Read by Michael Flamel

IIn the rolling green hills of Ireland, where the mist hangs low and the sheep roam free, there lived a mischievous creature known as the Pooka. With its shaggy mane and gleaming eyes, the Pooka was said to delight in playing tricks on unsuspecting travelers, leading them astray with its cunning and guile.

Many had encountered the Pooka on their journeys through the countryside, only to find themselves lost in the labyrinth of the hills with no hope of escape. But few had ever seen the Pooka with their own eyes, for it was a creature of shadow and illusion who preferred to remain hidden from view.

One sunny afternoon, as the birds sang and the flowers bloomed, a young girl named Maeve set out on a journey through the hills to visit her grandmother’s cottage on the other side of the valley. Armed with a basket of freshly baked bread and a heart full of joy, Maeve skipped merrily along the winding path, her laughter echoing through the trees.

But as she rounded a bend in the road, Maeve stumbled upon a curious sight—a small, shaggy creature with eyes as bright as the stars, sitting in the middle of the path and blocking her way. It was the Pooka, come to play a trick on the unsuspecting traveler.

“Who goes there?” Maeve called out, her voice trembling with fear and excitement. “Show yourself, creature of the hills, and let me pass!”

The Pooka chuckled, its laughter like the tinkling of bells on the breeze. “Ah, greetings, young Maeve,” it replied, its voice soft and sly. “I am the Pooka, guardian of the hills and master of mischief. What brings you to my domain on this fine day?”

Maeve, undaunted by the Pooka’s antics, stood her ground and met its gaze with a steely resolve. “I seek to visit my grandmother’s cottage on the other side of the valley,” she declared. “But if you mean to play a trick on me, Pooka, you’ll find that I’m not so easily fooled.”

The Pooka’s eyes gleamed with amusement at Maeve’s words, its grin widening into a mischievous smile. “You are a bold one, young Maeve,” it chuckled. “But let us see if you can outwit the master of mischief himself!”

And with that, the Pooka disappeared into the shadows, leaving Maeve alone in the middle of the path, her heart pounding with excitement and anticipation.

For hours, Maeve wandered through the hills, following the winding path as it twisted and turned through the valleys and glens. She dodged fallen trees and leapt over babbling brooks, her eyes peeled for any sign of the elusive Pooka and its tricks.

But just as she began to lose hope of ever reaching her grandmother’s cottage, Maeve stumbled upon a familiar sight—the cottage nestled among the trees, its windows glowing with the warm light of a fire. And there, waiting for her on the doorstep was her grandmother, her arms open wide in welcome.

“Ah, Maeve, my dear child,” her grandmother exclaimed, her voice soft and gentle. “You’ve come at last! Come inside and warm yourself by the fire—I’ve saved you a slice of freshly baked bread and a cup of steaming tea.”

And as Maeve stepped into the cozy warmth of the cottage, she couldn’t help but smile at the memory of her encounter with the Pooka. For though the creature had tried its best to lead her astray, she had outwitted it with her wit and cunning, proving that even the most mischievous of creatures could be bested by a clever girl with a brave heart. ❖