I was home.  That is, back in Ireland.  I wasn't born there, but my grandmother had emigrated during the years of the famine.  As a child I would hear stories about her village and what a beautiful place it was before the potato blight and the Great Hunger drove everyone away.  Growing up I longed to see it for myself and as I grew older I resolved to return to my roots someday.  Not very long ago I was able to make arrangements with a man to purchase a bit of land in the very county from whence my grandmother had come.

And now I had come.  I looked at my new holdings and decided right away where the stone house would be.  It was my intention to build a modest cottage on the site.  I could see in my mind's eye what a picturesque scene it would be.  There would be a small field in the back set off against a backdrop of rolling hills.  A great hawthorn tree grew in what would become my front yard.  It would be perfect.

I decided to take a walk down to the other house I had seen on the road and introduce myself to the neighbors.  A signpost informed me that I had arrived at the home of the Flannerys.  I knocked gently upon the door.  As I stood at the entrance, the door creaked open and an elderly man peeped out. 

“Faith and begorra, Elizabeth!  'Tis a stranger come to our very door!  Welcome ye, Lad.  Come in and tell us what 'tis that brings you to us.”

As he opened the door widely, I couldn't help but smile at the lilt in his voice.  It seemed he couldn't be happier to see me. “Hello!  My name is Eric Barret and I've recently purchased a plot of land up the road a little way.  So I've come to meet my new neighbors.” I stepped through the threshold as I shook hands with the man.

“I'm Tom Flannery.  That's me wife Elizabeth.  Would you bring us a drop, Dear?”

She arrived quite suddenly with two glasses of Guinness.  “Pleased to meet you,” said I.

“'Tis a pleasure all me own,” said she.  Her voice was pleasant and reminded me somewhat of my grandmother's. “Will ye be to building a house then, Mr. Barret?” she asked.

“Please, call me Eric.  Yes, I've even chosen the very spot; Behind the hawthorn tree.”

Suddenly they both looked at me as if I had just said “behind the moon” or something.  Mrs. Flannery broke the awkward silence.  “Surely you don't mean to cut the tree down?”

“No, of course not.  It's a beautiful tree.  Especially now when it's in full bloom.  The white flowers are really quite lovely.”

Mr. Flannery looked concerned.  “'Tis a powerful tree, the hawthorn is.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “It has the appearance of a very strong tree.”

“That's not what I'm talking about,” he said,  “It has magical powers.  You must use caution around it.”

I had heard that the Irish were a superstitious lot, but I hadn't expected to be discussing magical trees with my new neighbors quite so soon.

Mrs. Flannery spoke again, “The hawthorn tree is a favorite dwelling place of the Sidhe.”

“The what?” I asked.

“The Sidhe or Feadh-Ree,” she explained, “the fairy people.”

So, Tinkerbell lived in my tree.

“That tree?” I asked.

“No, not just that one; all the hawthorn trees.  The Sidhe consider them to be sacred.”

“Well,” I assured her, “I don't intend to bring any harm to the tree, so there should be no problem with these Sidhe people, right?”

“'Tis nay just the tree itself, Mr. Barret,” said Mr. Flannery, gravely, “You must be careful as well not to obstruct their path to it.”

“Their path to it?” I asked.

“Aye, they've a certain approach that they use to get to the tree.  And if you block it with this house you're intending to build, they'll put a stop to you for sure.”

I was beginning to think these two people weren't keen on the idea of anybody building a house in the area.  This seemed to be their way of discouraging "the American".  But I wasn't going to be intimidated by stories of fairy people.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Upon the spot that you've chosen for your house, pile up four hills of stones, one at each corner.  Wait a fortnight and then check up on your piles.  If they're still intact, go ahead and build.  But if your rocks be strewn about, 'tis a sign from the Sidhe and you would be wise to choose another spot entirely.”

I kept my amusement in check and nodded gravely.  I did not intend to make piles of rocks and wait around for two weeks to see if imaginary people were going to throw them around or not.
“Well,” I said, “It's getting late and I need to get back to the village inn.  Thank you both for your hospitality and your advice.”

“Be sure not to take it lightly,” said Mr. Flannery as I took my leave.

I chuckled on the way to my car.

The next day I was in communication with the contractor who was to build my house.  “I've already chosen the perfect spot for the cottage.”

“But you've only just arrived in Ireland, Mr. Barret.  You can't possibly have checked out the spot yet.”

“But I have.  I was there yesterday.”

“Mr. Barret, am I correct in my belief that there's a hawthorn tree on that property?”

“Yes, there is a hawthorn tree.  I don't intend to have it removed, though.”

“By God in Heaven, I hope you wouldn't think of doing that!”

“What's the matter?  Are you worried about the Sidhe or something?”

“That's not something to joke about, Mr. Barret.  I couldn't possibly begin work on your house for a couple of weeks anyhow, so in the meantime why don't you collect a few rocks and build—”

I cut him off, “Surely, you're joking!”

“That's not something to joke about, Mr. Barret.  And it could save you a lot of trouble down the road.”

He hung up the phone.  It's a conspiracy, I thought.  He must have spoken with Flannery.

I drove over there.  I knocked on the door intending to inform Mr. Flannery that I would not be intimidated by him and that I knew he had been talking to my contractor.  The door opened.

“Aye, Laddie, do ye want me to help with your rockpiles?  I've got some experience with that, don't you know.”

“Mr. Flannery, I don't know what you think you're up to, but I do intend to build this house.”

“I'm nay telling ye not to build it, Lad.  I'm just trying to help you keep it once 'tis built.”

“Did you tell the contractor about the hawthorn tree?”

“Nay, he seen it himself when he found out an American had bought this land and was coming here to live.  He knew you'd be after getting a house.  I'm surprised he did nay warn you himself about the precautions you need to take.”

As he spoke he was pulling on his light jacket and heading out the door.  I followed him to the back of his farmhouse where he took hold of a wheelbarrow.  “Let's go get some rocks.”

I decided to humor him.  Before long we had erected four structures upon the spot where I intended to build the cottage, one at each of the corners.  They resembled miniture towers about two feet high.

“If they last a fortnight, you'll know 'tis safe to build it here.”

I couldn't believe I was doing this.

Four days later I couldn't believe how angry I was.  The rocks were all over the place.  Fairies, indeed!  Flannery had done this himself!  Of course he would say it was a warning and that I'd have to choose another spot.  Then we'd go through the whole thing again.  And again and again.  But I wasn't going to let him have his little joke on me.  I would play his game.  Carefully I rebuilt all four of the towers.  Every time he knocked them down, I would rebuild them.  In two weeks I would tell the contractor everything was good and that he could start building. 

It happened again on the twelfth day.  After I had rebuilt the structures and was driving back to the village, I spotted Flannery.  He waved as I stopped the car. 

“How's it going up there?” he asked.

“So far, so good,” I replied.

“Well, give it the entire fortnight before you do anything.  Maybe you'll be able to have that spot.”

Maybe, indeed.  I thought.  I waved and drove off.

One last time I found myself rebuilding the foolish things.  But on the twenty-first day, I called the contractor and told him the spot had "checked out".  He came up and I showed him the four towers and where the house was to be built.

“I'm a bit surprised 'tis so close to the hawthorn tree,” he said.

I told him that I had patiently waited twenty days and if it was alright with the Sidhe it shouldn't be a problem for him.

Construction began the next day.  One worker got his arm broken on the job.  The contractor eyed the hawthorn tree and then me suspiciously. 

“Accidents happen,” I said.

“Aye, that they do.”

Finally the cottage was finished.  It was as beautiful and scenic as I had first pictured it.  I decided to pay another visit to my neighbors.

“Well, Mr. Flannery, the house is finished.”

“And a fine house it is as well.”

“Mr. Flannery, I know what you tried to do, but I assure you that I won't be a bad neighbor.  There's no reason we can't get along.”

“What're you talking about?”

“I know it was you that kept tossing the rocks around.”

“What?!?”

“I understand that you don't want a neighbor, especially an American.  But I promise not to be a problem for you.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I won't be a problem—”

“No!  You said the rocks were tossed about?”

“You don't have to act surprised.  I know it was you and I understand.”

Mr. Flannery turned white as a ghost.

“Listen to me and listen well.  'Tis very important.  Here is what you've got to do.  You must take leaves from the hawthorn tree and make a wreath.  Hang the wreath upon your cottage door.  And keep a fire burning in the hearth at all times.  Fire is the only thing more powerful than fairy magic.  There's not a thing in the forest that can control fire, including fairies.  But humans can.  'Tis the only thing that makes them fear you!”

I backed away as he went on about wreaths and fire.  He seemed like a man gone mad.  Perhaps this was his way of concealing his embarrassment or anger or both.  But I'd had enough talk about fairies and spells and magic trees.  I wasn't about to try to make a wreath out of hawthorn leaves.  I wouldn't even know how to do it.  And there was no reason for a fire in May.  I left him ranting at his doorstep.

For a week I lived peacefully in my cottage.  I stayed away from the Flannerys and they from me.  Then I went one day into the village and returned around dusk.  I heard a rumbling sound as I approached my cottage.  When it came into view it was shaking as if there was an earthquake.  I ran over and threw open the door.  The vision that greeted me will remain with me for the rest of my life.  Handprints in blood were upon every wall of the room!  And there arose a sound louder than I had ever heard as the great boulders of the house exploded outward and crashed down all around me.  I stood trembling surrounded by rubble that had once been my beautiful home.  A light rain began to fall just as I started to scream.

Mr. Flannery comes to visit me now and sometimes Mrs. Flannery bakes me cookies.