The Fairy Host on Halloween Night

On Halloween the old road remembers older feet. The Fairy Host rides with a sound like wind at keyholes and leaves like coins shaken in a purse. You do not bar the door against them; you do not fling it wide. You set a candle and sweep the threshold and leave a bit of bread and a clean cup of water on the step, and then you keep your mouth and your manners.

That year the O’Malley cottage was sparked with pumpkins and pride. Little Brigid wanted to see everything at once. “Hush,” said her grandmother, “or the night will think we are shouting at it.”

They stood just inside the door. Down the lane came the Host—tall riders and small, their cloaks the color of distances, their horses stepping as if the ground were a drum they did not want to break. No one looked directly at the cottage; no one failed to notice it.

A figure in a green mantle nodded once at the bread and the water. The candle flame leaned and straightened as if bowing in return. A cold stirred the hair on Brigid’s arms and then settled as neatly as a shawl.

When the last hoof-sound went, the grandmother counted to thirteen under her breath and then said, “Close the door now, acushla.” Brigid did, very softly, and the latch had the sweet click of a lesson learned.

In the morning the bread was gone and the cup dry and the threshold clean as if someone had swept the night right off it. The family ate their oatcakes and felt taller for having hosted guests who leave no footprints but change the ground all the same.