The Copper Leaf

August always tumbled towards autumn just a little earlier than most in Brannagh’s Rest. It could be because it’s in the northeast, but could be because the old Irish soil the city’s ancestors brought with them insisted on maintaining its own calendar. By the first weekend, the evenings always carried a small bite; nothing fierce, just a nip that reminded the villagers to don a sweater before the sun dipped.

It was this chill that Kiera Rose O’Connell, age nine and proud of it, loved most about the end of summer. It also meant the campfire nights behind Malloy’s Pub were beginning. The best part about the pub was the patio outside, where pine trees framed the sky and the smoke from the fire curled upward like it carried the secrets to the stars.

She and her little sister, Maeve Ann, scampered barefoot through the grass, chasing the lightning bugs to the growing fire.

“Hurry, Kiera!” Maeve squealed, her braids bouncing wildly behind her. “Padraig will be starting soon!”

“He won’t start ‘til the fire really catches,” Kiera said with confidence, as she has spent many summers timing his stories to the crackling tinder. “Anyway, he will always wait for us.”

They reached the cobblestone path to the ring of stones just as the first flames began licking up through the kindling. Several other children from the village were already settling into the grass – friends, classmates, cousins, and the odd kid who always showed up when stories were brewing.

Their parents lingered inside the pub, the door propped open so laughter and clinking glasses drifted across the courtyard. While the adults always called it “just a chat before heading home,” everyone knew it was their way of savoring the final nights of summer before Brannagh’s Rest turned cold and snow covered.

Maeve plopped onto one of the blankets laid out and tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “Which story do you think he’ll tell tonight, Kiera?”

Kiera folded her legs and began thinking. “If the fire pops twice before he sits … it’s going to be about the Selkie Bride. But if it whistles through the wood, he’s going to tell us a story about the children of the ash tree.”

What Keira didn’t tell Maeve, was there was a third rule … one that only the older children knew and they never told the adults:

If the flames turn copper for just a blink,

Then the story Padraig tells isn’t a story at all.

A gust rustled the branches overhead, filling the air with the smell of pine. Maeve leaned closer to her sister, eyes wide open with anticipation. Finally … she heard it. The shuffle of boots, slow and familiar.

Old Padraig Malloy stepped into the firelight, his beard catching sparks of orange like it remembered every story he’d ever told. He owned the pub and his favorite thing was to spend time with the kids of his patrons. He carried a tin mug in one hand and a bundle of cedar shavings in the other.

“Well now,” he chuckled, voice warm as the embers and eyes sparkling like the stars. “Look at the right fine crowd we’ve got tonight. The stars haven’t even finished their wakin’ and already ye’re here beggin’ for the tales.”

The children all giggled. Even Kiera felt the electric thrill, almost as if the world around them leaned in closer with Padraig spoke.

He tossed the cedar into the flames. The fire crackled eagerly, spitting up a swirl of golden sparks. The kids all watched to see what would happen, to know what story would come tonight. Then … just for a heartbeat … a single spark flashed copper.

Kiera’s breath caught and Maeve squeezed her hand. Padraig’s eyes glinted, knowing and ancient.

“Aye,” he said softly, settling onto his old wooden stool. “Tonight, I’ll tell ye one of the older ones.”

The children settled on their blankets, the campfire warming their faces while something much older stirred beyond the tree line of the Brannagh Woods.

“Lean in, lean in,” old Padraig said, tapping the side of his pint like he was calling the story itself to attention. “There’s a thing or two to know about Brannagh’s Rest, lads and lassies … something that’s older than the immigration papers your great-grandparents used to cross the ocean.”

Padraig waited for the pub to settle, letting the fire pop once or twice.

“I see the lot of ye smirkin’. Go on then, smirk … but ye listen close, or the next leaf ye follow, might not belong to any tree that grows under God’s sun.” He lowered his voice. “Now, ya see, there’s a wood at the edge of town. It’s small, but don’t ye let that fool ye. Some places aren’t measured in acres, but the weight of things that happened there. The old families, O’Connells, Byrnes, Malloy, Brannaghs … the brought over more than sorrow when they fled Ireland. They brought stories … and something that wasn’t fond of being carried along.”

He took a slow sip then, while all the children collectively gasped.

“Ye ever notice how the leaves in Brannagh Woods turn copper in autumn? Not gold or red like most trees? Ye ever notice how none of ‘em ever hit the ground?

Well, there was a young girl, Elara O’Conner. She was the quiet sort, the kind with eyes that looked like they were always listening for something no one else could hear. On a still winter’s afternoon, so still the air felt like it was holding its breath, she saw one of those copper leaves drift down the main road.”

He raised a brow and a few of the children leaned in even closer.

“But there was no breeze. Not so much as a sigh of wind. And yet, that leaf danced along like it had business elsewhere.”

Keira muttered, “That’s Brannagh for ya.”

“Aye, girl,” Padraig agreed, pointing at her with two fingers. “Brannagh’s mischief, sure enough. Elara, God help the gal, stepped right after it. Not chasing per say, just following like she’d forgotten the meaning of the word ‘choice.’”

He gestured towards the door to his pub, as if the path itself lay right outside Malloy’s.

“Down past the boundary stone marked with carvings older than the church. Down into the tangle where the fog curls low and the trees grow too close, like they’re whispering about ye. Then, that leaf led her straight into a clearing.” He paused, letting the silence thicken. “At the center stood the Oak of Brannagh.”

The children nodded.

“Ah, ye’ve heard of it. The one no axe will bite and no fire will burn. The one that shines like its metal when the moon hits it just right. It’s said to be older than this land, older than the voyage across the ocean … maybe even older than Ireland herself.”

The fire began to crackle higher … perfect timing.

“That drifting leaf … floated back to its branch, settling in place with its copper kin. And when it did,” he paused and smiled at the kids. “The Oak woke.”

Maeve snuggled closer to Kiera, while a shiver went up both of their spines.

“The leaves rattled without the wind. The roots shifted like giant limbs stretching after a long sleep. Then … a voice, not one ye hear with ye ears, but rather the bones of ye skull, spoke to her.” Padraig dropped his voice, low and melodic. “Lost one, wandering one … You followed what was torn away. Will you follow others?

Elara near stumbled out of her skin. But she couldn’t move … not while the Oak was looking at her.”

Padraig saw the children begin to snicker. “Don’t scoff. Trees can look, and that one’s been watching longer than the stars remember.”

The children fell silent.

“Just when that Oak leaned in, branches creaking like arms reaching, young Eamon Byrne burst in like a mad hare, shouting her name. He grabbed her wrist and hauled her out before that Oak could speak again.”

Padraig leaned back on his stool, stretching the moment out.

“But here’s the thing ye should truly hear.” He drummed his fingers on the wooden table next to his seat, letting the rhythm sink in. “When Elara finally made it home, she found a mark on her palm. It shimmered like a rubbed coin. That night, when the wind raged like a chorus of banshees, a single copper leaf pressed itself to her bedroom window.”

He raised his glass, voice dropping to a whisper that made all the children stiffen.

“It didn’t fall. That old Oak wasn’t done with her. Nor with any soul who follows something that does not fall as it should.” He took a final sip, followed by a warning. “So, hear me well … if ye ever see a leaf blowing where the wind doesn’t blow. Ye turn yer eyes away. For the Brannagh Woods remember every footstep, and the Oak of Brannagh never forgets who answers its call.”

When Padraig finally finished the story, the last words hung in the air like embers refusing to fall. The fire had died down, shadows dancing behind the ring of children. For a long heartbeat, no one spoke.

Little Maeve Anne broke the spell.

“Padraig,” she whispered, scooting closer to him on her blanket, “what happened to Elara after the copper leaf followed her home?”

“Aye!” added Liam Byrne, his eyes wide with excitement. “And what about the Oak? Did it … did it ever come lookin’?”

“How’d the leaf know her name?” another child chimed in, voice wobbling between curiosity and dread.

Padraig raised his hands in mock surrender, leaned back until the old stool creaked. “Now, now, settle yerselves. One tale’s all the night can handle. Any more, and ye’ll be wakin’ the woods with the fussin’.”

“But …” Kiera Rose started.

Padraig shook his head; the twinkle of mischief settled in his gaze. “Children of Brannagh’s Rest, there are some stories best told slow. Piece by piece. The Oak’s tale is like a long trail; ye won’t run it in a single night.”

He picked up his tin cup from the table and took a sip, letting them fidget with impatience. The noise picking up in the pub.

“Besides,” he added quietly, “the woods listen better when we leave a tale unfinished.”

Several of the kids turned to glance towards the dark line of trees in the distance. Brannagh Woods sat still and patient, as though waiting for exactly that. Maeve slipped her hand into Kiera’s, her small fingers like ice despite the warm flames.

“Do you think it’s real?” she whispered.

Kiera didn’t answer. The copper spark they’d seen earlier still glowed in her memory. It had been so quick … so bright. Too bright.

Padraig rose slowly, joints popping in the familiar way that announced the end of the evening. “Off with ye now. Yer parents’ll be wantin’ to head home soon, and I don’t fancy explainin’ to yer mammies and daddies why their little ones won’t sleep for dreamin’ of enchanted leaves.”

“Aw, but just one more?” Liam begged.

“No, lad,” Padraig stated firmly, pulling at his beard. “The night only has room for one tale from Brannagh Woods. More than that, and even I might start hearin’ voices in the branches.”

The children’s eyes widened and gasped filled the patio.

He winked as he extinguished the last cedar spark with the remainder of the liquid in his cup. “Now, don’t linger too long where them shadows reach. The Oak loves a wanderer, ye know.”

A shiver ran through the group, even from the older kids who claimed they weren’t afraid. As the storyteller shuffled off towards the pub door, the children gathered the blankets to place them in the outside chest, but none of them stepped any closer to the treeline. Not even Kiera.

The trees loomed dark and silent, their branches twisted like listening ears. Even though the fire had long gone out, the children lingered, staring at the Brannagh Woods half hoping, half dreading, that something might move again.