The air above Haroldstown Dolmen on Christmas Eve was thick with the kind of ancient magic that hummed just beneath the surface of Ballykillduff. It wasn’t the boisterous, unpredictable magic of sentient sausages, but a quieter, deeper power, woven into the very stones themselves. The three massive granite capstones, perched precariously atop their six supporting uprights, looked like a giant’s forgotten Christmas table, dusted with a fine layer of frost.
Young Aoife, a girl whose imagination was as wild and untamed as the gorse bushes on the surrounding hills, was convinced the Dolmen was a portal. Not to another dimension, perhaps, but to another time. Every Christmas Eve, armed with a thermos of lukewarm tea and a pocketful of slightly squashed shortbread, she’d trek up to the ancient burial site, hoping for a glimpse of… something.
This year, however, was different. As the last sliver of the setting sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, a strange light began to emanate from beneath the Dolmen. It wasn’t the cold, ethereal glow of faerie lights, but a warm, pulsating amber, like a forgotten hearth fire.
Aoife, shivering more from anticipation than cold, crept closer. The air around the stones grew surprisingly warm, smelling faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet, like honey and frankincense. As she peered into the dark crevice beneath the capstone, she saw not darkness, but a swirling, golden mist.
Suddenly, a voice, deep and resonant, yet as gentle as a lullaby, drifted from the mist. “Welcome, child. You have come at the turning of the year, when the veil is thinnest.”
Aoife gasped, dropping her shortbread. “Who… who are you?”
From the swirling light emerged not a spectral figure, but a kindly old man with eyes as bright as winter stars and a beard that cascaded like freshly fallen snow. He wore robes woven from what looked like spun moonlight, adorned with intricate patterns that shimmered with forgotten symbols.
“I am the Spirit of the Dolmen,” he replied, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Or perhaps, the echo of all who have celebrated the turning of the light here, since before memory.”
He gestured to the mist, and it parted, revealing a breathtaking scene. It wasn’t Ballykillduff as she knew it. Instead, she saw a circle of ancient people, bundled in furs, gathered around a roaring fire beneath the very same Dolmen. They weren’t celebrating Christmas as she knew it, but rather the Winter Solstice, sharing stories, feasting on roasted meat, and offering thanks to the sky.
Then the scene shifted. She saw Roman soldiers, their helmets glinting, leaving offerings of coins and wine at the base of the stones, their voices hushed with respect. Later, she saw early Christian monks, their solemn chants blending with the whisper of the wind, blessing the ancient site. And in every scene, spanning centuries, there was the same profound sense of gathering, of hope, of light returning in the darkest days.
“This place,” the Spirit explained, his voice weaving through the visions, “has always been a place of gathering, of hope, of welcoming the light. Every celebration, every prayer, every shared meal has left its mark, echoing through these stones.”
The visions faded, and Aoife found herself back in the present, the golden glow dimming, the cold air returning. The Spirit of the Dolmen stood before her, a gentle smile still on his face.
“Christmas, child,” he said, “is but the latest song sung in this ancient choir. The message remains the same: gather, hope, welcome the light.” He reached into his luminous robes and produced a small, smooth pebble, glowing faintly with the amber light. “A token. Remember the echoes.”
As the last flicker of light faded, the Spirit of the Dolmen dissolved back into the stones, leaving only the biting cold and the quiet majesty of the ancient monument. Aoife clutched the warm pebble in her hand, feeling a profound connection to all the Christmases, all the Solstices, all the gatherings that had ever taken place beneath those silent, watchful stones.
She trudged home through the frost, the pebble a comforting warmth in her pocket. This Christmas, she realized, she wouldn’t just be celebrating with her family; she’d be celebrating with the echoes of centuries, with the Spirit of the Dolmen, and with the timeless magic that bound Ballykillduff to its ancient past. And as she curled up in her bed, she could almost hear the faint, distant hum of generations, singing a lullaby of hope under the watchful eyes of the old stones.
Aoife trudged home through the biting frost, her fingers wrapped tightly around the glowing amber pebble. Her heart was full; she felt she had witnessed the very heartbeat of history. The Spirit had shown her that Christmas was just one layer of a much older story of light and hope.
As she entered her house, the smell of cinnamon and roasting turkey greeted her. Her parents were in the kitchen, laughing and clinking glasses.
“There you are, Aoife!” her father called out. “We were starting to think the pooka had snatched you away. Did you see anything interesting at the stones?”
Aoife smiled, her thumb stroking the smooth surface of the gift in her pocket. “Just the wind and the stars, Dad,” she said, keeping her secret safe.
She went upstairs to her room and placed the pebble on her windowsill. It cast a soft, golden light across her wallpaper, illuminating her old books and toys. Exhausted by the magic of the evening, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
On Christmas morning, Aoife was woken not by the sound of bells, but by a heavy, rhythmic thudding coming from outside. She ran to the window, expecting to see a neighbor’s tractor or perhaps a stray cow from Farmer Giles’s field.
But the village of Ballykillduff was gone.
In its place stood a vast, prehistoric forest of towering oaks and dense ferns. The air was thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and ancient moss.
Terrified, she looked down at her windowsill. The amber pebble was no longer glowing; it was now a dull, grey piece of granite. Beside it sat her modern smartphone, but the screen was dead, showing a “No Signal” icon that flickered strangely.
She looked back out at the horizon where the Haroldstown Dolmen stood. It wasn’t a ruin anymore. It was brand new, the stones sharp and clean, surrounded by hundreds of people dressed in furs, their faces painted with blue woad. They weren’t “echoes” or “visions”—they were real, breathing, and looking directly toward her window with expressions of profound confusion.
One of the men stepped forward, holding a spear. In his other hand, he held an identical amber pebble. He held it up toward her, and as the morning sun hit it, the stone began to pulse.
Aoife realized then that the Spirit hadn’t shown her a portal to the past. He had made her the “echo.” She wasn’t a girl in 2025 dreaming of the ancient world; she was now the ancient mystery that the people of the Dolmen would spend the next five thousand years trying to explain.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 