The Glen of Glen Maye—Short Story by Victoria Beata

In the glen of Glen Maye, where the Grand Waterfall cascades like a river of starlight, there lives a small, wise mouse named Mouse. Mouse is not just any mouse, she is a keeper of tales and a spinner of stories, beloved by all creatures of the glen.

One evening, as twilight fell, Mouse nestled comfortably beside the roaring waterfall. Her audience tonight was an eager assembly of creatures, from the tiniest beetle to the sleekest worm. They gathered around, their eyes wide with wonder, as Mouse prepared to share a tale not often told.

“Now, my friends,” Mouse began, her voice clear over the sound of rushing water, “tonight’s story is special, for it speaks of magic, mystery, and the enchanted isle under the Irish Sea, just a whisper away from our shores.”

The creatures shuffled closer, the waterfall's mist casting a mystical veil around them.

“Long, long ago, before even Old Oak was an acorn,” Mouse continued, “there lived a great sea god named Manannan Mac Lir. He ruled the Isle of Man with kindness and magic. But as stories go, a change came upon the land. Saint Patrick arrived, driving Manannan and his folk into the sea, transformed into wondrous three-legged beings.”

A gasp fluttered through the crowd. Mouse smiled, enjoying the rapt attention.

“Undeterred by his fate, Manannan sank an entire isle into the Irish Sea, creating a hidden realm beneath the waves. This enchanted isle, filled with green hills and ringed by white foam, became his new domain. And here’s the marvel of it all—once every seven years, when Old May Day falls on a Sunday, the isle rises at dawn. It appears just before sunrise, like a dream brushing against the real.”

The little mouse paused, looking around at the spellbound faces.

“Imagine, if you will, standing on the nearest shore as the isle ascends. You’d see mermaids by the water’s edge, their golden hair flowing, hands tossing as they wash their shining jewels. You’d hear birds singing songs sweeter than honey, and the air, oh the air, would be filled with the scent of the rarest flowers.”

Mouse’s voice grew softer, more wistful. “But as quickly as it appears, the isle vanishes with the first sunlight touching its hills, sinking back into the deep, deep sea, lost to sight but not to memory.”

A silence hung in the air, the waterfall’s roar now a gentle background to their thoughts.

“Why does he do it, Mouse?” piped up young Rabbit, her tail twitching with curiosity. “Why does Manannan let us see his isle so rarely?”

Mouse chuckled, her eyes twinkling like stars. “Ah, it is a reminder, young one, that magic is all around us, often hidden but always present. Manannan shows us his realm to remind us of the wonders we cannot always see but should never stop believing in.”

As the moon rose high, casting silvery light across the glen, Mouse’s tale came to an end. The creatures of the forest, hearts lighter and minds filled with wonder, drifted back to their homes, whispers of the hidden isle warming their spirits.

And Mouse, the wise story-spinning mouse, tucked into her mossy bed beside the waterfall, fell asleep with a smile, knowing her tales had once again spread a little magic in the world of Glen Maye.

And as the waterfall sings, we close the pages on today’s enchanting journey through Glen Maye with Mouse and her friends. Inspired by Manx folklore, this tale has woven ancient myths with the magic of our natural world, hoping to bring a piece of the Isle's heritage into your hearts.