The earth cracked open beneath the Cavan hills
in 2018, not from war, but from silence. The
rain stopped. The wells ran black. Then the
first child spoke in a voice that wasn’t theirs —
a whispering through the roots. By 2021, the old
ways had returned: moss grew on concrete, hedges
moved at night, and the soil remembered names
long buried.
She came back for the GAA final — not for glory,
but because the club’s pitch was the last place
still green. Sorcha Riordan, once a county
player whose name echoed in minor leagues across
Connacht, stepped off the bus into a village
where every gate hung slightly ajar, as if
someone had left in a hurry. The fields were
quiet, but not empty.
They found her kneeling at the edge of the old
parish field, hands in the dirt. She wore a
linen shirt stained with sap, eyes fixed on the
ground. When Sorcha approached, she didn’t speak
— just pointed. Beneath the turf, something
glowed faintly, like buried wire. The air
smelled of wet stone and burnt honey.
That night, the local priest vanished. No trace.
Only his cassock, laid out on the altar, folded
as if he’d gone to sleep.
Sorcha learned the truth slowly: the land wasn’t
dead. It was dreaming. And some people — those
who lived close enough, or prayed too long —
could pull dreams from the soil. Not visions.
Real things. Memories. Souls. The harvesters
called it leathadh, the old word for soulthread.
They pulled it from the roots, braided it into
lamps, sold it to the few remaining towns beyond
the border.
But the cost was real. Each thread taken left a
hole in the mind. A person might wake up
forgetting their mother’s face. Or begin
speaking in tongues they’d never learned.
Her best friend, Dara, stood at the centre of it.
Dara, who used to run the GAA team’s training
sessions, who once brought her water during
matches under the scorching sun. Now Dara wore a
silver locket shaped like a football, and when
Sorcha asked about the missing priest, she
smiled and said: “He’s better off.”
On the day of the final, the pitch trembled. The
crowd fell silent. The ball rolled toward the
goal — then stopped midair, suspended above the
turf. From the ground rose a woman’s voice,
singing a lullaby in a dialect no one knew.
Sorcha saw Dara step forward, arms raised,
pulling light from the earth like thread from a
spindle.
The crowd began to weep. Not from grief. From
recognition.
Then the lights died. Not from power failure —
from absence. The energy had been siphoned.
Dara collapsed. Her eyes were open, but unseeing.
The locket shattered. Inside, a scrap of paper
read: “We are the ones who remember. We must
keep them awake.”
Sorcha took the locket. She walked to the edge
of the field and buried it in the soil.
The next morning, the grass grew thicker. The
wells filled with clear water. The birds sang in
full harmony.
And no one ever mentioned the dreams again.
