A spectre in the silvery twilight at Sí­d in Broga

A spectre in the silvery twilight at Sí­d in Broga

In the pale, cool light of autumn, a warm glow radiates from the old stones of Síd in Broga. The night watchman is here. The night watchwoman. Mrs. Hickey, the long-time custodian of this magnificent monument, long dead, still lives.

Her shadow moves in the grey evening; her black gown twinkles with swan stars; her candle glows dimly in the fall air. Her dog by her side, she brings the key to the lock; the key to the secrets of Síd in Broga. She once saw the white woman here, a pale unusualness, a bright wanderer in the gloomy twilight. But as she approached, the woman vanished. There is no key to fit the lock that conceals the shimmering horde. It is a blade in stone, a sword in the dark; a key to the heart, the heart that is Síd in Broga. Mrs. Hickey returns, for a moment – a spectre in the silvery twilight – to greet her eternal form in glowing, flaming raiment.

"There you are," she says, and stoops down to enter through the great stone portal. She vanishes in a moment, bright Bóinn of the Brugh, gone from this world, for now, to be revealed again in a flash, when the black gown is cast off, and the heart is broken, rent open to immortality by a beam of brilliant, golden love-light.

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