Katharine sat on the rear seat of the phaeton facing backwards, her legs dangling from the high seat. Her two brothers, Roger and William, were facing the front on the middle seat. Her parents, erect and haughty, she in her cream lacy gown and he tightly buttoned into a black riding jacket and long black, shiny boots, took up the front.

The vehicle was sprung high off the ground on its four slim wheels, the spokes of which shone and gave the impression they were going backwards. Delicate spirals of polished wood curled back and front, giving it a most elegant appearance.

Edward Hammersley, her father, held the reins and drove the two bay horses with confidence. Occasionally he pointed out something of interest to his wife, who paid him little attention, a distasteful look on her prim face, which was shaded by a large pink flowery hat. She kept her head turned away from the scrutiny of the local inhabitants, who all stopped whatever they were doing to watch this fashionable vehicle pass by on the muddy road.

“Why, Edward, do we have to degrade ourselves by being here amongst these beggars? I expected an enjoyable trip in pleasant surroundings today,” she complained in a thin, high voice. “Just look at them, unwashed, ragged urchins, staring at us. But I suppose they have never seen decent people before.”

The tone of her speech grated on Edward. “Oh do give it up Agatha,” he said. “You know why we have had to come through here. With potato crops failing I must expand my pasture for cattle. I thought there might have been some land for the taking around here. If I don’t do something we’ll starve like these poor wretches,” he said, waving his arm out towards the barren, rocky, unproductive landscape.

“Poor wretches indeed,” his wife retorted contemptuously. “If they did some work they could be all right.”

“We employ some, don’t forget,” Edward replied. Not that he wanted to side with the peasants, but his wife annoyed him so much sometimes, he had to disagree. “They are good enough workers, though without the potato crop they’ll get nothing. And they’ve little enough here to work on, however hard they try.”

“What’s wrong with them having their own plots, growing their own crops?” Agatha snorted belligerently, determined not to see the point he was making.

Edward was about to reply, but the reality of the situation struck him, and he closed his mouth without saying a word. For a moment he felt guilty on behalf of his English countrymen, knowing that they were the ones who had been, for two hundred years and more, taking all the good land from the Irish, forcing them into these desolate, boggy places where nothing grew. But then of course, that feeling passed. How would his family have acquired their property if it was not for the plantations by the British Crown? The Irish were simply not strong enough to hold on to their land, so it served them right, he said to himself to justify his earlier thoughts.

His eyes swept over the small, dirty, once-white-washed cottages, their roofs thickly thatched, all surrounded by dirt trodden down flat by the bare feet of the inhabitants. The buildings were close together in an irregular semi-circle, with open grassy ground in the middle that was strewn with large stones and roughly made log seats.

There were muddy puddles laying everywhere, but one or two women were sweeping at the uneven ground-level doorways with straw brooms in an effort to keep them relatively clean. As the horses and carriage approached they all stopped to watch this vision of life as they had only dreamed about. Some had rarely seen such a vehicle with people dressed in beautiful clothes and with shoes on their feet.

William and Roger had been listening to their parents’ conversation. Mostly it did not affect William. At ten, he had other more important things on his mind, like how many eggs the eagle had in its nest on the cliffs, and how he was going to climb down to retrieve them. But Roger, fourteen, was far more serious about his future, particularly as all their holdings would be his in time.

“Father, perhaps we should turn around and go back towards home. Maybe the land is better south of this godforsaken place. Or we could try further inland than near the coast,” he suggested in his well-educated voice.

His mother gasped. “Roger, do not use that kind of language in front of your sister.”

He looked at his mother with an air of superiority. He did not bother to remind her that as a man, he could speak as he wished.

“A good idea son,” said Edward, immediately reining in the horses to turn at a wide level part of the road. He would be relieved to go back where he would not have to listen to his wife’s aggravating voice, nor look at these shabby, accusing locals.

Katharine held on to the sides of her seat as the phaeton was turned around. She had been intensely interested in the bereft people standing by their unkempt cottages. How did human beings get to be like that? she wondered. Why weren’t they clean or wear better looking clothes, and live in better houses? In her English-controlled school, history lessons did not teach her answers to these questions.

She had noticed one boy, a cripple by the look of his skinny legs laying awkwardly over the large rock where he sat. How would he survive now that the potatoes were failing? His parents would have to buy something else to eat, she supposed. But they certainly would not have much coin, by the look of them.

Katharine was twelve. She had been dressed in a pretty blue pinafore for their outing, stockings and her leather, lace-up boots. Her fair hair floated out from under the wide brim of her pale lemon straw hat, which was decorated with tiny blue flowers at the band.

As the disturbing thoughts about the welfare of the peasants chased around in her head, the horses had been turned and were now trotting briskly, taking the carriage quickly back to the edge of the village.

There was the boy still sitting atop the stone from where he had a good view of the road and the children playing behind the cottages. As the phaeton went past, Katharine’s blue eyes, for a moment, met the black ones of the boy. Without hesitation, she drew something from the pocket of her pinafore and cast it high in the air in his direction. As she got further away, Katharine could see the twinkling object arcing directly towards the boy’s outstretched hands. Perhaps this ring I found might help him buy some food.

Then he and the village were lost from sight as the carriage was drawn over a rise and down the other side.

Robbie Hetherington, as was his custom, had dragged himself with the aid of two thick sticks made into crutches, to his favourite place after Sunday Mass. In the village, far in the north west of Ireland, the occupants kept up the practice of their Catholic religion faithfully, an itinerant priest visiting every other Sunday to say Mass in one of the cottages. The Irish people, forced to retreat to this desolate part of the country in northern Connaught in order to maintain their traditional life style and the Gaelic language, were living in deplorable conditions, starving most of the time.

The men and adult boys hired themselves in England for seven or eight months at a time, as labourers for any work they could find. Others, including some of the older girls worked locally in the potato fields, all barely earning enough to live. When the men came home it was in the winter, and they would perhaps mend thatch, but mostly they were idle during the snowy, wet months. The little money they brought back rarely bought enough food as the produce that was available at the markets was so expensive.

Most children were under-nourished with many developing diseases and constantly suffering with fever. The earth hereabouts was barren. The open, rocky land supported little grass, and was not rich enough to grow anything on a large scale but a few spindly potatoes carefully tended in tiny pockets of earth sheltered by rocks. Some arable land was claimed from the edge of the bogs, and shared by all those in the hamlet. A couple of cows managed a meagre existence on the tough greenery, just enough to supply milk. Some hens scratched about in the muddy earth, precious for the eggs they laid. Here it rained a great deal. Everything was damp and mould grew on the walls of the cottages.

From further to the west the smell of the sea often blew across the land, cold and bleak. In some more northern villages the inhabitants could get to the water to fish, but here if one walked the few miles to the coast, he would find himself on top of enormous cliffs that stretched for miles in either direction. When the westerlies blew in from the ocean there was no standing against it, and the lack of trees allowed the gales to carry salt-laden air for a great distance.

Robbie lived with his affliction, making the best of it. He had had no mother to look after him for years. She died with the baby when she gave birth to a girl, leaving his father with three boys. He remembered his father telling the story of that night when Robbie was five and indeed Robbie remembered it himself, because of the wind. People said they had never seen anything like it before. Such a storm was the wrath of God, some said, but the older and wiser believed it was because of an invasion of English fairies. The ‘little people’ created a violent wind to blow them back to where they belonged. That was the night that Robbie’s mother and little sister had died.

But that night, his father had said, many lost not only their cottages, crops and animals, but some who had hidden coins in the thatch lost them too when their roofing blew away altogether.

His father, together with the eldest brother, who was fifteen, were away working most of the time so Robbie and his eleven year old brother Gavan were left behind. Of course his father brought back what food and wages he could when he returned, but that was never enough to last until next time. After that was gone the boys starved, or depended on the charity of other villagers. It was common for an older adult or a child to die in their sleep, simply because there was not enough food, or because they were too sick with fever.

Robbie was now in his fourteenth year. He had not been able to walk properly since he was five or six, when he had taken ill. The villagers accepted these illnesses as the will of God. The boy’s legs were now knobbly sticks, with very little strength. Near their cottage he had a tiny piece of soil where he tried to grow stalks of corn and diligently planted a few sets of potatoes every year. He dragged himself there daily with the aid of his sticks, sat on the ground and looked at his little garden, willing the plants to grow.

He used to wonder as he grew, why God had made him like this. Why were their lives so poor and why could he not run and play as the other children did? At times even now Robbie felt bitter about it but realised that he could not change things, he just had to do the best he could.

There was little formal education, as by English law no Irish were allowed to be educated. In areas under English rule, the children who were educated were taught in English, the Gaelic language being forbidden as had been the case for two hundred years. In Gaelic-speaking areas like the northwest, parents taught what they could, but their own knowledge was limited. There was no check on this and people were left alone as the usurpers did not think it worth their while to pursue the native population into such worthless country. These Irish were no threat as they were kept under control by the lack of decent land and resources.

One of the women of the village, who had been educated by her parents, taught the children numbers and letters in their own language. Only one or two tattered, old books were available from which to read. They were told stories, mythological tales of ancient times, of St. Patrick and the true history of the English persecution of the Irish people. They were taught to count with pebbles and practiced writing with a stick in the dirt. Robbie was quick to learn and had the idea that perhaps he could in time take over the teaching of the village children, so he listened well.

It was a fine day as he sat on his rock that Sunday, and there was such a sight to be seen. Two beautiful brown horses came over the rise, proudly drawing a carriage. He had seen a horse several times before.

The first time he saw one was a day that Robbie would never forget as he had been determined to see what was beyond his every day horizon. It took hours to drag himself along painfully slowly, to get to that point where the road disappeared over the rise. Once at the top of the small hill, he collapsed onto some grass and gazed at the distant farms, with trees and cows and faraway green fields. The buildings and animals were mere dots except for the horse which was a big, strong animal pulling a plough in a closer field. It was the furthest the young man had ever been from the village and he had been exhausted when he finally made it back home. It had taken him a whole day to see this world where he did not belong.

On two other occasions men had ridden into the village on horses, but they were rough-coated, dull animals, not shining and proud like the two beautiful creatures pulling the open carriage now approaching him. How wonderful to ride one, he thought.

A family of well-dressed people rode in the carriage, looking around and talking animatedly. He noticed the woman in the front because she had such a sour look on her face, looking down her nose at him as she went by.

The eyes of the two smart boys in the middle seat swept over him as if he was part of the rock on which he sat, but right in the back a pretty girl smiled at him. She was sitting facing the way they had come, dangling her feet from the seat, and at times clutching her hat so it would not blow off.

Robbie watched the vehicle making its way along the uneven road. He listened to the clop clop of the horses’ hooves, and dreamt of riding such an animal swiftly, gloriously, floating over the earth.

He saw the phaeton turn and retrace its tracks towards him, then past him again, the horses picking up their feet to move more swiftly. He looked straight into the blue eyes of the girl as she turned her face towards him. She reached into her pocket, and then from her hand flew a small, sparkling object. Time slowed. The object revolved as it arced across the intervening space. He reached out with both hands to neatly catch it. By the time he looked up again, time had righted itself, and the horses, phaeton and family had disappeared over the rise in the distance.

Robbie opened his hands carefully for fear the object might make its escape and fly away. Bending his head lower he peered into the little dark space between his fingers. There lay a silver ring.

Holding it up the young man examined the ring closely. A leafy design decorated the whole circle, light twinkling off the raised pattern, catching his eye. It was not worn at all, and gave off such light. Clutching this wonderful gift tightly in his hand Robbie looked down the empty road, then up in the direction of the village to see who was watching. But everyone had resumed his or her previous occupation. Not a soul saw the exchange and no one knew what he now possessed. A little smile played on his lips. He had a secret; his very own, special secret.

Robbie slid down the rock to the bottom, picked up his sticks and awkwardly hauled himself upright. He swung off towards his home. His mind was racing. This is like a fairy tale. Why would that rich girl throw me a silver ring? I must find a private place where I can look at it properly. He wondered if she would come back to get it, but then doubted that as they looked like they were in a hurry to leave.

He kept going past several ramshackle cottages and down over a small slope, where, in the sheltered depression at the bottom, was a grove of stunted trees. Here no one would disturb him if he sat out of sight in the thicket of scrubby shrubs at their base.

Robbie scrambled inside his den, sat and carefully opened his hand. The imprint of the ring was pressed deep into the flesh of his palm where he had gripped it so tightly. Now he was able to turn it over, look closely at its design, rub it, hold it up to the light so that it twinkled, breathe on it, polish it and put it on his biggest finger. He was sure it was very old, despite the fact that the design was so crisp, so shiny and new-looking.

He lay back on the grassy earth, closed his eyes, and smiled to himself. He imagined he could feel the ring growing warm, and his mind was conjuring up images like a dream. He sank into it, warm and comfortable, while he watched children play with a dog, a horse stood nearby, and older people walked about. What a lovely dream. It was as if I was there watching. I’ve never had a dream like that before. How I wish I was one of those children.

He sat up. I wasn’t really asleep was I? But that must have been a dream. He slipped the ring from his finger and looked at it. I must not let anyone see this. Where can I hide it so I can get it when I want, and no one else knows of it?

He mused about this for some time. Should he get a thong and hang it around his neck. No! Someone would see it there, and those bullies would take it from him. Was there somewhere he could hide it close to the house? No! He was sure to be seen. Where then?

Climbing back up the hill was always difficult. Sometimes he got down on his elbows and knees and dragged himself bodily, moving his walking sticks up as he went. He was always puffed when he reached the top, as he was today, but when he had caught his breath he got upright onto his sticks and went home. There was nobody about.

He and his brother were sleeping by themselves at the moment as their father and oldest brother were away in England, where they had labouring work for several months. Two beds were in the corner of the room, their father having built them out of old rough timber, one bed on top of another. Robbie slept on the bottom bed on a pad of hay, with an old blanket to cover him.

Each night the cow was brought in to the shelter of the cottage. She stood at the far end of the room, where a small ditch ran across the mud floor and out a hole in the back wall. It carried any waste outside. The boys did not notice the smell of cow manure inside, they were used to it, and the cow had to be protected.

Either Gavan or Robbie milked the cow each day, the milk shared with others who had no animal. Others had a few hens, whose eggs were also shared around. The fowls roosted inside at night on whatever furniture was available.

There was a hearth with a smoke outlet above (a hole in the thatched roof), and two rough chairs with a rickety table made from odd bits of wood. One small window without glass let in the light, with a shutter to close against wind or rain, and a low, stout wooden door provided entrance to the cottage.

The boy sat on his bed and looked around. Surely there would be a little space in these rough walls some-where to hide his prize. With careful searching he found a split in the mud, just where the head of his bed nearly touched the wall. With a small stick he made the opening slightly bigger, and then tearing a piece of cloth from the tail of his shirt he wrapped the precious object and pushed it into its hiding place. He was well pleased, as in the darkness the piece of dirty cloth was undetectable. Merely by taking the tiny corner left poking out Robbie could retrieve the little parcel easily. He pushed it back in again, and roughed up his hay at that end so that it was completely hidden.

Wearing a smug smile Robbie went out the door, where the day seemed to have brightened. Everything looked different. He shrugged his shoulders and set off towards the neighbour who was providing them with meals in return for milk.

Gavan, Robbie’s brother, came bounding around the corner with two companions. They crowded to a halt in front of the older boy, grins on their faces as if they had been up to mischief.

“What have you been doing Gavan?” Robbie asked.

“We’ve been swimming down in the river,” replied Gavan, looking sideways at his friends.

“Oh. You look pretty muddy for someone who has been in the water. Did you have a mud bath as well?” Robbie could not help laughing at them. They were filthy, as were the rags they wore as clothing. “Are you sure that’s all you were doing?” he asked suspiciously.

Just then a small girl, equally as wet and muddy, her red hair flying, came around from the front of the nearby cottage. She screamed and flew at the boys, her small fists pounding at them, while she yelled insults. The boys had difficulty fending her off. They laughed so hard it made her angrier.

“Hold on there!” yelled Robbie over the top of all the noise. He tried to grab one of her wrists to stop her, but succeeded only in upsetting himself, and he fell onto the ground. At that they all stopped together and stared at him. He laughed, “I’m all right. It was worth it to make you all quieten down. Now what’s all this about?” he asked as he struggled to his feet.

“They threw me into the river!” Maudie of the red hair shouted. “This is the only dress I have for Sundays and look at it now!” With this she began to sob, plucking at the muddy areas that covered her patched clothing.

“Aw you were pushing us around too,” said one of the boys.

“And you pulled me over in the mud,” said another.

“And what of you Gav, what have you to say for yourself?” Robbie asked his brother.

Gavan had the good grace to look down at his feet. He said nothing.

“Three boys onto one girl is not very fair in my mind,” Robbie said as he looked around them, also taking in the small girl who looked like she could hold her own anywhere. “I think you three should escort Maudie home, apologise to her mother, and see what you can do to help her.”

Someone had to look after Gavan, and Robbie did what was needed with a generous spirit. He was patient with the smaller children in the village too but there were three or four bigger boys, who, even at twelve years of age were stronger than Robbie, and made life difficult for him, mocking his questions when they were learning numbers, and laughing at his awkward attempts to achieve anything physical. On some occasions they vented their anger or frustration on him because he could not fight back.

Thank God that as soon as they were big enough these boys would be leaving with their fathers to find work somewhere and contribute to the upkeep of their families. At home the girls were normally the ones who tried to keep a small garden, tended the fowls and were taught to milk the cows.

Several days a week Robbie, Gavan and some of the older girls and women, made their way to the peat bog close to the village. There they took turns cutting peat logs from the open cut face and handing them up to the top where they were stacked criss-cross to dry. When they returned to the village they would drag a wheel-less cart, loaded with dry logs from the stacks. Of course Robbie had no hand in the dragging, but he could stack and pass the pieces as they were cut.

It was after the attacks by the other boys, bruised and often bloodied, that Robbie sank into despair, ranting against God for allowing it to happen. Why could he not be like other boys? What was life going to be for him? He could not work and there was a struggle to feed even the able-bodied villagers, let alone him, a cripple.

In an attempt to relieve his depression he often dragged himself off across the barren, rocky landscape, to the circle of standing stones, which could be seen silhouetted on the skyline from the village. Sometimes he cried bitterly and shouted his angry accusations against God at the unresponsive stones.

He knew that these stones had to do with the people of ancient times, before St. Patrick and Christianity, and he wondered about life in those times. He marvelled at the fact that the huge stones stood upright, and that someone put them there. Why and how did they build the circle? Was it something to do with the gods that they worshipped? Of course the Christian people in his village would not speak of the pagan gods, but he had heard some of the old women speak of them, and some still upheld certain rituals. The whole village still celebrated Samhain, at the end of October, as it was a traditional feasting and dancing day from old. It was the end of the growing season so the villagers did not see that they were denying their Christian God on such an occasion.

Rob felt an affinity with the standing stones, and with the spirituality that lay within them. Inside the circle, silence wrapped around him like a blanket while his mind wandered through endless corridors of thought. He wondered about the One God of the Christian teaching. If only there was someone I could talk to about these ideas.

Often, exhausted, he simply fell asleep where he lay or unsteadily wound his way back home to his bed, usually feeling better in himself.

The people in this north western area of Ireland knew no other life. They were descended from ancestors who had been forced to take up residence there over two hundred years ago. They had lost sight of, or never knew the reasons they were living in this uncompromising situation and appalling conditions. This was simply their life. Occasionally they saw people like the family who recently drove by, but when they passed out of sight they also passed from the minds of the villagers. Mostly, the women were apathetic, spending their whole, short lives in the one village, except for a few visits to the market town in the region. They bore children, more often than not stillborn, and waited for the menfolk to return from wherever they had found work.

The men, when they did come home with a little coin and food, brought unbelievable tales of well-off people living on fertile lands, in large houses, with plenty of food on their tables. Sometimes the menfolk decided not to return at all.

Robbie had thought about this a great deal. He realised that this was their lot in life, but felt a certain frustration at not being able to do anything about it. He learned his numbers and how to read and write in Gaelic, and wondered what good it would do him.

One afternoon, several months after the ring came into his possession, Robbie retrieved it from its hiding place, and unnoticed, shuffled down to his favourite haunt, where he would be undisturbed. He had had a difficult day with the usual harassment from other boys.

He had tried spreading tales to keep them away from his retreat. He played on the superstitious nature of the Irish folk, and told of shadowy creatures and little people who dwelt in the odd hollows. But then Robbie thought about these beliefs often, and could not quite convince himself that fairies and leprechauns did not exist. However if it deterred anyone from coming near his hideout he was happy.

He put the ring on his finger, lay back in the shady hollow and breathed a sigh. He wished his father and his brother were back. He closed his eyes and let the dreams flow, releasing himself into a world where he was whole. He had begun to rely on escaping into this other dimension to keep him going.

This particular day he gradually became aware of a constant sound as he lay there. With eyes still closed he concentrated on the cluck, cluck noise, which he thought sounded a bit like one of the fowls. But then there was a soft cry, followed again by cluck, cluck. He had never heard such a thing before. Slowly his eyelids lifted, first a slit, then a little wider, but he could see nothing. He closed them again. The sound was repeated. He opened them, and saw the slight movement on a limb overhead. Ever so slowly he raised his eyes wider and his gaze was met by a bright, yellow eye, staring out of a slightly tilted head, watching him through an opening in the foliage.

Robbie was mesmerised. A magnificent eagle perched there, its head cocked to one side, all the better to focus its piercing gaze on the boy beneath. The constant noise had stopped. The bird moved along the limb then back again, never turning its eye away. It stopped, bobbed its head, made the clucking sound, and then moved back and forth again. Robbie felt it was communicating with him.

“What a beautiful bird you are Iolar (eagle),” Robbie said to it softly, conscious that he could frighten it off, but the bird just ducked its head, clucked and stared.

“How wonderful it would be to fly like you. Do you live out there on the cliff? Have you got a nest there?” he chatted on, while the bird seemed to take it all in, making no sign it wanted to leave.

Robbie saw the strong, fierce beak and penetrating gaze, the huge talons and thick fluffy feathery covering on its legs. He smiled to himself as he thought they looked like loose pants. He wondered if birds blinked, and though he watched carefully he did not see it.

For a long while the boy lay there, just watching, not wanting his feathered companion to leave, but eventually he realised he had to get up and go home. He was cold, and the sun was sinking lower. The eagle did not move. Its fierce eyes, now glowing gold in the rays of sunlight shining through the leaves, watched him. So much for my tales about fairies and goblins, he thought.

Slowly Robbie crawled out of his snug little spot, gathered his sticks and struggled to his feet. “Good night Iolar,” he said to the bird, feeling an awful sense of loneliness at leaving him behind. I wonder if he will come back again?

That night Robbie dreamt he could fly. Other people in the dream could not, but it was no effort for him to leap from a hilltop and soar into the air. In the dream he was conscious that he could walk. He sensed danger and could not find his brother, whom he knew had to be protected. As the danger became more acute Robbie ran through the dream village calling Gavan’s name. He was very anxious. Then his brother stepped out from behind a cottage. Robbie took his hand and they ran towards a low nearby hill.

As they neared the top Robbie could feel his legs aching, but he forced himself to go on, knowing that the danger was fast catching them up. At the top Gavan quickly scrambled onto his brother’s back and clung to his shoulders, while Robbie launched himself into the air. He could almost feel the clutching fingers of danger grabbing his legs, but then they were airborne and although he lost height temporarily with the weight on his back, soon he found strength in his wings and they were safe.

When Robbie woke he could still feel the glorious freedom of his flight. He could remember so vividly the bird’s-eye view he had had of the green fields, trees and little roadways on the land below as he flew over. He lay there savouring these magical experiences until it was truly daylight outside and he could hear Gavan stirring in the bunk above him. How he wished he could have stayed in the dream forever. He wondered what the danger could have been, and marvelled at the clarity of his vision and feelings.

Robbie cautiously raised his arm to check that the ring was still safe in its hiding place in the wall at the head of his bed, and saw that it was still on his finger. I was so tired I must have forgotten to put it away. I have to be careful of that in future.

“Come on Gav, you must bring some water up before we take the cow out.”

Both boys became worried and then they brooded on the idea that they were not important enough for their father to come back to them. Robbie and Gavan spent a great deal of time together, just sitting, silent, shoulder to shoulder.

“What will we do Rob?” Gavan asked, his eleven-year-old face serious. “What if we go to England too? We might be able to find them. I could find work to help keep us.”

“Gav,” Robbie said kindly. “I would only be a burden, and how would we get there? And how would we find them? I am afraid I’ll be here for the rest of my life, but in a couple of years, when you are grown, then perhaps you could go off and find work. Before then I could help you to read and write well. That would be a means for you to do better. But in the meantime, we will have to do more here to earn our keep. What can we do?”

After a discussion about growing more potatoes and some vegetables, gathering peat and the like, Robbie took himself off to his grassy den down in the grove to think. Firstly he retrieved his treasure from the wall near his bed, put it on and hoped that he might have some insight as to what the future held. He had become used to discussing his thoughts with the eagle these past months. Iolar was always there when Robbie arrived.

This day, as had become his normal procedure when he was finally settled into his secluded retreat, he straightened his legs out in front of him and began to rub them. Not long after he had first acquired the ring, he had felt his legs aching after he sat down, and in an endeavour to ease them he massaged the skinny remnants of muscle with his fingers. It made the limbs feel good, and so he continued to work on them each time he came.

Iolar sat on his branch watching, nodding and clucking his approval. After some weeks Robbie thought he must be mistaken when he felt that his legs were stronger. He tested them out by trying to stand without his sticks. The first couple of tries had him quickly putting them back in their usual place under his armpits, but subsequently his balance improved so that he could stand without falling over.

This can’t be real, he told himself, but nevertheless he persevered, hoping against hope. Now he was certain of the improvements. When he did the massage he could distinctly feel warmth spreading from his hands into his legs. What was even more amazing was that this power seemed to emanate from the ring on his thumb.

There is no magic, he reminded himself. There is no such thing. Even so, he was more assiduous with his self-treatment. In my dreams I can walk. Perhaps one day I will really be able to throw away my sticks, he fervently hoped.

Today he sat there rubbing away when he heard distantly the voices of his bullying adversaries. Robbie quickly flattened himself in his hiding place, not daring to move. The growth was thick and tall, giving him good cover together with the leafy branches bending down from overhead. He heard the eagle fly off quietly and was glad the boys would not be able to see it.

The voices came closer until Robbie knew they were standing on the top of the rise. They were looking for trouble.