Context and Background: This dramatized tale draws upon Celtic and English folklore, specifically focusing on the mysterious figure of the púca—a shapeshifting trickster spirit known for leading humans astray or helping them depending on its whims. The púca’s connection to the harvest season and its dual nature, both menacing and beneficial, are key themes in this story. The myth of the púca often centers around bargains and rides to the Otherworld, places where mortals can catch glimpses of loved ones long gone. Here, the story takes on a deeply emotional and psychological tone, exploring the human struggle with grief and the desperate lengths people might go to in order to reconnect with lost loved ones. It serves as a reflection on the nature of loss, fate, and the peril of seeking to undo the natural order of life and death.
Summary: Eamon, a grieving widower, makes a desperate deal with a shapeshifting púca to see his dead wife, Maeve, one last time. Promising half of his soul, he embarks on a wild ride through the night to the Otherworld. However, when he finally reaches Maeve, he realizes that what the púca has shown him is merely a shadow of her former self—a lifeless echo. Faced with the choice of staying with Maeve or returning to the land of the living, Eamon chooses to let her go, accepting the painful truth that death cannot be undone. In doing so, he must confront his grief and find a way to continue without her.
The wind cut through the night like a blade, sharp and bitter, as Eamon’s grip tightened on the reins. The púca beneath him snorted, steam rising from its nostrils, its black coat gleaming in the pale moonlight. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, and the darkness ahead seemed to pulse, alive with unseen things. But Eamon wasn’t afraid—not yet. His heart thundered with something else.
“Faster,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. “Take me to her.”
The púca’s ears flicked back, its wild, gleaming eyes cutting towards him, a smirk pulling at the corners of its equine mouth. Then it lurched forward, faster, harder. The world blurred around them—trees bent in impossible shapes, shadows stretching and warping as they raced through the night, skimming the edge of the Otherworld. Eamon’s pulse quickened as they hurtled past glowing eyes peering out from the dark, watching, waiting.
“Hold on tight, farmer,” the púca said, its voice low and amused, a dark ripple beneath the wind. “You might just see what you’ve come for.”
Eamon barely registered the words. His eyes strained against the rushing blackness, searching. Maeve. She had to be there, just beyond the edge of the world, just out of reach. The púca had promised him that. And he had paid the price. His soul—or at least a piece of it—was no longer his own.
But it didn’t matter. Not anymore. If he could just touch her one last time…
The night before, the fields had been silent, the last golden remnants of the harvest untouched. Eamon had stood there, staring out at the brittle stalks left for the púca, the villagers’ laughter drifting faintly on the breeze. They had celebrated Samhain, lighting fires and telling stories of ancestors long gone. They had laughed with each other, grateful for another year of life. Eamon hadn’t laughed in months.
His fingers had dug into the soil beneath him, his chest tight with a grief he couldn’t release. It had been almost a year since Maeve was buried beneath the cold, hard earth. Almost a year of aching silence where her voice once was, of empty nights where her warmth had once been.
He had promised her—promised he would always protect her. But what were promises to the dying? Empty words. Useless. He had watched helplessly as the fever took her, his prayers falling on deaf ears, the gods or whatever ruled this land indifferent to his pleas. His failure clung to him like a shadow, festering beneath the surface, gnawing at his heart.
And then, that night, the púca had come.
The village had warned him. They had whispered of the púca, the shapeshifter, the trickster that roamed the land on nights like this. But when the black horse had emerged from the forest, eyes burning with a strange, unnatural light, Eamon had not turned away. He had not run.
Instead, he had asked.
“If you can take me to her,” he had said, his voice hoarse with desperation, “I will pay whatever you ask.”
The púca had circled him then, slow and predatory, its hooves silent on the ground. Its voice, when it came, was soft, almost a purr. “And what do you have to give, farmer?”
Eamon had lifted his head, his gaze hard, unwavering. “My soul.”
The púca had laughed then, a low, dark sound that crawled down Eamon’s spine. “Half will do,” it had said. “Climb on.”
And now, here he was, clinging to the beast’s back as it hurtled through the night, the line between the living and the dead growing thinner with each gallop. The world around them twisted into something strange and otherworldly. The trees glowed faintly, their bark shifting between shades of silver and deep, pulsating blues. The sky rippled with dark clouds, as though something monstrous moved within it.
Suddenly, the púca jerked to a stop, its hooves digging into the soft, mossy ground. Eamon’s heart leaped into his throat. Ahead of him, through the mist that now hung heavy in the air, he saw her.
Maeve.
She stood at the center of the clearing, her figure illuminated by the eerie glow of the Otherworld’s strange light. Her hair, once golden like the fields, now shimmered silver, and her eyes, those eyes that had always been so full of life, were vacant, glassy.
Eamon slid off the púca’s back, his legs unsteady beneath him. He stumbled forward, his breath caught in his throat. “Maeve,” he whispered, the word breaking like a prayer, fragile and trembling.
She didn’t move.
He reached her, his trembling hand outstretched, inches away from her skin. And then he froze.
Something was wrong.
She didn’t look at him. She didn’t breathe. She stood there, unmoving, her face blank, her body cold. A shadow of what she had been. The realization hit him like a blow. This wasn’t Maeve. Not really. It was a memory, a pale echo of what she had been in life.
“No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No… this can’t be all there is.”
Behind him, the púca’s laughter rang through the clearing. “What did you expect, farmer? That death would be so easily undone?”
Eamon turned, rage bubbling in his chest, his fists clenched. “You lied to me!”
“I gave you what you asked for,” the púca said, its voice still dripping with dark amusement. “A ride to the Otherworld. A glimpse of your beloved. But the dead belong to the dead, Eamon. You cannot keep her. Not without paying the rest of your soul.”
Eamon’s heart pounded in his ears. His gaze flickered between the lifeless form of Maeve and the púca, whose eyes gleamed with a dark hunger. He could feel the weight of the púca’s bargain pressing down on him, its price now laid bare before him.
He could stay. He could hold Maeve again, feel her in his arms, if only for a little while longer. But he would be lost, just like her—a shade, a shadow, nothing more.
His fingers trembled as they hovered just over her cold skin.
“I…” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”
The púca’s laughter stopped. The air grew thick with tension.
“Then go,” the púca snarled, its eyes narrowing. “But know this: grief will follow you like a shadow for the rest of your days. You can never outrun it.”
Eamon’s hand fell to his side, his heart breaking all over again. He turned, his legs unsteady, and walked away, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the silence of the Otherworld. The púca watched him, its eyes gleaming in the dark, but it made no move to stop him.
As dawn broke, Eamon found himself back in the field, the untouched stalks of corn swaying gently in the early morning breeze. He stood there for a long time, the weight of the night pressing heavy on his soul. His chest ached with the emptiness that had hollowed him out, but there was a strange peace there too—an acceptance.
He couldn’t bring her back.
But he could remember.
