wisps. A strange, mournful singing echoed across the moor.
Could this be Annwn? Gwlad y Tylwyth Teg?
His eyes lit with joy. He smiled with the wonder of an old man discovering his childhood fairy stories had been true all along.
He felt young.
Spry.
He dropped his walking stick. He didn’t need it anymore.
The music swelled. Fiddle, harp, and crwth. The haunting singing grew louder.
He danced like a young man, stepping to the lively beat through the stone circles. He whooped and hollered.
When at last he collapsed into the heather, laughing and breathless, tears shone in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said to the hare. “You’ve delighted a lonely old man.”
The hare said nothing, but the spectral lights began to circle it. Emrys watched, entranced.
Beneath the whirl of light, the shape of the hare shifted.
Emrys found himself looking up at an old woman, her white hair tangled like winter heather, her eyes bright as a hare’s.
His nose twitched.
He reached to scratch it, but found he no longer had hands to do so.
Where they had been, soft-furred paws brushed the heather.
“I’ve waited a long time.
No one keeps the old places forever.”
She turned and vanished into the mist.
Alone among the standing stones, Emrys raised his long ears toward the moon.
If you have enjoyed my work here in the Labyrinth, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. If you prefer a one-time offering, you may “buy me a rose” and I would be most grateful. 🥀
>>
Just lovely.