Set in the Isle of Man and written in English with some Manx Gaelic comes a new fairytale of mirrored worlds told using well known Manx, Irish and English traditional characters, songs and music as the boy Finlo witnesses a fairy quest to save the Dhoon Glen from redevelopment. Suitable for boys, girls and Gaelic fiends alike!

Meanwhile, above the Dhoon Glen an R-A-T dashed across the road and was flattened instantly by a passing car! It had always been a tricky business crossing the roads. These were the huge pathways of travelling giants. Sometimes there was a route underneath the road, but not this time. “Oh! That’s rotten luck! Never mind hey, boys. Dunnal’s in R-A-T heaven now with bags and bags of rubbish and a champion’s welcome!” said a huge long-tail by the name of Gallverg. “I refuse to leave this glorious place just as the fun is beginning!” was the last thought of Dunnal the long-tail as he saw a huge wheel speeding towards him. This thought coincided with his untimely death, and as a result, a white wisp rose from the road and took the form of a ghostly rodent. Dunnal grinned as he floated upward and thought this must be what it felt like to fly and, that death thing—well, it didn’t hurt a bit! Now where was he? Mmm . . . Above the road by the Dhoon Glen, that was it! White and see-though now, was he? Excellent! He spat out his tongue in the direction of his boss and then turned and waggled his bottom at the horrible old leader, Gallverg, who had forgotten him already and didn’t see him floating joyfully above the road. He flew off in the direction of two fast moving red lights and followed the car that had flattened him, all the way down the road, singing: Arrane Queeyl Nieuee “Snieu wheeyl snieu, ’rane wheeyl ’rane, As dy-chooilley vangan er y villey snieu er my skyn. Lesh y ree yn ollan, As lesh mee hene y snaih, Son shenn Trit Trot, cha vow ish dy bragh. Snieu wheeyl snieu, ’rane wheeyl ’rane, As dy-chooilley tonn er y traie snieu er ny hon. Lesh y ree yn ollan keear, As lesh mee hene y snaih, Son tra vees y fidder çheet, cha vow eh dy bragh.” (Spin wheel spin, hum wheel hum, And all the branches on the tree spinning above me, With the king of wool, and with myself the yarn, For old Trit Trot, she never will get. Spin wheel spin, hum wheel hum, And all the waves on the shore spinning for me, With the king of the grey wool, and with myself the yarn For when the weaver comes, he’ll never get it.) He was wailing away at the top of voice, doing free dive summersaults, racing a single wheel all the way to the south of the Isle of Man. It was a Manx traditional piece he was singing called, ‘Arrane Queeyl Nieuee’ (The song of the Spinning Wheel): though nothing to do with the spinning of car wheels! He loved the old Gaelic songs of Mann. The rain that had woken him up had dumped them all in his brain, like the downloading of a computer program. They were all there. Marvellous! His voice carried on the wind and the White Lady stood up suddenly in a tunnel she was sitting in under Castle Rushen. Her head went straight through the ancient stone above her without hindrance. The spinning of wheels! The call of Fairy Folk! There would be none of this nonsense going on without her and with a ‘whoosh’ she flew above the castle broom-less for a better look. After a quick peek in every direction, ignoring the shouts and screams below from the giants, she saw it, a little wisp of a thing. It was a mouse or something similar: a tiny luminous white glow, singing away and following a giant’s carriage. She swooped down at once, flying beside it and sang twice as loud, just for fun: “Jinny the Witch went over the house to fetch a stick to lather the . . . Oh! You’re not a mouse!” “Ahh!” screamed Dunnal, losing his train of thought, his wheel and his song instantly. “Oh, it’s all right, Mr Ra . . .” and then she remembered quickly that it was very, very bad luck to say the R-A-T word in English on the Isle of Man. Anything bad could happen if you did that! “Roddan! (Rat!)” she spat out, just in time. “I’m Jinny. Charmed to meet you. And you are?” “Dunnal,” he replied. “Hey? Hang on a minute! You’re like me: white and see-through! How does that work?” He was drifting along the quayside beside her, feeling quite relaxed. “Yes! Very good! We’re ghosts, of course. Are you new to all this ghost business?” she said, coming to a halt by Castletown pier with Dunnal and looking out to sea in the darkness. A distant lighthouse at Langness, not far from Castletown, spread light over the sea periodically. “I’m brand new to being dead, yes! Fun, isn’t it?” He squeaked with joy as he mastered a double somersault in mid air. “Mmm! Even in my old life, long-tails didn’t and couldn’t talk, so what exactly happened to you?” she asked, settling down on the pier wall and bringing her knees up to her chest. “It was that last rainy night,” he began. Then Dunnal told her all he knew about the grouping of the long-tails and their plans to feed off the giants’ plans to develop the Dhoon Glen for troll-tourists. How the giants planned to build a big hotel and electric hillside tram, so lots more giants could visit and view the huge sheer drop waterfall without any effort. It was going to be long-tail heaven forever and ever, and a hundred times more dirty and built-up than the last resort there. 1870s it was: that was just a little hotel, but this one would be massive. He wriggled on the spot excitedly. “So many bins to look forward to!” he salivated. “Oh, that’s dreadful,” snapped Jinny sharply with a look of real concern. “Is it? Oh! Not to my kind, it isn’t,” Dunnal said, a little confused. “You’re not your kind anymore, Mister. You’re one of us now: a magical, mythical thing. As for that glen, it’s a special place. We must fly there and seek the forces of old and stop this happening.” She looked out to sea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they have stirred already. I was thinking something was happening a day or two ago.” Jinny drifted off into thought. “Did you know the old Dhoon Glen Hotel had to be destroyed by fairy fire, while the owner was absent from the building in 1932, to stop the giants’ interest in the place. They were slowly draining away the forces of magic. Then they started mining in the glen and the fairies were woken again to shut that project down! They succeeded in making the mine seem as though there was not enough lead or tin to be worth mining. The giants left behind a network of tunnels though, which was sad because they left scars in the earth there. More magical energy has drained away as a result of that. It was a success overall, for our kind I mean. The giants are drawn to the place because they feel its power, but they don’t understand why. It’s an extraordinary place: a magical place!” she repeated. “Now, let’s go!” “Right! Well, lovely to meet you, but I was having a fine adventure by myself without going back there, thank you!” stated Dunnal, thinking that she had delivered a boring and laborious speech. “Anyway, Gallverg will kill me if I try to stop him setting up his fantastic network of ‘Routes to Rubbish!’ There’s a document being drafted for it and everything. He’ll kill me!” “You’re already dead, stupid!” she declared and picked up the shaking long-tail. She placed him on her knee, stroked him once and said, “I used to like having a Manx cat, but I suppose you’ll do! Jinny won’t lather you really. It’s just a silly rhyme they sing.” She was pointing at a couple of giants coming into harbour in an old fishing boat. “Did you see that, Michael?” one giant called out from the boat. “White Lady, was it, Sean? Don’t mention that to anyone. They’ll think you’ve gone soft!” replied the other with a hint of sarcasm.

The author is from the Isle of Man, speaks Manx Gaelic and English and has had a lifelong interest in traditional stories, music and song.