The waves crash upon Eilean Draoidheachd, the Island of Magic. From the mainland it is little more than a shadow, forever veiled in mist and salt-born fog. Sailors whisper that it is cursed, that the storm itself makes its home there. Others speak of endless wind and rain, bound to that shore by some forgotten spell.

But the islanders know better. They tell of An Naoimh, the Holy One, whose breath stirs the clouds and whose voice moves the sea. Some still name her An Cailleach, the ancient crone who weaves her will through storm and silence alike. And when the waves rise higher than the cliffs, they say she is speaking again, chanting her spells into the wind.

“Dubhfhionn, wake up!” Thirteen winters old and dark-haired, she stirred and opened her eyes. The uamh, her parents’ cave, is already full of light and warmth. Her mother rose before dawn to stir the hearth and prepare breakfast, and her father sits at the big wooden table, quietly waiting. “Dubhfhionn, come on! Breakfast is ready! Hurry up, school is about to start.” Ugh. School again. Dubh hates it. Or rather, she hates the other children. They always pick on her, just because she’s the only dark-haired girl among a sea of redheads. “One more time, and you’ll go without food.” Dubh springs out of bed, grabs her clothes, splashes her hands at the water bucket, and hurries to the table. Fish and bread. Again. And again. What else could you expect on a small island where most of the men fish for a living?

Breakfast done, she heads out. The wind howls across the cliffs, rain lashes sideways, and even a five-minute walk requires a sturdy jacket. She’s used to it, like all the islanders. Unlike them, she has never learned to like it. Why had she been born here, where the sun seems always meek, always distant? She walks along the narrow, muddy path that winds between the caves, and soon reaches the center of town. The big, gnarled tree looms there; some say it was planted before people even began to honor Ériu. Dubh skirts around it and slips into another uamh, far larger than her parents’ cave, its walls stretching wide and tall to hold many pupils at once. Above the entrance, the weathered letters still read: “Education for All”, though the ‘A’ is barely visible anymore. Another dull day on this cursed island.

“Then there’s ballan wrasse. Hard to catch, but worth every effort. Its colors are beautiful, the flesh mild and slightly sweet, and it can be prepared in so many ways. Roasted, baked, pan-fried…” Really? Every day, another lecture about catching the biggest fish. As if she would ever fish anyway. They all know that’s a man’s job.

Snip… Snip… Snip…

What was that?

Snip… Snip… Snip…

Her head feels lighter. Oddly lighter. Dubh turns. Her eyes meet a wide, triumphant grin. Fionnghuala holds a pair of scissors, carefully just out of the teacher’s view. “Little, little sea wrack,” Fionnghuala taunts. “Did you lose your black?” Dubh looks down. Dark hair carpets the floor. Her fingers brush through it. Short, uneven, all gone. It takes a moment for the realization to hit. Her long, beautiful hair… gone. Fury and sorrow surge through her, fierce as the wind howling through the cracks of an uamh. “You little bitch!” She stands, swinging her fist, landing a clumsy punch. Then she spins and bolts, tears stinging her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of anyone. Outside, the rain greets her. At first it feels like another punishment, but then the wind bends around her, nudging her forward. The mist curls around her like whispering fingers, soft and coaxing. For the first time, she welcomes it, letting the rain mingle with her tears.

She runs. Out. Out of the village. Away from the shame, away from Fionnghuala, away from the world she’s always known.

And thus she fled. Time stretched without end. Morning gave way to afternoon, and dusk crept in on silent feet. At last, Dubh slowed. Her run had become a jog, her jog a stagger, until she was only walking. By evening, she was trembling with hunger and cold, each breath a ghost in the fading light. Why had she run without thinking? Where even was she? Had she ever wandered this far from the village before? Certainly not alone. Tears stung her eyes. Why had she been so foolish? Did she even know the way back? What would her parents think when she returned? If she returned at all…​ She pictured her mother tending the stove, her father stepping into the warm uamh, a string of fish slung over his shoulder. The image only deepened the ache in her chest. The wind rose, keening through the rocks. Far off, a wolf’s cry broke the silence. Her heart faltered. Then came a voice. Low, cracked, carried on the wind like something ancient dredged from the sea. “Conjure ritual named weave…​” Dubh blinked, then laughed under her breath. She must be hearing things. The wind was only playing tricks. All she had to do was retrace her steps, walk back the way she came. Everything would be fine. She could do it. She just had to be brave. She turned to leave. The voice came again, nearer now, heavy with age and echo. “Repeat the incantation reckoning times to begin.” A stillness followed. Thick, unnatural. Then, softly, almost breathed: “Enchant conclusion with conclusion bound with that.” Cold raced through her veins. The night itself seemed to be listening. She was not alone.

“Come now, child, don’t be shy.” Dubh hadn’t seen the cave before. A single uamh is easy to miss in the fog, but now, just a few feet higher, an entrance appeared. What was unusual, though, was the figure standing outside instead of within. At Draoidheachd, no one lingered outside without reason. The woman, gray hair plastered to her head. soaked from the mist, had clearly been standing there for some time. In her left hand, she held a wooden plate, murmuring under her breath. “Conjure ritual named carve_island with nothing to begin”, “inscribe through ritual trace_landline with”, “three”, “and”, “six”, “and”, “zero”. She repeated the incantations over and over, the numbers changing each time. “End ritual.” Dubh could see no difference in the plate. Yet the woman was not finished. “Invoke the ritual carve_island with nothing.” A chorus of cutting sounds erupted, as if hundreds of chisels worked in unison. And then, lo, the plate was no longer blank. A rough map of the island had appeared. Magic. A witch. Dubh’s heart raced. She needed to run. “Invoke the ritual come_forth with nothing”, the witch muttered. Though she did not want to approach, Dubh felt her feet moving of their own accord, slowly turning toward the old hag…

Once she stood before the woman, Dubh noticed something. Though eerie and old from afar, up close the woman seemed kind, if ancient. Her eyes glimmered with warmth. “You are lost, child? O poor thing. Come inside. Old Naoimh will fetch you something warm.” Timidly, Dubh stepped into the uamh. Inside, it was not unlike home: a fine fire burned in the hearth, a stout table stood in the middle, and —oh dear— lovely-smelling soup simmered in a pot. Only a great cauldron in the corner and a tall bookcase along the back wall marked it as different. Warmth seeped through her clothes, loosening the cold from her bones. “Put your coat on that hook, and sit down.” Dubh obeyed. Soon the old woman poured soup into a bowl and set a big loaf of bread before her. “Now tell Old Naoimh what has brought you to her house.” The shyness seemed to fall away. Dubh began to speak of her parents, of how she actually liked her home but hated the boring school lessons. And even worse, the other children, who disliked her simply because of her dark hair. And then she told of mean Fionnghuala. How she had cut Dubh’s hair, how she had run, and how, in her flight, she had stumbled upon Naoimh.

“So you’re telling me you don’t like your hair so short? And now that I look a bit closer, forgive an old woman’s eyes, it does indeed seem uneven,” said Naoimh after Dubh had finished her story. Dubh stayed silent for a moment. The pain of losing her hair welled up again. At last, she whispered, “I don’t feel like myself anymore.” “O dear, o dear, I can see how a young woman such as yourself would be fond of her hair,” Naoimh said kindly. “Luckily, you’ve come to the right place. I can restore it.” Dubh blinked. “Restore it? How could that be possible?” Then it struck her. Witchcraft! “You’re going to use magic, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I don’t feel comfortable about that. Nothing good comes from the old arts. That’s what my folks always say.” “Nonsense,” said Naoimh, waving a hand. “It’s not the art that’s wicked, but those who wield it poorly. Let me show you the truth of it.” She rose and went to the bookcase, its shelves lined with vast and heavy tomes. Her finger drifted along their spines. “Let’s see… ‘The Binding of Hidden Powers’—no. ‘The Vanishing of Things’—heavens, no. Ah! Here it is, ‘On Growth and Renewal’” She pulled the book free, opened it, and skimmed the index. “Section: human form, aye. Zone: head, aye. Ah, here we are, ‘Of Hair and Its Hastening’” Carrying the open volume, she set it upon the table. Dubh leaned forward and began to read:

begin the grimoire.
    summon the tresses_length with essence of -1.
    summon the growth_cycles with essence of -1.
    inquire whispers of "Pray, declare the length of thy tresses in hands, halves permitted:" into tresses_length.
    inquire whispers of "And how many cycles of growth shall be bestowed upon thy hair:" into growth_cycles.

    transmute tresses_length into number.
    transmute growth_cycles into number.

    ponder for 2 moments.

    enchant tresses_length with tresses_length multiplied by growth_cycles.

    inscribe whispers of "Behold! Thy hair hath grown to a measure of: " bound with tresses_length.
close the grimoire.

“That doesn’t look too bad”, Dubh said, curiosity overcoming her fear. “I can almost tell what it will do. Let’s try it!” Naoimh grinned, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. “The words may be plain, child, but a spell must be spoken with cadence, tone, and form precisely. You could not manage it yourself. But I can!” She began to chant. Sometimes her voice quickened, then slowed. Some words she murmured low, others she pronounced with ringing clarity. Dubh answered when prompted, and when Naoimh uttered “grimoire” with a sharp, high cry, Dubh felt a strange warmth course through her scalp. Her hair began to grow. Softly at first, then swiftly, tumbling past her shoulders, down her back, longer than it had ever been before. The day that had begun in misery now glimmered with wonder.

To be continued…​