This tale is bound in the swirls of ancient dream time, but it is also a story of today.   Word by word, I shall spin my story, and it goes like this.

One raven black night, I took a walk by the River Bandon.  The feeble moon had no brilliance to offer, no silvery light to guide my steps. A light grey mist hung over the river like chiffon. I wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders to shield myself from the cold air, which chilled my bones. Nothing stirred, nothing.  Deep, deep silence, interrupted solely by the eerie call of a solitary owl.  

From the corner of my eye, I took in a heron with round coal-black eyes standing perfectly still on one leg. She cocked her head towards me; her fiery black button eyes burned deep into my soul.  I hurried by. 

Sadness tugged my heart; the old weir was gone, and now standing on the bank, an iron monster, silent, resting from its daily labour of constructing a flood defence system. Despite being the only person in the vicinity, I could not shake off the sensation that I was not alone.  I could feel icy breath against my ear, but when I turned around, no one was there. I continued, and the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of my soles echoed in the quiet street.  

Then, in the shadows by the old bridge, I saw her.   A long, tall, gangly woman dressed in mid-grey with straggly strands of white hair peeking out from her hood.  I could not make out her face; it was too well concealed. 

As I observed her, I noted that her limbs were unusually long and bent in all directions.  Strange as it may seem, something was appealing about her, something which drew me towards her. So, I trailed her. I followed her through the dank haze. I felt the dampness on my hair and eyebrows. The aroma of her scent, rich and earthy, bewitched my nostrils, soothing my tensed body.  

The old woman stepped onto an old, crooked path which was overgrown with a tumultuous tangle of nettles. I was totally surprised; I had never seen this path before, despite living in the town for several years.  Webs dangled like elastic sticky threads of hair from an old hag, of a Grimm’s fairy tale.   I forced my legs forward, fighting through the adrenaline surge and the frantic, buzzing static in my brain.

Then, much to my astonishment, moonlight began to break through, bathing the path in shimmery silver; the landscape sparkled. I was entering a new and unfamiliar world.  Perhaps, I should have just returned home at this point, but against my better judgment, I wanted to find out more about the strange woman ahead.

As I stepped on the path, I began to hear music, its melody drifting through the night air, its rhythm enchanting me.  The music became louder, then mellow, then louder.  At first, it appeared to have come from the front, then from behind.  In only moments, the music came from all directions, getting nearer, bellowing, more hysterical.  

The old woman had stopped and was now standing by an old splintered wooden swing, ebbing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.   I recoiled backwards and rubbed my eyes in disbelief, for I was seeing ghost-like figures of wolves and huge birds that I did not recognise. A shiver slithered down my spine. The whole scene was otherworldly. I was very intrigued, but at the same time, I was very afraid. 

“My river, my river, what have they done to my river?” she sobbed.   “The wolf and the great auk have gone, and soon the heron shall be no more.”

I stood rooted to the spot, my body poker straight.  I suppressed my emotions as a sense of sadness arose while reflecting on the loss of the wolf and the extinction of the great auk.

It was as though the old woman could perceive my sorrow, and she shuffled towards me.  Her eyes were no longer soft, but stern and judging.  

“Once all rivers were lined with trees, fewer floods, and of course, your wisdom dictates that it’s perfectly fine to smoke the sky until we choke. Then, when the Earth moves to an unnatural rhythm, it’s then you try to fix it.  But you can’t.  You just can’t.”  

Her words split the night. 

Saliva thickened in my throat, and my palms became clammy.  Now, I regretted my decision to follow her.  I was a fool. Why didn’t I go home and leave well alone? There are times when ignorance is actual bliss. 

Silence hung in the air, and I noticed that the moon had disappeared.  Perhaps she, like me, was scared and was hiding behind the brooding dark clouds.

The old woman began to dance with wild abandon, twisting around a swing with faded blue paint flaking off in curls. I could now make out her face, her skin stretched tightly back, making her eyes bulge, but I also noted that there was weariness in her eyes. It was at that moment that a deep sorrow came upon me for the old woman.  I wanted to wrap my arms around her, but at the same time, I was too afraid to do so.  She fixed her gaze on me and mouthed.

“You have crossed the threshold; now you must stay and assist me.”  

Her words struck me forcefully.

“No. I can’t stay. I don’t belong here.” I cried.

“You must, my dear.  You have simply seen too much” Then she added, 

“The world out there is being ruined by people who have no respect for nature. The world is sick with pollution and poison. Perhaps you could help me stop it.”  

“It’s a global problem, I replied, the fear evident in my voice, “but I do my bit. I recycle,”

Then, a cavalcade of mysterious phantom-like figures morphed from the river and mocked me.

“Oh wow. She recycles, doesn’t she do awesome?” they hissed. 

I pinched myself to awaken myself from this nightmare, but this was no dream. 

“Come”, said the old woman. “Come. You will like it here. Here you can learn the old ways.   Come, sit by Joanie’s feet. Tiredness has come upon me.  I like heron am solitary, and patient in nature, and I am willing to teach you.”

The old woman took her bony finger and encircled my cheek, releasing a drop of blood.  I flinched in horror and lost my footing on a stone, but I managed to steady myself from tumbling to the ground.

The old woman, her hands stained with soil, moved towards the river and sat on a rock.  She turned towards me, her eyes narrowing as she spoke.

“Do not confuse truth with facts, my dear”, she began, her voice echoing the quiet strength of the ancient oak. For what you call folklore is not mere fiction born of idle minds, but the true history of our souls. I am most certainly not folklore.  I am Joanie of the Bog.”She stopped, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment, then resumed.

“The warning voices in the wind and the deep waters are the vital, rhythmic memories of the land itself. They shout not to deceive, but to protect. Textbooks record only the bare bones of events.  Folklore captures the living, breathing essence, the emotions, fears, and wisdom of those who came before us.  To dismiss folklore as fake is to ignore the cultural DNA that explains who we are and keeps us safe. Stories are our roots, and without them, we are nothing but fools.”

Her words turned my blood to ice, locking my feet to the ground.

For a moment, I wanted to stay, but common sense forced itself in.  I agreed with the strange woman I had seen too much, and I needed time to process it all, but I could do that at home.  I had no desire to spend the rest of my life in this ethereal other-world.  Despite its outward pleasantness, I was sure there lay a darker, more sinister side behind this strange woman who called herself Joanie.  Then the old woman caught me with her gaze. I had this sense that she knew I wouldn’t stay.

“The knowledge in me is old, it’s in the language of the river, but now long forgotten. I am at least thankful that my dear heron friend remembers.”

And as she said those words, one of her salty tears tumbled into the river. I drew her a blank look, but my concentration was now focused on fleeing and nothing else.  I had no time to spare for every rustle of a leaf, warned of danger.  Cold sweat trickled down my spine.  I was going home no matter what.  I swivelled around and mustered up speed and dashed back along the path, but the mass of twisted nettles decelerated my pace.   As I elbowed my way through the thorny leaves, I could feel the old woman’s icy breath behind me. For an elderly woman, she sure moved with speed.  She was getting faster and nearer, then slower but closer. 

 “I can do this”, I muttered, willing myself forward, noting my breathing had become laboured and shallow. 

Finally, I came to the edge of the path.  I threw myself forward onto the cracked pavement, scraping my knee in the process, but delighted I was back in the town.  I curved my head around and saw that the old woman had stopped, and she blew a long, slow kiss of cold air which settled on me. 

“I had no intention of causing you harm”, she uttered..  “How could I?  I am folklore.”

Then the old woman faded into the night, and her howl once again split the sky.      

In a wisp of a moment, I found myself back on the old bridge.  The moon had reappeared and was happily illuminating the river in front of me.  A stark sense of isolation gripped me. In some odd way, I knew that the old woman and I shared something kindred. Perhaps we shared the same sadness of the loss of our natural landscape. I leaned forward to steady myself, but everything began to spin around me, and I felt as though the ground was melting beneath me. My body trembled, but I convinced myself that it was nothing but the sudden cold.  

My eyes moved towards the river. For the first time, I noticed that the river had lost its natural symphony, and now, its rhythm seemed slow and listless.  Sorrow overwhelmed me as my heart broke for the beautiful river.  

My eyes caught sight of the heron that I had seen earlier; she was still standing on one leg, perfectly still. She cocked her head towards me; her fiery black button eyes once again burned deep into my soul. Her unspoken words were carried in the night mist towards me, and what she said remains with me.  Show consideration for the environment.

Since that event, I have tried to rationalise my experience.  I have more questions than answers, but I have concluded that there are things which we humans cannot explain, no matter how much we try, and maybe it’s best to leave space for the unexplained.