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	After the Spell
	The swans flew straight home. They were excited, singing and calling as they went. They watched their reflections skim across the calm waters of Davra, watched their shadows speed along the road to King Lir's dun. But they landed among grassy ruins, where the wind whistled over broken walls, and weeds grew high. 'He didn't wait for us.' 'Over here, look! His name, cut in stone, and ours.' 'Look what it says: Here lies King Lir, the father of Finola and Aedh, Conn and Fiacra. Where ever they are his heart is also.' The swans stood around the huge boulder that marked their father's grave. 'We have no father, no home. I hate that Aoife.' They looked up up up. If they'd had fists they would have shook them. 'I'm going to fly up there and yank her out of the sky,' yelled Aedh. 'Drown her at the bottom of the sea,' shouted Conn. 'Mash her to bits on the sharp rocks of Moyle.' 'Boil her, bash her.' Then a quiet voice spoke out among them. It was their father's voice. It came from the air all around them. 'Aoife is already punished. She is alone for ever. Only spite and hatred fly with her. We have each other, and the whole wide world to be our home. My spirit has been waiting for you.' The children of Lir flew off into the whole wide world and their father's spirit flew with them. Nobody knows where they went. Nobody knows if Aoife's spell is broken yet. Maybe they changed back into children, long ago; maybe not. If you meet four swans someday, greet them. They might answer you . . . .and maybe, although you don't know it, you might have the stronger magic . . . . .. previous page | back to Lir