Tap, tap came the noise beyond the hedge. Tap, tap. Then a soft, whimsical song wove an enchantment through the misty morning air. When I peeked through the leaves, I saw her; a vision of splendor with flowing red curls and emerald eyes. She was tiny, no more than two feet tall, dressed in green with silver shoes. Concentrating on her work, she sang a simple, haunting tune. Tap, tap. Pots, she was making pots. My heart was in my throat, I forgot to breathe. I’d never seen anyone or anything like her. Her soft melody ensnared my mind, captured my soul.
Did she see me or sense me? I still don’t know, but she set her tiny silver hammer and the bronze pot aside. With a mischievous smile, she beckoned me to join her. Her song continued to fill the air as I clamored through the hedge and stumbled forward to sit on the ground before her. I could not take my eyes from her. Her tune reverberated through my being though I swear her lips never moved.
“Who be ye?” she said with a melodic voice.
“Uh … B..B..Brian,” I fumbled, tongue tied by the wondrous creature before me. “Uh … who … what are you?”
“Kara, I be.” She laughed with pleasure. Mischief was portrayed in the twinkle of her eyes. “Can ye no ken what cine I be?”
“Uh … p..p..pots. You make pots. … Uh … a pot maker,” I decided to change the subject in case knowing what she was, would transform the magic of the moment and somehow alter her allure.
“Seadh, cruth coire I do,” she said with an amused smile. “Maith,mi. Ye teanga be coimheach,” she hesitated and puzzlement briefly crinkled her brow. Then she brightened with a wide smile. “Pardon me, your tongue be strange. Yes, make pots I do.” She giggled in delight at her sudden knowledge of how to speak my language.
“Uh … who do you make them for … and why?” I could not stop staring; holding, embracing her with my eyes, but hoping she would not notice if I kept the conversation going.
“Mi cine. Uipinn coire they be.” She smiled again, realizing she had responded in her own tongue. “My people use them as treasure pots.”
“Wh … what kind of treasure?”
“Airgead, ơr … silver, gold,” her smile disappeared and those beautiful eyes narrowed and darkened with suspicion. “Cleath they at stuadh’s deireadh. Hide them they do, at rainbow’s end.” She pointed behind me, beyond the hedge.
A rainbow pierced the haze. It was beautiful, but could not compare with Kara. I realized with a chill that I had looked away from her. “I don’t want their treasure. Kara … no!” Too late, I looked back, realizing she had been as much a captive of my gaze as I was of her beauty. She was gone; the pot, the hammer, all gone. “No! No …no … nooo,” I sobbed.
“Soraidh … farewell,” echoed softly in my mind. The memory of her will forever haunt me. Kara’s sweet melody still rides the morning mist.
