Ireland, 441 A.D.
O’Gradaigh fled from the forbidding mountain, grateful for his liberty and life, but by no means confident of preserving either. Testing gravity’s patience, he bounded across the sleeping countryside despite being weighed down by two precious burdens, traversing misty fields and bogs in his desperate haste to elude whoever and whatever might be pursuing him. The stolen Cauldron dangled from the crook of his left arm, while he clutched the wee babe to his chest with his other arm, holding the infant so that it was draped over his shoulder as well. A gentle enchantment had soothed the baby to sleep, so that her cries would not draw unwelcome attention. Only a peaceful gurgle disturbed the night.
The child’s name was Siofra, and her innocent mewling tugged at the leprechaun’s racing heart. This was not just any helpless baby, after all; she was his own flesh and blood, conceived three seasons past on a warm Beltane night, when bonfires blazed across Eire, welcoming summer back after its long absence. Poignant memories tormented O’Gradaigh as he recalled Siofra’s poor mother, a lonely young widow who had caught him beneath a spreading hawthorn tree when his guard was down. Caring nothing of gold, she had wished for one thing only—a child—and, in the spirit of the season, it had been his pleasure to oblige her.
Alas, the widow’s happiness had been short-lived. It was not uncommon for Beltane babies to be born nine months later, but somehow rumors of Siofra’s unique parentage reached the ears of the Serpent Brotherhood and its vast network of spies, and so it was that Lady Sibella and her bloody-handed lackeys saw fit to slay the young mother and capture the child, all to force O’Gradaigh to do their bidding … and steal the fabled Cauldron of Dagda.
An owl hooted in the night, startling him. He glanced back nervously over his shoulder as he raced through murky woods, clinging to the shadows wherever possible. Guilt and grief chased after him, along with the memory of his crime.…
’Twas during a great feast in Tír na nÓg, the otherworldly realm of the sidhe, hidden away from the mortal world beneath sacred mounds dating back to the coming of the Tuatha Dé Danann, that he had done what he must. Light, music, and merriment had filled the sprawling, palatial caverns, drawing Fair Folk of every station from all across the land. High lords and ladies of the Unseelie Court were in attendance in all their glittering finery, along with common leprechauns, sprites, pookas, and pixies, coming together to mark the night with drinking, dancing, and gaiety. This particular feast was consecrated to the Dagda, so his legendary Cauldron was on full display on this night of all nights, as opposed to being locked away in the hidden treasure vaults of the Tuatha Dé Danann, as it usually was. The Cauldron occupied a high stone altar strewn with gifts and offerings to the god—and was protected by a fearsome curse.
O’Gradaigh had come to the feast bearing both his fiddle and a hidden purpose. That night he’d played as never before, with his infant daughter’s life at stake. Winning a fiddle contest through the passion of his playing, he was awarded a pot of gold by the lord of the feast, but that was not the prize he truly sought. The Cauldron was what he was after, despite the curse. To steal the ancient treasure was punishable by death, but O’Gradaigh had no choice, not if he wished to ransom his child from the Serpents.
So he had bided his time, waiting anxiously through the festivities until drink and revelry provided cover enough for him to risk a bold deception, employing a clever illusion to switch his own pot for the Cauldron, while hoping against hope that the trick would go unmarked long enough for him to deliver the Cauldron to Lady Sibella in exchange for her precious hostage.
But matters had not gone as planned, thanks to the Librarian and his allies.
Now Sibella was no more, but O’Gradaigh was still being hunted. A wind wailed through the treetops, or was it a banshee already in pursuit of him who stole the Cauldron? There could be no forgiveness for his crime, the leprechaun realized; he was a fugitive, doomed to run and hide until the end of days. Holding his daughter close, he longed to keep her with him always, but knew too well that she would never be safe in his company. He needed to find a new home and family for her, where his enemies could never find her.
Fortunately, he knew just the place.
A thatched cottage provided a home to a family of simple farmers. Smoke from the hearth rose from the chimney, but no candles or lanterns could be glimpsed through the windows, suggesting that the family had well and truly retired for the night, just as the leprechaun had hoped. He slipped through a gap in the fence around the farm, taking care not to disturb the livestock, and hid the Cauldron beneath a haystack, where he prayed it would remain undisturbed until he had finished his business here.
Cradling Siofra in his arms, he entered the cottage through the window and crept stealthily across the floor until he reached a cradle holding another tiny red-haired infant. Born during the festival of Imbolc, only a few weeks past, the little girl had been named after the patron goddess of the season: Brigid, who, O’Gradaigh remembered uncomfortably, just happened to be the daughter of the Dagda. Still, little Brigid was roughly the same size and age as Siofra.
Aye, he thought. Ye will do the trick, so.
While Brigid’s parents slept nearby, the leprechaun gently laid Siofra in the cradle beside the mortal child. Speaking softly so as not to rouse the household, O’Gradaigh whispered ancient words of power to weave a powerful magic. An emerald glow briefly filled the cradle, the light swiftly fading to reveal that little Siofra was now the mirror image of Brigid, the resemblance so complete that not even Brigid’s own mother would be able to tell the babes apart.
Or so O’Gradaigh devoutly wished.
Gasping, the leprechaun sagged against the cradle, exhausted by the potent spell he had just cast. This was no mere illusion; the transformation needed to last a lifetime and beyond for the sake of Siofra and all her future offspring. Disguised as Brigid, the changeling could live out a normal life as a mortal, her true nature unknown even to herself. In time, fate and fortune willing, she would have children and grandchildren and so on down the generations, all secretly descended from O’Gradaigh, who vowed then and there to keep a watchful eye over Siofra and her line no matter where they might roam. He owed Siofra’s poor mother that much at least.
I failed to protect ye, he thought guiltily, but I’ll watch over our family, I promise ye that.
And as for the real Brigid? Well, he still had friends in Otherworld who would welcome an “orphaned” mortal babe with no questions asked. Brigid would grow up hale and happy in the timeless realm of Faerie, from which O’Gradaigh was now forever exiled. Time being as flexible as it was in Otherworld, it might well be that the real Brigid would outlive them all.
A fair compensation, he rationalized, for letting Siofra be “Brigid” for the rest of her life.
Leaving the changeling in the cradle, he claimed Brigid for the Fair Folk per the ancient tradition. He knew he needed to be on his way, lest his enemies catch up with him, yet he lingered longer than he should have, reluctant to leave his dear, sweet daughter behind. Tears welled in his eyes as he bid her good-bye.
Ye will not know me, he thought, but I will never be far from ye.
The wind howled again, reminding him of the vengeful wraith pursuing him. The night was growing older and one more burden still awaited his attention.
The Cauldron.
He could not return the treasure without condemning himself to death, but neither could he let the Cauldron fall into evil hands, as it so nearly had. All he could do now was hide it away where it could never tempt or trouble any soul again. The Cauldron would become a lost treasure, forever sought after but never found.
Much like me own poor self, he hoped.