The village of Cúil Aodh holds its annual Féile
in midMay, a tradition dating back to the 1920s.
The festival’s centrepiece is the burning of the
May Pole, a ritual meant to ward off misfortune.
This year, the pole is carved with symbols no
one recognises—lines that twist like roots
beneath the earth.
Máirtín Ó Dúill, a Traveller elder known for his
silence and knowledge of old ways, disappears
the night before the fire. His tent is found
empty, but his boots remain, laced with twine
and soil from the bog beyond the village. The
police dismiss it as a wanderer’s whim, but the
older residents recall stories of his family’s
role in the War of Independence—how they once
carried messages through the hills, unseen and
unspoken.
On the eve of the festival, a child finds a
stone slab buried in the field where the pole
will stand. It bears the same symbols as
Máirtín’s boots. The priest refuses to bless the
site, citing “unholy markings.” The mayor orders
the slab removed, but when workers dig, they
uncover a network of tunnels beneath the ground,
leading to a chamber filled with rusted tools
and bones.
The villagers gather at the pub, their usual
laughter replaced by hushed tones. A man from
Dublin, returning after years away, speaks of
his grandmother’s tales—of a hidden path that
only appears when the land is restless. He says
the old ones called it the Hollowed Road, a
place where time folds in on itself.
That night, the May Pole is lit, but the flames
do not rise. Instead, the air hums with a low
vibration, and the shadows of the crowd stretch
unnaturally. Máirtín’s voice is heard, though he
is not there. It speaks of a pact made in 1921,
a bargain between the living and the dead. The
symbols were not warnings—they were keys.
The next morning, the tunnels are sealed with
stones, and the village returns to normal. But
the children now speak of a figure seen at the
edge of the bog, wearing a green coat and
carrying a stick of ash. No one dares to look
too long.
