They called it the Pixie’s Throne, although I always thought that was just a fancy name to reel in tourists. The ‘throne’ is actually two ancient oak trees that fused together at the summit of a tiny islet. Picture an arthritic hand reaching towards the sky, the spiralling trunks like a swollen wrist, the crisscrossed branches skeletal fingers.

For twenty Euros, fishermen will take you out onto the Lough for a closer look. And hell, if you don’t believe the old stories, you can even climb up there and take a selfie. I’d caution against this, though. Because you might receive a hard lesson on what happens whenever the throne’s custodians take offence.

I know I did...

The story began on a clear night with me vomiting scud water over a muddy bank. Above me, three orange lights circled one another as if locked in orbit, gradually merging into a single point. A campfire.

Part of me wanted to lay flat until the darkness took hold. Despite this temptation, I crawled along on my elbows and knees until my hand touched a smooth, flat rock—the first of many on the island’s Western side. I dragged myself up the crude stairway.

Silhouetted against the pale moonlight, the throne loomed large and ominous. Between me and it the fire lay amongst downed logs. I staggered to my feet and rasped for help, cold water sloshing in my boots.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted back.

My awareness returned in heavy, terrible increments. I spotted a small, silhouetted figure and fumbled toward it. “P-p-please h-h-help.”

“Oh crap, you’re soaked. Here.”

A woolly blanket got thrust into my chest, then slipped away just as my right hand reached out.

There came laughter. “Aww, I’m sorry mister. I’m just messing with you. Here.” It was a boy, one whose voice sounded familiar.

“T-t-thanks,” I said, huddled under the blanket.

“Don’t thank me,” he said sharply. “Warm yourself by the fire.”

As I dropped onto the log and massaged my skull, huge water droplets spilled onto the flames and hissed.

Once my teeth stopped chattering, the boy said, “It’s a bit stupid, isn’t it? Going for a swim this late at night?”

“Yeah. A little.”

“A little?” He snorted. “The water must be freezing. Aren’t you freezing mister? Look, your lips are all blue.”

“Thanks, kid. I get it.”

“Aww, I’m just having fun.”

Great. I was getting teased by a nine-year-old. This was a new low, even for me.

Still struggling to see because of the brain fog, I said, “Where are your parents?”

He shrugged. “Hey wanna hear a joke? What did the ocean say to the river?”

“I don’t care.” I cupped my hands, breathed into them.

The kid muttered something too low to hear before tossing a log onto the fire.

Surging flames illuminated familiar features; blue eyes and blonde hair styled in a bowl cut. Confused, I squeezed my eyes shut, massaged my temples, and took another look. My companion had a thin nose and ears that stuck out too wide, same as mine.

Was this an early symptom of hypothermia?

“I can’t lie mister, I saw what you did,” the youngster said, jabbing a thumb at the throne. “Isn’t it a silly thing to do? My mom would throw a fit if I did something like that.”

Ah, of course—this was a dream. Any second now I’d wake up in bed, nice and toasty.

As I chuckled away, the perfect illusion tilted its head to one side. “What’s so funny?”

“Thanks for the help,” I said, throwing the blanket on his lap.

I started back down the stairway. Trees and hedges crowded the islet’s outer edge. In the darkness, I pushed through barriers of low branches, navigating around exposed roots and shallow ditches. My rowboat had to be around there somewhere. Maybe I could wake myself by casting off?

Through the gaps between trees, little sparkles danced around, disappearing the instant my eye settled on one. They felt like countless eyes tiptoeing over my skin.

The muddy landscape carried me toward jagged rocks jutting out of the Lough. The crashing waves made a hypnotic slop-slop-slop while, high above them, the throne’s branches crawled over the cliff’s edge. You’d need a miracle to survive a fall from up there.

I doubled back, circled the island. On my fifth or sixth lap, I repeatedly screamed, “Help,” my cries cracking off every trunk in the vicinity.

Clearly, there was no escaping this mirage. So I shuffled back up the steps.

I approached the little imposter, who kept himself busy stoking the flames. He was all knobby elbows and scabby knees, clothed in misfitting garments scraped together from donation bins.

“Okay,” I said, “don’t get weirded out by this, but you’re me, right? Like…a younger me?”

“Looks that way, huh?”

“So, this is a dream?”

“Does it feel like a dream?”

I coughed up a soggy leaf, pinched myself several times. Nope. Too real.

“So I’m dead? Is this heaven? Or”—invisible hands closed around my windpipe—"the other place?”

“I don’t think your dead mister.”

“Then what’s going on?”

He shrugged.

Desperate for a drink, I patted my pockets. Empty.

“Looking for this?” In his left hand, he had a silver hipflask.

“How did…give me that.”

I grabbed for it, but he leaned away. “Answer my question first.”

“You little troll.” I held his wrist, pried the fingers off the flask one at a time, and then necked the remaining whiskey. With my insides warmed, I dropped onto the log beside him.

"You don't have much of a sense of humour, do you?" he asked.

“And you’re quite the detective.”

For a while we listened to the fire crackling away. Finally, he said, “Just tell me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Drop it.”

“Tell me tell me tell me—”

“Enough already.”

“—tell me tell me. Go on, tell me.”

“No. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh yes I would.” He stomped his foot. “Tell me. Tell me tell me TELL ME—”

“Stop,” I snapped.

“—TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME—" He poked me in the chest, pushed my shoulder. “—TELL ME TELL ME—" Finally, he leaned in close, took a deep breath, and put everything into one giant, “TELL ME!”

“BECAUSE I WAS SCARED, OKAY?”

The little trickster made a puzzled expression. Ashamed, I faced the throne.

“What were you scared of?” he asked.

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

“It’s too complicated.”

“Oh. Then how about showing me?”

“…What?” I looked round at him.

The kid dragged me up by the arm and steered us around the fire. In the throne’s crooked shadow, there lay a brief, circular pond. The idea of holding my head underwater slid into my brain.

“You can show me with this.” He motioned to dip my hand inside the pool.

Confused, intrigued, I leaned forward. Reflected in the surface, the throne naked branches inhaled and exhaled, shivering. Between their thin lacings, I glimpsed more sparkles.

The youth spurred me on until, finally, I submerged my fingers.

Ripples pulsated from the point they touched. My hand reeled away in surprise, which made the doppelganger chuckle. “Look, it’s starting.”

The pond glowed, now alive with swirling, colourful blobs. Little by little, they morphed into faces and figures, until a clear image floated to the surface—me and my mom building a sandcastle.

“What’s this?” I asked. The kid shushed me.

Already the past echo dispersed. “Wait, where did it go?” Before I could submerge my hand again, he snatched my wrist. “Just wait.”

A steady stream of childhood echoes came and went: a blonde girl tearing up my Valentine’s card in front of the class; me playing goalie in the cup final for my football team, diving the wrong way to block the penalty that cost us the game; then Mom saying afterwards, “No pressure, no diamonds.”

These words sounded garbled, but audible.

My chest tightened watching myself arrive home after school only to find Mom’s eyes, her blue eyes which looked exactly like mine, red and puffed out. At the kitchen table, she clasped my hands tight and explained Dad was never coming home.

Months sped along in seconds. After school, I’d do my homework in the corner booth while Mom bussed tables and topped up coffees, helping with my math puzzles in whatever spare time she could scrape together. Throughout winter, we wore two thick jumpers a piece because we couldn’t afford to keep the heating on.

That year we exchanged homemade gifts on Christmas. My former self opened a stuffed dog Mom knitted me, then she beamed with joy as I presented a crayon picture of us beside a thatched, white cottage—the kind she always dreamed about buying someday.

My eyes welled up. That year was especially rough for us both.

Despite the hardships, she kept me smiling and laughing. Then, before either of us knew it, I was holding an acceptance letter from the Dublin institute of technology to study architecture. The giant hug she gave me left my ribcage covered in ugly, purple bruises.

At first, I insisted on doing things myself in the big city. Complete independence. I was a grown man, after all. One who didn’t need his mommy.

Take a wild guess where that got me. My insistent partying almost got me kicked out of university and caused me to burn through a stream of crappy, part-time jobs. Even still, I couldn’t quit drinking. After that first drop of alcohol touched my lips, I’d obsess over the sacrifices Mom made. Why had she given up so much for a loser like me? My classmates all drifted through their studies so effortlessly, whereas I felt like a fraud, like I wasn’t living up to my fullest potential. So I’d drink until I blacked out and wake up with my knuckles cut to shreds, the dorm wall covered with holes and dents.

Weeks passed in a whirlwind of alcohol and tears until one night when I needed, physically needed, to hear my mother’s voice. Despite it being 3AM, she answered the phone and stayed on the line even though I never actually said what was wrong. We chatted until the sun came up.

From there, I set aside my ego and called home frequently. Exam stressing me out? Better ask for advice. Girlfriend dumped me? Time for one of her patented worldclass peptalks. She never judged my choices or poor decisions. And she always signed off with, “No pressure, no diamonds.”

While I worked toward my degree, she landed a job at an IT consultancy as a receptionist, and her employer soon realized she had the ‘gift of the gab’. Within two years she earned a promotion to head of her own department, facilities.

After graduation, I accepted a job at a prestigious firm in London and oversaw projects in the Eastend. Halfway through an image of me supervising a construction site, the kid looked up and said, “You were an architect?”

I nodded.

“Cool. I mean, not cool cool like an astronaut or a train driver. But still cool.”

By now, I was watching myself suffer through a weekly spin class. In a desperate, transparent attempt to impress the brunette wearing pink yoga pants, I pedalled furiously from the word ‘go’, and after each session she dropped serious hints about me asking her out, although I could never summon the courage.

When mama bear heard this, she said if I didn’t grow a pair within five days, she’d fly over to London and set us up herself.

In the next memory, the lady and I locked lips on a blanket in St. James’ Park, fireworks exploding overhead.

My younger self retched. “Sick.”

Five months into our relationship, Ciara and I pulled up outside a white cottage at the edge of the forest near my hometown. Porcelain fairies, gnomes, and leprechauns stood guard around the perimeter, because Mom adored the ‘fae-folk’ stories the village used to drum up publicity and flog cheap souvenirs.

That first day, we took Ciara out on a little rowboat so that she could see the legendary ‘throne’ up close. She expressed mild disappointment over the lack of Pixie’s frolicking in the surrounding water, as promised by the local tourism board. Mom reminded her they'd be more likely to rip out your innards than pose for a picture according to the old tales.

Later on, I ground my teeth while the two of them drank wine and flicked through old baby photos, both giggling away. They became instant besties, and at the wedding, the priest needed to shout our vows to be heard above Mom’s sobs.

Years drifted by. Ciara and I furnished and decorated a cosy apartment in Stoke Newington, and in one image we tried making the most of a lazy Sunday by sleeping in late until a springer spaniel burst through the door and jumped up on the bed, leash in mouth.

“You got a dog?” younger me asked.

“We named him Toby,” I said, fingers hovering over the pond.

“But things look pretty great. Well, I mean, the whole wife thing sucks. But you look…happy.”

With dread in the pit of my stomach, I said, “Keep watching.”

Past me got woken by a late-night phone call. I caught the first flight to Ireland and drove to St. Luke’s hospital, where Mom lay in bed breathing through a respirator. When I grabbed her hand, those blue eyes rotated toward me. She even managed a thin smile.

Later, a doctor pulled me aside and explained there was nothing more they could do.

Memories lurched and shifted, whizzing past two or three at a time. Me in the lounge sobbing, Toby’s head rested against my lap. Bus tires screeching, followed by Toby making a guttural whimper, then me scratching his ear in a vet’s operating room one final time. Me going out to the bar and not returning home for days. Ciara and I arguing because she found bottles buried in the closet, despite my promises to quit drinking. I felt embarrassed watching this. It felt like the throne was staring down at me, passing silent judgement.

I watched myself skip work, argue with bartenders, start pointless brawls, receive cautions from the police. In a way, it felt like seeing these events play out for the first time. That soul-shredding chapter of my life is still a blur.

If Mom had been around, she’d have pulled me out of the funk. What did I do now she was gone?

I wanted to yell ‘stop’ at past me as the idiot ripped off his wedding ring in front of a sobbing Ciara.

He returned home to an empty, white cottage, his descent into alcoholism spiralling further and further out of control, quickly reaching a point where he only wanted to make the pain stop.

Loaded up on whiskey one night, he took a rowboat out across the Lough, paddled toward the Pixie’s islet, and made his way to the summit on unsteady legs.

He eased himself into a comfortable seat on a recess in the throne’s front side, at the point where trunks converged. And in doing so, he officially committed the cardinal sin of sitting on the throne without paying tribute to the pixies. Or fae-folk. Whatever you wanna call them.

He chugged from his flask, hiccupped.

Supernatural creatures hadn’t torn his skin off. Nor did they play jump rope with his intestines. That meant he needed to finish things the old-fashioned way.

First, though, he pulled down his zipper. Because who wanted to die with a full bladder?

On the far side of the throne, he shuffled up against the cliff’s edge. Far below, violent waves crashed against rocks sharper than knives. You’d need a miracle to survive that fall.

After a slow, steady breath, he stepped forward.

The reflections dispersed there.

“I…see,” my counterpart said.

I rubbed my neck, my mouth itching for more whiskey.

“So that’s it then?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

“You just…gave up?”

I shrugged.

“But why?”

“Life got tough.”

“But that’s no reason to jump off a cliff. There’s always gonna be tough times. It’s like that penalty you couldn’t save. You were so upset, but then Mom said, ‘No pressure—”

“—no diamonds,” I finished. “Yeah, I remember. But this isn’t a football game. Like I said, you’re too young to understand.”

“Okay, but what about Mom? She had hard times, but she didn’t give up. And she got her diamond, right? She always wanted a cottage near the forest. Don’t you think she ever felt sad? Maybe she even thought about doing something stupid. But she didn’t. What would she say if she saw this?”

“It doesn’t matter what she’d say. She’s gone.”

“No she isn’t.”

“She is. You saw it yourself.”

“But if you can still see her in here,” he pointed at the pond, “and feel her in here,” he tapped his heart, “then she’s not really gone. Is she?”

“Okay, technically not.”

“And what you’re going through is no worse than she did, is it?”

“Well, no. But—”

“And she turned things around. So you could have done the same, right?” He stood. “Right?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he repeated, outraged.

“Alright…yes.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because—"

“Why throw it all away, huh?” He pushed me.

“I—"

“WHY?” Another push, more forceful this time.

“BECAUSE I WAS SCARED, OKAY?”

He slid to the ground, head turned away hiding the tears.

My hand dropped onto his shoulder, a reassuring gesture. “Look, I’m sorry, but it was too much. I couldn’t take losing the people I loved anymore. When Mom died, it felt like...like all joy seeped out of the world.”

Without looking up, he said, “But what about the diamonds? For all you know, there were more good times ahead. And you threw them away.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

“But it’s not too late to fix things, right?” he lifted his gaze. “You could still turn it around? You’ve got time. I mean, you’re not that old.”

As I gazed into the black pond, registered the surrounding darkness, it occurred to me this may have been another realm. Who knows, perhaps I’d washed up in limbo. “I think it is too late, kid.”

“Are you sure?”

“The memories ended with the fall, remember?”

“Let’s try again. Maybe there’s more,” he said, hunching over the pond.

“I—”

“It’s the least you could do.” He dragged me forward by the arm.

With a weary sigh, I let him steer our hands into the water, again.

More blobs took shape. I thought these were the same from earlier, until I saw myself standing outside Ciara and I’s apartment, tulips in hand. She pulled me in for a tight hug before I’d even finished uttering the words, “I’m sorry.”

The kid and I exchanged a glance.

There lay Ciara horizontal across the sofa, belly all swollen, while I built a crib. After bashing my thumb with the hammer, I yelled and jumped around the room while she roared with laughter.

The images gathered speed. “Wait, I can’t make out what’s happening.”

There was a baby, I think. Along with a brown puppy biting my shoelaces. Then I was pushing a girl with my mother's blue eyes along on a bike, teaching her to ride.

In a desperate attempt at delaying the flow, I tried scooping some future predictions up, unsuccessfully.

I shook my younger self by the shoulders. “It’s going too fast. How do I slow it down?”

“You can’t.”

By the time I looked from him to the pond, the reflections had dissolved once again.

“Looks like things aren’t over yet.”

I sat back, breathless. “I think you’re right. I think I made a huge mistake.”

The whole event felt like a moment of cosmic significance—like a wake-up call from the universe. Was this child-me some sort of guide? An angel sent to rekindle my zest for life?

No, not an angel. A pixie.

“So, what would you do now?” he asked. “If you had another chance?”

I stood patting my jeans. “I’d get off this crummy rock and apologize to Ciara.”

“And live your life and be happy?”

“Definitely.”

“Promise?” he got up and held out his hand.

“Promise.” We shook on it, hope surging in the pit of my stomach.

“Well…that’s a shame,” he said, his voice all flat. “You had a really bright future ahead of you.”

“Huh?” My hand released his as a wicked titter burst from his lips.

“I’ve got bad news mister—this isn’t a dream. Or the afterlife.”

Chills went racing throughout my entire body. Somebody walked over my grave, Mom would say. “I don’t understand.”

He stepped forward. “Well see, you sat on our throne.” Black blobs spread out from his pupils like ink blots. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you even peed on it.” His lips twisted into a snarl, brackish liquid oozing from his mouth and nostrils. “And we can’t forgive that. Ever.” Up close, his rancid breath blasted me in the face, disgustingly warm. “So now…you're coming to be our plaything.”

With that, he opened his mouth and hissed fury. That voice stabbed my ears and made the fire wick out, plunging the world into complete darkness, except for the sparkles above. I scrambled away in reverse, pulse suddenly up between my ears, until my heel hit the log and sent me toppling backward.

My former companion vaulted over the trunk, his skin now alabaster white, ears sharp and pointed. In the centre of those black eyes, white dots sparkled. A snapping twig drew my attention toward the throne, where more sparkles weaved throughout the branches, each fixated on me.

The stories were true. The Pixies were real. And I’d angered them.

In a single breath, I scrambled to my feet and sprinted in the direction of the stairway. Behind me countless footsteps trampled through dirt and fallen leaves.

Over my shoulder, I glimpsed sparkles overrunning the islet like a termite hill. I needed to get off that damn rock, fast.

The muddy bank flew beneath my feet. I charged through the Lough until it became deep enough to hurl myself forward and then the water hit like an ice bath. I kicked as fast and as hard as I could, limbs already numb.

Waves rolled toward me as those creatures sped past my sides, slicing through the water in great soaring arcs. They veered back and forth creating powerful ripples which slammed against my chest and tossed me around, again and again. Was this all a game to them?

The coast appeared before me, fifty yards ahead. Maybe if I just kept kicking…

Despite the Lough hurling me in every direction, I never stopped driving forward, even when foam blinded me, or drilled deep into my lungs. Soon I could make out a pebble beach. Almost there.

A pale hand capped by curved black nails clamped tight around my ankle, then the water swallowed me with a resonant plop. Barely visible against the murk, there was a vague suggestion of a face below me, the same face that stared back at me in the mirror twenty years earlier, except for the black eyes punctuated by glowing pupils.

Sharp fingers plunged into my flesh, disappearing up to the first knuckle. When I tried to scream, bubbles spewed from my mouth. The hand reeled me down, deeper and deeper.

Hungry for air, I jabbed my booted foot into the nymph’s face. It swatted me with its free arm while I thrashed and kicked and stomped. As those curved fingers slid down my ankle, the flesh raked open.

Above me, rippling moonlight shrank, dimmed. It was now or never.

Summoning every ounce of strength I had, I drove my boot into the imp’s skull. Finally, it released me.

I gritted my teeth and swam for the surface. Just a few. More. Strides.

But then, for the second time that night, darkness pressed tight against me. And as the shadows took hold, my final thought was: so this is what drowning feels like…

-

“Easy, buddy. I’ve got you.”

I gasped wildly for air, lips sputtering.

As the world slid into focus, I tried sitting up, but a hand forced me back down across a stony beach. My eyes rotated toward a paramedic, who’d been performing chest compressions moments earlier.

“Easy,” he said, while I vomited up the remaining fluid in my lungs. Close by, ambulance lights flashed.

My saviour rubbed my arms, smiled. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

I craned my neck and looked down at a second paramedic wrapping my ankle—which kept gushing thick, dark blood—in a bandage. You could see bone through the wound.

It was real. It was all real.

Deep in the pit of my stomach, excitement bubbled away. Excitement for the future. For what lay ahead. Oh sure, my body ached, my ankle burned, and it felt like a grenade exploded inside my skull. Yet despite all this, I felt better than I had in years.

I looked up at the stars twinkling overhead, a smile creeping across my face.

Then I took a deep breath, and started laughing.