"What in heaven's name...?!"

Mrs Doyle shrieked out the words as she stumbled backwards a couple of steps.

I barely registered her. My heart was too busy racing at the visual confirmation that the strange contraption wasn't dead after all.

As the outer rings continued to rotate and the aperture widened, I heard a male voice emanating from the other side. I stood and lifted the golden artifact so that I could see through the centre, positioning it so that I could observe the space I'd just been kneeling in through the hole.

A short, stocky man strode confidently into view.

My pulse sped up as I realised the pendant might be about to show me what happened to Mrs Doyle's chickens, and I knew this might be my only opportunity to capture evidence of it.

Despite my increased adrenaline levels resulting in a heavy dose of uncoordinated fumbling, I somehow managed to unlock my phone with my free hand, switch on the video recorder, and point it at the images that were being revealed through the aperture of the golden relic. Holding everything steady, I watched the scene unfold before me.

The man was carrying a cage, which told me that if he was about to take Mrs Doyle's birds, the act was premeditated.

Mumbling something unintelligible, he easily traversed the small fence of the enclosure and proceeded to round up five of Mrs Doyle's hens, forcing them into the small crate. Upon climbing back out of the enclosure, he lost his footing. As he fell, the cage bumped to the ground at an angle such that the crude latch of the cage door jolted open.

Much scrambling and flapping ensued, in which the thief lost a significant chunk of his dignity and the chickens lost a number of feathers. But the overall outcome was undeniable. There were no faeries involved in the disappearance of Mrs Doyle's chickens.

Having obtained the evidence I needed, I stopped my recording just as the spinning rings of the pendant began to slow and the central aperture started to shrink in size. Evidently, it had finished its show, and returned quickly to its dormant state.

I released a slow breath as I looked over at Mrs Doyle, who still appeared to be stunned by what she'd just been witnessing.

"What ... was that?" she stammered.

I blinked. It was a good question. And not one that I really had an answer to.

"Magic," I ventured, since that seemed to be the most commonly acceptable historical explanation for science that wasn't yet understood.

"Magic?" she breathed in awe. "What kind of magic?"

"Here, let me show you," I replied gently as I climbed back over the fence and stepped towards her, deliberately making my movements slow and careful. The last thing I wanted was for our new ally to be afraid of me.

Despite looking apprehensive, Mrs Doyle stayed where she was, allowing me to approach her. I held the phone out with the screen facing her so that she'd be able to see it, and I started to show her the video I'd just taken.

"This is what happened four days ago," I explained as the images played out on the screen. "Do you recognise this man, Mrs Doyle?"

After a few moments of watching intently, she nodded.

"He's Liam Foley," she confirmed. "He's an ironmonger that lives in the village."

"Do you have any idea why he would do something like this?" I probed.

The older lady pondered her answer for a few moments.

"Aye," she sighed. "Seamus and I used to be close with his family. We'd visit each other often, and treat their children like they were our own flesh and blood. About three years ago, a couple of weeks past Fraughan Sunday, Seamus and Liam's wife, Eithne, went lookin' for blackberries and fraughan up on the crag to the north of the village. Seamus swore blind that Eithne slipped and fell that day, right from the top of the cliff onto the rocks below after bein' spooked by one of the sidhe. Liam was havin' none of it, sayin' that the two of them were secretly lovers. He claimed the two of them must have had a quarrel, and that my Seamus pushed her off the edge on purpose. But I'm tellin' you, my Seamus was as faithful and gentle as they come, and he wouldn't be doin' anyone any harm. Hurtin' someone was not in his nature, 'specially not such a good friend as Eithne."

Mrs Doyle's recount of events correlated with my own knowledge of local history. Fraughan Sunday was traditionally held on the last Sunday of July, during which the villagers would communally gather the sweet fraughan (bilberries) that grew on the nearby hedgerows to use in jams and chutneys. And the tale of Eithne, the young woman who had fallen from the edge of the highest peak for miles around into the watery depths below, was ubiquitously cited as the reason that the grassy clifftop with its spectacular views had come to be known as Eithne's Crag.

However, hearing the story first-hand from someone who had lived through it had a completely different impact from researching it for a school project. Eithne suddenly went from being a name printed on a page of a history textbook to being a doting mother, a wife and a beloved friend, and I was faced with a new level of empathy towards the municipal tale.

"So, do you think this is partly about revenge?" I speculated, turning and aiming for the barn.

Mrs Doyle followed my lead and accompanied me on the short walk back through the chicken enclosure and across the yard.

"Who knows," she shrugged. "Liam's not been right since Eithne died. It's soured him, and I'm not the only one who thinks her death has turned him angry and bitter. I understand grief more than anyone since Seamus passed over, but some of the things Liam's been doin' ain't right."

"Grief affects everyone differently," I acknowledged, appreciating the benefits of the widespread mental health support that the twenty-first century offered compared to the Georgian era. "It doesn't excuse premeditated theft, though."

We entered the barn to find Cormac still peacefully dozing on top of the hay. As I checked his breathing, I noticed that the newly risen sun had enhanced his typically Irish features, augmenting them with stark definition and washing them with colour. His thick, auburn hair had a natural kink to it, and, although clearly in his early twenties, his pale cheeks still carried a light dusting of freckles. Bronze lashes fanning the base of his closed eyes, coupled with his slightly parted lips, gave him an angelic look as he rested.

I checked the burn on his arm. I wasn't expecting to see any difference in such a short time, but I thought it was at least sensible to see whether it had been negatively affected by the salve, since I wasn't sure what it was composed of or whether Cormac had any allergies that might be impacted by it. Relieved that his condition didn't appear to have deteriorated, I turned my attention back to our benefactor with a newly budding idea.

"Mrs Doyle, it was kind of you to help us," I acknowledged. "Especially when you took a personal risk to do so. With your permission, I'd like to repay your kindness by bringing your chickens home."

She blinked at me incredulously.

"And how do you plan to do that, exactly?" she asked, clearly bewildered at my proposal.

I simply smiled at her as I pondered my emerging plan.

"Magic."