“And what was it these two rival clans were warring over? It was all to do with a small hill situated between their territories. By your standards and mine, this would be the merest bump on the ground, a protrusion a long-legged man might step over scarcely noticing it. To the clurichauns it was a sacred mountain, the birth-place of a great leader of their kind, Mochaomhóg the Ancestor. Whether Mochaomhóg had been a Red or a Green lay at the heart of the long dispute between these factions, for each clan claimed him as its own.”

Willow went on to tell of the long years of strife, the grief of the clurichaun women over their fallen fathers, husbands, brothers and sons, and the attempts of these women to protect their menfolk in battle. “For they used the same little tricks as we do ourselves—the sewing of a rowan cross into the garments of a warrior before he leaves home, the weaving of a triple plait into a man’s hair, the packets of protective herbs in the boot or pouch. And if fewer men fell because these charms were employed, so much the better.

“Now there was a certain time when the Greens were dominant. They had established a camp right on Mochaomhóg’s hill, in defiance of all the Reds thought proper, and they even made a wee fire there and sat around it, bold as brass. The Reds devised a cunning plan. Not usually known for their skills on water, they would surprise their enemy and approach by boat, slipping silently into a tiny cove below the hill, then making a covert way up through the nest of a water rat to attack from the rear. It was a good enough plan, though I expect our fine war leaders here would find flaws in it.” The old woman glanced at Johnny as she said this, and he gave her a smile.