In the rolling green hills of Ireland, where the morning mist clung to the earth like a whispered secret, there was a legend of a creature both wondrous and rare. The villagers called it the Wool-Wing, a beast of soft white fleece and delicate butterfly wings that shimmered with the colors of dawn. It was said to bring fortune to those who beheld it, but no one had ever caught more than a fleeting glimpse before it vanished into the hills.
One autumn, a great misfortune fell upon the village of Dunbray. The crops withered before harvest, the river ran sluggish and low, and the livestock grew weak. The people murmured of curses and ill omens, their faces drawn with worry. It was then that the elders spoke of the Wool-Wing.
“Find it,” they said. “If its wings grace our land once more, our fortunes may yet turn.”
So the villagers set out, their torches flickering in the dusk, their eyes scouring the hills and the deep woods beyond. But days passed, and the creature remained unseen.
It was a young girl named Muireann who finally found it. She had wandered beyond the village, past the stone ruins where the old gods were once worshipped. There, beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, she saw the Wool-Wing resting in a bed of clover.
Its body was no larger than a lamb’s, its wool a pale silver that caught the last light of day. Its wings, wide and trembling with iridescent colors, fluttered as it lifted its head to look at her. For a moment, Muireann and the creature simply regarded one another.
Then she saw it—one of its wings was torn.
The Wool-Wing tried to move, but the wound kept it grounded. A pang of sorrow filled Muireann’s chest. If the villagers had found it first, would they have chased it down, desperate for its magic? Would they have caged it, hoping to harness its luck?
Carefully, she knelt and reached out. The creature did not flinch. It let her touch its wool, softer than anything she had ever known. She did not speak, only pressed a hand to her heart before rising to her feet.
She turned and ran—not to the village, not to tell the others, but to the riverbank where the healing herbs grew wild. She gathered them in haste, hands trembling, before rushing back to the oak tree.
For hours, she worked, whispering gentle words as she pressed the herbs against the torn wing. The Wool-Wing remained still, watching her with golden eyes that held the weight of centuries. When at last she finished, she stepped back, breath held tight in her chest.
The creature flexed its wings once, then again. A hush fell over the clearing as it beat them harder, until, at last, it lifted from the ground. The light of the rising moon caught its wings, painting the air with hues of violet and gold.
It hovered for a moment before turning its great eyes to her. Then, in a rush of wind and shimmer, it soared into the sky, disappearing beyond the hills.
The next morning, the river ran clear and full. The crops stood tall in the fields, ripe and golden. The sheep that had grown weak now played in the pastures, their bleats filling the air with song.
Muireann never spoke of what she had done. But some nights, when the sky was clear and the wind was soft, she would look to the hills and wonder if, somewhere out there, the Wool-Wing still remembered her.
And the village of Dunbray never suffered misfortune again.