The thorns stabbed my stomach with the snap of a branch. There was no pain.

At first.

But then a heatwave washed over my ribcage and I was on fire before I could muster my first whinny. Fear caused my adrenaline to sky rocket. The instincts of the prey animal I currently was kicked in.

I began to buck violently, knocking all manner of foliage about. Young green stems snapped with the force of my tantrum.

It was then that I heard her approach.

She was no more than 5, maybe 6.

What she was doing alone and outside in the middle of the night on the abandoned mountainside was beyond my comprehension. Half out of my head with discomfort I snorted in frustration. I had no time for such interruptions.

The shrill of a nearby lapwing broke through my conscious and I halted my thrashing to gather my wits.

The little girl, dressed in only her nightshift, tip-toed closer.

"Does she know no fear?" I thought to myself as my red eyes blazed angrily.

Cloaked as I was in horse form, and easily 16 hands tall from the forest floor to my withers, I didn't appear to intimidate her in the least.

The child was knee-high to a grasshopper but she didn't falter while making haste towards me.

Her strawberry blond curls escaped from her sleeping bonnet and the woolen cloth at her side was edged in tarnished lace. A gnarled satin ribbon was sewn into the blanket but its threads were torn and tattered.

As the little girl drew closer I frothed at the mouth and tried to calm myself.

She popped her wrinkled thumb from her lips and gingerly climbed a nearby Ash tree.

"Shish," the girl cooed, leaning towards me from the limb of a strong branch. "Let me get those thorns out of your sides, Púca."

My pupils dilated with surprise.

She knew what I was!

And yet, here she was trying to help me.

Intrigued, I slowly inched closer to her.

With gentle kindness the girl made fast work at removing the furze thorns from my mane and forelock, to say nothing of my flanks when she climbed back down.

I sighed with relief.

Having finished her ministrations the naïve little waif leaned over and hugged me.

"Good Púca," she cooed, nuzzling my neck. "I love you."

I stood stock-still as she continued. "My name is Nellie. I'm five years old and my Ma and Da and I are new to this place."

The girl turned from my side and pointed down the road some ways behind us. "We bought the Donovan cottage. Ma is already crocheting new curtains and Dadaí keeps the peat burning in the fireplace."

I relaxed under the child's gentle touch and soft voice as she braided the hair of my mane.

In no time, Nellie began to sing.

"Tis' a place of ma-gic and a place of song,
Tis' a place of love and the fair-ie folk.
Come with me, oh come with me,
Towards the yel-low bea-u-ty of I-rish Furze.

Now watch your step,
And mind your fin-gers,
For this flow-er bears its own wee curse,
Oh the thorns of the yel-low-bright
I-rish furze."

It was a short little ditty the lassie's Máthair had taught her, likely to keep her from pricking herself, and Nellie was singing it to me.

No one had ever shown such affection towards me before.

I fell in love.

Not in love-love, for that would be wrong.

But in love such as a father loves his child. From henceforth, I vowed to protect Nellie from all harm that might befall her.

When she snuck out at night, which was way too often for her own good, I watched over her.

After midnight romps across the Irish countryside, I carried Nellie home at night, half-asleep on my back, grass-stains and heather marring her nightgown threads.

Nellie brought me apples.

Apples, and grass, and blankets for warmth when the weather turned cold.

Truthfully, I had no real need for these trivial items. As a Púca, I could shapeshift and obtain any manner of necessity myself.

It was her thoughtfulness, though; the continuous and unconditional love Nellie bestowed upon my heart with each small gift she gave me.

Folk had always feared me; did all that they could to hide from my mischief.

But not this child.

As Nellie grew, she continued to look for adventure in all the wrong places, and I adapted.

If the occasion called for a guard dog, I shifted.

If she needed an anonymous protector at the local market, I appeared.

When her Máthair passed and her Da shipped her to the Americas for better prospects, I sailed for brighter skies along with her.

Years later, as I sit perched this evening in the little green Ash tree outside Nellie's cabin, I smile.

The sapling has grown into a mature tree. It was a gift from a stranger to Nellie when she came ashore in this bright, New World.

I brought it from Ireland; a gift from her Máthair-land and a reminder of our first meeting place.

Nellie's Virginia mountainside home is full of all manner of weans running about, laughing and dancing in the front parlour now.

Later this evening, though, once even Nellie herself drops off to sleep, her youngest daughter, Maggie will slip outside to find me.

She'll carry apples in her pockets and a song in her heart; another branch of Nellie's family tree reaching out to my goblin soul...

"Tis' a place of ma-gic and a place of song,
Tis' a place of love and the fair-ie folk.
Come with me, oh come with me,
Towards the yel-low bea-u-ty of I-rish Furze.

Now watch your step,
And mind your fin-gers,
For this flow-er bears its own wee curse,
Oh, the thorns of the yel-low-bright
I-rish furze."