February on Slieve Mór
In a wind-bitten Irish mountain town, I return for a funeral and old memories turn unreliable. Livestock vanish, hikers go missing, and a monk-robed “mountain shark” legend resurfaces—forcing me to question what I saw as a child.
Language: English
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By the time the hearse nosed up the one-lane road to Slieve Mór, the mountain had disappeared into low cloud, as if it couldn’t bear to watch. February rain came sideways, needling through my coat and into the old bruise of coming home. I hadn’t been back since Mam died, and even then I’d kept my eyes on the motorway, like if I didn’t look I couldn’t be seen. At the chapel gate, Seamus Foley—now a Garda with a belly—caught my sleeve. “You heard about the sheep?” he said, not hello, not sorry for your loss. His breath steamed and smelled of mints. “Three gone off O’Keefe’s hill. No blood. Like they walked themselves into the mist.” Inside, my ...