The Pooka's Trick

In the wild hills of County Kerry, where the mist rolls in from the Atlantic Ocean and the ancient stone circles still stand guard over secrets older than memory, there lived a particularly mischievous spirit known as a Pooka. This Pooka was famous throughout the countryside for his love of playing tricks on unsuspecting travelers, especially those who were too proud or too foolish to show proper respect for the old ways.

The Pooka could take many forms – sometimes appearing as a great black horse with eyes like burning coals, sometimes as a goat with twisted horns, and occasionally as a man dressed in tattered clothes who would offer helpful directions that led nowhere. But whatever shape he chose, the Pooka’s purpose was always the same: to teach lessons to those who needed them, usually through elaborate and embarrassing pranks.

Now, there lived in a cottage at the foot of the hills a farmer named Seamus McCarthy, who was known far and wide for two things: his skill at growing the finest potatoes in Kerry, and his stubborn refusal to believe in anything he couldn’t see with his own eyes.

“Pookas!” he would scoff whenever his neighbors warned him about traveling the hill roads alone after dark. “Fairies and spirits and all that nonsense! I’ve been walking these hills all my life, and I’ve never seen anything more supernatural than my own shadow.”

Seamus had a habit of staying late at O’Malley’s pub in the village, where he would hold court with stories of his farming successes and mock the “superstitious old fools” who still left offerings for the fairies and crossed themselves when they passed certain groves of trees.

One particularly dark November night, after Seamus had spent the evening at O’Malley’s boasting louder than usual about his lack of belief in supernatural nonsense, he set off for home along the winding hill road. The wind was howling through the bare branches of the hawthorn trees, and thick clouds covered the moon, making the night as black as the inside of a coal cellar.

As Seamus stumbled along the muddy road, muttering to himself about foolish people and their silly fears, he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching from behind. Soon, a magnificent black horse appeared out of the darkness, moving at a leisurely trot with no rider on its back.

“Well, well,” said Seamus to himself, “what have we here? Someone’s lost their horse, it seems. This is my lucky night – I’ll catch this fine beast and return it to its owner for a reward. Or perhaps I’ll keep it for myself if no one claims it.”

The horse stopped right beside Seamus and looked at him with intelligent dark eyes that seemed to glitter with amusement in the darkness. It was the most beautiful horse Seamus had ever seen, with a coat as black and glossy as polished obsidian and a mane that flowed like silk in the wind.

“Easy there, beautiful,” Seamus cooed, reaching out to grab the horse’s bridle. “You’re coming home with me tonight.”

To his surprise, the horse didn’t shy away but actually seemed to bow its head as if inviting him to climb on. Seamus, emboldened by drink and excited by his good fortune, hauled himself up onto the horse’s back.

“This is more like it!” he declared. “Much better than walking home in this miserable weather. Take me home, my fine fellow – it’s the cottage with the red door at the bottom of the hill.”

But instead of heading toward Seamus’s cottage, the horse began to trot in the opposite direction, up into the wild hills where no roads led and no sensible person would venture in daylight, let alone on a night like this.

“Whoa there!” Seamus called, pulling on the mane since the horse had no reins. “You’re going the wrong way! My home is down there, not up here!”

But the horse paid no attention to Seamus’s protests. In fact, it seemed to find them amusing, for Seamus could swear he heard a low chuckling sound coming from deep in the animal’s chest.

As they climbed higher into the hills, the ride became wilder and more frightening. The horse began to gallop at impossible speeds, leaping over stone walls and rushing streams as if they were pebbles. Seamus held on for dear life, his knuckles white from gripping the horse’s mane, his stomach lurching with every impossible jump.

“Stop!” he shouted into the wind. “Let me off! I don’t want to ride anymore!”

But his cries only seemed to encourage the horse, which began to buck and rear while continuing its mad gallop through the darkness. Poor Seamus was bounced around like a sack of potatoes, his teeth chattering and his heart pounding with terror.

Through the longest night of his life, the horse carried Seamus on a wild ride across the countryside. They galloped through villages where every dog in the county seemed to be howling, leaped over churches where the weathercocks spun wildly in their wake, and splashed through rivers so fast that Seamus’s clothes were soaked through and his boots filled with icy water.

Just as the first gray light of dawn began to creep across the eastern sky, the horse finally came to a stop in the middle of a bog, miles from anywhere civilized. Seamus looked around and realized he had no idea where he was – he could have been on the moon for all he recognized of the landscape.

“Thank goodness,” he gasped, sliding gratefully off the horse’s back. “I thought that ride would never end!”

But the moment his feet touched the soggy ground of the bog, the horse began to change. Its shape shimmered and shifted like smoke, and suddenly, instead of a magnificent black horse, there stood before Seamus a wild-looking man with pointed ears, twinkling eyes, and a grin that was far too wide for any normal human face.

“Did you enjoy your ride, Seamus McCarthy?” the Pooka asked in a voice like wind through autumn leaves. “I do hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable for a man who doesn’t believe in ‘supernatural nonsense.’”

Seamus’s mouth fell open as he stared at the creature before him. All his loud boasts about not believing in spirits and fairies seemed very foolish now.

“You… you’re a Pooka,” he stammered.

“Indeed I am!” the Pooka said cheerfully. “And you, my skeptical friend, have just had the honor of experiencing one of my famous midnight rides. Tell me, do you still think the old stories are nothing but superstitious nonsense?”

Seamus looked around at the desolate bog, then back at the grinning Pooka. His fine clothes were torn and muddy, his hair was full of twigs and leaves, and he was completely lost in the middle of nowhere.

“I… I suppose,” he said slowly, “that there might be some truth to the old tales after all.”

“Might be?” the Pooka asked, raising an eyebrow.

“There definitely is truth to them,” Seamus corrected hastily. “I was wrong to mock the old ways. I should have listened to the warnings.”

The Pooka’s grin grew even wider. “Now that’s more like it! A little humility goes a long way, Seamus McCarthy. Tell me, what have you learned from tonight’s adventure?”

Seamus thought carefully before answering. “I’ve learned that there are things in this world beyond my understanding, and that it’s foolish to dismiss what I don’t comprehend. I’ve learned that the old wisdom exists for good reasons, and that I should respect the beliefs of my neighbors instead of mocking them.”

“Excellent!” the Pooka clapped his hands with delight. “You’re a quicker learner than most. Since you’ve shown proper humility and respect, I’ll help you get home. But remember this lesson, Seamus McCarthy – the world is full of wonders and mysteries that can’t be measured or weighed like a bag of potatoes. Respect them, and they’ll leave you in peace. Mock them, and… well, you know what happens then.”

With another shimmer, the Pooka transformed back into the beautiful black horse. But this time, when Seamus climbed onto its back, the ride was gentle and smooth. The horse carried him swiftly but safely down from the hills, arriving at his cottage just as the sun was rising over the Kerry landscape.

“Thank you,” Seamus said sincerely as he slid down from the horse’s back. “I won’t forget this lesson.”

The Pooka-horse nodded its great head once, then galloped away into the morning mist, leaving behind only the echo of supernatural laughter.

From that day forward, Seamus McCarthy was a changed man. He never again mocked the old beliefs or laughed at his neighbors’ stories of supernatural encounters. Instead, he became one of the most respectful men in the county when it came to matters of folklore and tradition.

He would leave small offerings of milk and bread for the fairies, tip his hat when he passed the old stone circles, and always take the long way around the fairy trees. And when visitors to Kerry would ask him about the local legends, Seamus would smile and say, “There’s truth in the old stories, friend. More truth than you might think.”

On quiet evenings, when the mist rolled in from the Atlantic and the wind whispered through the hills, Seamus would sometimes hear the distant sound of hoofbeats and wild laughter echoing across the countryside. But he never felt afraid anymore, for he knew that as long as he showed proper respect for the mysteries of the world, the Pooka would have no quarrel with him.

And the other people of Kerry would nod approvingly when they heard Seamus speak respectfully of the old ways, for they knew that wisdom comes to those who are humble enough to learn from their mistakes – even if the teacher happens to be a mischievous shapeshifting spirit with a love of midnight rides and elaborate pranks.