Irish Fairy Tales E-Book

Mia Mirillia

• Herausgeber: Mia Mirillia
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A journey into the mythical heart of Ireland

Shrouded hills, whispering moors and ancient stone circles - Ireland is a place where the boundaries between our world and the Otherworld have always been permeable. Amidst the mists and ancient songs live beings that seemed forgotten: Fairy Queens, cursed souls, goblins, sirens and shadow spirits. This book is an invitation to a collection of Irish fairy tales that not only revive old legends, but find new voices for an ancient world.

Fairy tales full of depth, magic and mystery

Each story is a gateway to another reality. The tales lead to abandoned villages on the moor, to hidden fairy wells, to wandering minstrels, mute shepherds and guardians of ancient powers. The fairy tales are far more than mere entertainment - they are living mirrors of Irish culture, captivatingly told, multi-layered, atmospheric and full of mysterious beauty.

For all those who like to lose themselves - and find themselves again

This book is aimed at adult readers who love the magic of old stories, dreamers, night owls and seekers, lovers of mystical literature, Celtic symbolism and impressive storytelling. The fairy tales are poetic and powerful, melancholy and hopeful, dark and luminous at the same time. An ideal work to sink into, linger over - and reread.

A treasure trove of fairy tales - not just for Ireland lovers

Whether you know Ireland or still dream of it: These stories carry the essence of the island. They smell of rain, sound of wind and make you believe for a moment that the Otherworld is just a blink of an eye away.

Immerse yourself in the magic of Ireland now - and discover what lies between the lines.

Leseprobe

Irish Fairy Tales

Of fairies, curses and lost kingdoms - 30 short fairy tales for children and adults

Mia Mirillia

Table of contents

Oisín and Niamh - The journey to Tír na nÓg

Leprechaun's cunning and the lost pot of gold

The Selkie woman and the stolen sealskin

The fairy from the hill of shadows

The children of Lir - Transformed into swans

The giant Fionn mac Cumhaill

The girl who danced with the fairies

The druid stone and the curse of the white crow

The prodigal son of the King of Connacht

The three trials of young Brian

The leprechaun and the golden horseshoe

The sad ballad of Deirdre and Naoise

The harp of the ghost bard

The Pooka and the unhappy horse

The Witch of Glendalough

The secret of the Kerry glassmaker

The curse of the black sheep

The night when the moon disappeared

The Sea Ghost of Lough Neagh

The blacksmith and the fairy folk

The vanished village in the moor

The shadow man from the peat bog

The three wishes of the old farmer's wife

The child who found the rainbow

The keeper of the hidden well

The island of fog and the song of the sirens

The crown of ivy and silver

The lost soul of the wandering minstrel

The shepherd and the song of the wind

The last queen of the fairies

Oisín and Niamh - The journey to Tír na nÓg

The wind blew cool across the green hills of Ireland as Oisín, son of Fionn mac Cumhaill, rode through the tall grass. His horse, a huge gray with a silvery coat, emitted small clouds of steam from its nostrils as its hooves touched down gently on the soft ground. The sun was slowly setting, the land was bathed in golden light and everything seemed to stand still for a moment. It was a strange day, when even the birds in the trees sang their song hesitantly, as if they were expecting something, something outside the world they were used to.

Then he saw her. At the edge of the forest, where the mist lay like a living veil over the ferns, stood a woman with shining golden hair that fell over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her eyes were as blue as the heart of the Atlantic, and her dress sparkled as if it were woven from moonlight. Oisín's horse stopped without him asking it to, and a soft shiver ran down his spine. The woman stepped out of the shadows and spoke in a voice that was like music and like the memory of something never experienced but always missed.

"Oisín," she said, and his chest tightened as if he had never heard his name more beautifully. "I am Niamh of the Golden Hair. I come from Tír na nÓg, the land beyond time. Come with me, great son of the Fianna, come with me to my realm where no one ages and no one weeps."

Oisín, a brave warrior who had fought countless battles, felt his heart change. He, who had never hesitated to stand before an enemy, was at a loss for words. Something in him recognized her without him understanding why. He did not ask how or why. He mounted the magical horse she had brought with her, a creature so light that its hooves barely seemed to touch the ground. Without looking back, he rode with Niamh across the vast land, and when they reached the westernmost point of Ireland, where the sea begins, they did not dismount, but rode straight out onto the waves.

The sea opened up beneath the horse's hooves like a road made of glass. Dolphins accompanied them, seagulls called out their shrill greetings, and the sun shone deeper and more golden than Oisín had ever seen it. Hours passed, or perhaps it was days. Time was a different entity on this journey, passing like a song you love but can never quite grasp. Finally, an island appeared before them, as if from a dream: green meadows that faded into lavender, trees with silvery leaves, flowers in colors Oisín could not name. There was a scent over everything, sweet and bitter at the same time, like summer and autumn in one breath.

Niamh led him through gates of white stone, where beings lived who were neither entirely human nor entirely spirit. They smiled as if they were expecting Oisín. Feasts were held in his honor, and the food tasted like memories of childhood days, of songs by the fire, of the first kiss. And Niamh was always by his side. She showed him the heart of her kingdom, where waterfalls flowed upwards and the stars seemed to speak to the trees. It was a world beyond pain, beyond the end, beyond time.

But Oisín was a human being, with a human heart. And in quiet moments, when Niamh slept and the lights of the island glowed more softly, he thought back to Ireland. Of his friends, of his father Fionn, of the forests where he had hunted. The memory did not fade, but grew stronger. One day, perhaps after a year or a hundred years - who could say? - he stood on the edge of a hill of quartz, looked out over the eternal land and said: "Niamh, I have to go back. Just for a moment. I need to know what has become of my world."

Niamh's eyes grew dark as a lake at night. "If you go, ride my horse and do not dismount. If your foot touches the earth of Ireland, you will never be able to return."

He promised, kissed her one last time and mounted the magical horse. Again the waves carried him, again the sea foamed like wine under his hooves, and Ireland welcomed him with the scent of peat and heather. But the island was no longer the same. The villages he knew were gone. The faces were strange. He asked about Fionn and the Fianna, and the people looked at him like a ghost from old stories. Then Oisín became restless. He thought he had to help a man who was struggling with a heavy sack. He bent down in the saddle, grabbed the weight - and lost his balance.

His foot touched the ground.

Even as he was falling, he could feel the years coming upon him. His hair turned white, his hands as thin as branches. His back bent, his voice turned to dust. In a few breaths, he was an old man. The people gathered him up, full of reverence, because they knew who he was. The last of the Fianna. The man who had seen the land beyond time.

When he was asked what he had seen, Oisín just smiled, with lips that barely had the strength to speak. And his eyes reflected a world of light that no human words could ever capture.

Leprechaun's cunning and the lost pot of gold

In the heart of County Clare, where the mist crept across the fields like liquid silver and the heather flowers smelled sweetly of old songs, there once lived an old cobbler called Padraig. His house stood off the beaten track, half hidden among brambles and rowan trees, and the fireplace was almost always smoking, for Padraig preferred to drink his tea by a crackling peat fire. He was a man who spoke little and laughed even less, but his hands were deft and his shoes lasted longer than many villagers' marriages.

Padraig's life was simple. He laced leather in the morning, ate porridge at lunchtime, polished boots in the evening and dreamed of nothing at night. But beneath this outward calm lay an insatiable hunger - not for wealth or fame, but for the unknown. In his shed hung maps of places that did not exist, and in the bottom shelf of his toolbox lay an old book that told tales of fairy folk, druid shadows and hidden treasures. It was this book that sowed the idea in him that somewhere deep in the forest, between the roots of the oldest oaks, there must be a leprechaun - one of those cunning, gold-herding goblins who usually only show themselves to people to lead them around by the nose.

One evening, when the full moon stood like a blank shield in the sky and the night was quieter than usual, Padraig decided to go out. Not to cut herbs or gather mushrooms as usual - no, this time he wanted to follow the tracks, which, it was said, could only be seen by those who walked through the darkness with a pure heart and an alert mind. He wore his oldest boots, which creaked the least, and wrapped a linen cloth around his lantern to keep the light dim. Then he set off, step by step, deeper into the moss that lay beneath his feet like a damp carpet.

The owl hooted three times, and Padraig stopped. There it was - a soft tinkling, very delicate, like the sound of gold striking stone. He followed the sound as it danced through the trees, sometimes in front of him, sometimes to the side, never quite within reach. Finally, he reached a small depression where the ground sank into a natural circle. In the center sat a tiny man on a fallen mushroom. He was wearing a green vest, a velvet hat with a daisy in it, and his shoes - oh, his shoes shone as if he had just pulled them out of a dream.

Padraig held his breath. The leprechaun seemed preoccupied, flicking small pebbles through the air and muttering numbers to himself. Padraig knew there was no time to lose now. He leapt forward and shouted, "I've seen you, little man, and I'm not going to let you out of my sight!"

The leprechaun was startled, fell backwards from the mushroom, jumped up and hissed: "Rude human! Don't you know that you shouldn't disturb an artist?"

Padraig stepped closer. "I don't want to steal your pot of gold. I want to find it. And I want to play your game. But be warned - I'm a cobbler, and I know all about little things and big tricks."

The leprechaun looked at him for a long time. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. Then you'll have a harder time than the others. But you'll get your chance."

He led Padraig to an old hazel bush, its branches twisted together like the fingers of a praying old woman. "Here," said the leprechaun, "lies my gold. But you must not dig. Instead, I'll give you a coin - just one. You can trade it three times. Each time it will give you what you need most. But if you do wrong, it will disappear forever - and my gold will remain buried until the next century dawns."

Padraig took the coin. It was heavier than expected and did not shimmer like normal gold, but like moonlight on water.

"Act three times? With whom?" he asked.

"You'll see," said the leprechaun and disappeared - just like that, in the blink of an eye, without smoke or a bang.

Padraig walked on, the coin in his fist. He came across a man with tattered clothes, sitting by a well and crying. "I've lost my voice," said the man, "and with it my bread." Padraig handed him the coin. At the same moment, the man spoke loud and clear: "Thank you, stranger!" and ran off as if the wind had carried him.

The coin was back in Padraig's hand as if it had never been missing.

Second trade. A woman with a child in her arms who was feverish. "I need firewood and soup, but I have nothing left." Padraig handed her the coin, and suddenly her basket was filled. The woman embraced him and disappeared in a beam of light that fell from the sky as if from a window of the world above.

The coin returned.

Padraig hesitated. He had one trade left. Should he ask for the gold now? Should he use his last wish to get rich?

Suddenly the leprechaun was standing in front of him again. "Well, what do you want, old man? Wealth? Youth? Or would you rather understand what you've just done?"

Padraig looked at the coin. It was warm in his hand. Then he put it in his pocket, sat down on a tree stump and said, "I don't want any more. I've given twice. And it was more than I ever hoped for."

The leprechaun smiled. Honestly this time. Then he held out his hand. "Then I'll take the coin back - and give you something else."

He flapped his hands. The earth opened and a small iron pot emerged. There was no gold in it, but leather, fine and soft, silver tools, a thread that never broke. Padraig understood.

"Your treasure, old cobbler," said the leprechaun, "is not the gold. It's what you can make with your hands."

Then he disappeared again, and Padraig went back home - with a light heart, firm steps and the certainty that some treasures only appear when you stop looking for them.

The Selkie woman and the stolen sealskin

The coast of Connemara was a place where sea and sky met in an eternal dance. The wind was never silent there, the waves beat songs against the rocks, and the sun sometimes shone only to dip the spray in gold for a moment. In one of these remote bays, where people rarely strayed, there once lived a young fisherman named Ronan. He was strong and silent, with shoulders like blocks of granite and a heart that had been beating silently in his chest since his mother's death, like an old gong whose sound had been forgotten.

Ronan lived alone in a hut made of black stone, overlooked by a crooked chimney in which the jackdaws nested. He rarely spoke to the people from the village, only coming to the market when the flour ran low or the whisky ran out. The others said he was strange because he talked to the seagulls too often and pulled his boat out at night when there was a storm. But nobody knew that Ronan was searching - for something he couldn't name himself. Something that came in dreams, called out with the voice of the sea and slipped away as soon as he opened his eyes.

It was an evening in late summer when the fog settled over the bay like a shivering shroud. Ronan was just returning with his catch, the boat full of herring wriggling like living silver. He was about to haul in the net when he saw movement on the shore. Something stirred on the rocks, as fleeting as a shadow. He cautiously rowed closer and landed on the slippery beach. Between the rocks he saw figures - women, naked and glowing in the pale light, with hair like seaweed, laughing and dancing in the spray of the sea. Their skin shimmered like the inside of a shell and their eyes were as deep as the sea.