AN OUNCE OF MAGIC RYAN SPARKS PROLOGUE Fall, 2019 County Donegal, Ireland 300 Yards south of Lough Eske Castle Construction Site of New Electric Car Charging Point. Padric Agnew had not nursed as mighty a hangover as this morning's since he had been a boy, and downed a full man's share of his fathers christmas whiskey. The throbbing in his head was so constant, pushing his eyes down into a squint and blurring his vision so badly he'd almost trade it for the beating he had caught when his old man had found his dear bottle emptied. Padric would have called out on any other day, but the boys down in head office had nearly crawled through his mobile phone when he tried to pawn off todays concrete patching to tomorrow, something about the dire need for modernization in Donegal and the importance of electric car charging not just to the council, but the nations future or some twaddle. Being a simple man, Padric had never driven an electric car, and for the matter had never seen one in the whole of Donegal, let alone at the old castle sight where only the 4th shelf tours would come, clogging up the old crowded pub with all sorts, leaving them to go walking through the moldy damp grounds, snapping pictures with their cellular telephones, heem hawing about all the history. Even without the blight put him by last night's double, maybe triple helping of Irish Gold, Padric doubtfully would have noticed as his dirt hauler tilled through the rich earth, that it was also breaking through a ring of fine white stones, hidden by a mound of dirt and grass that had settled onto the embankment over the centuries. And since he had never been much of a student of history, nor did he take much stock in the stories his grandmother has spooned to him when he was young, like so much broth on his occasional sick bed, stories of fairies and long dead kings. Had he gleaned more from the old women's tales, and his eyes been sharper on this day, he may have noted the signs of copper pieces, caked with aged earth, small pointed teeth, and notched flints of stone being mixed and tumbled up by his machine. By the time the berm had been leveled flat, matching with the existing parking lot, Padric has worked up a heady sweat, stinging his already sore eyes. Grimacing he rubbed it away with a threadbare pocket rag that he carried in his work jumper, before setting to work on the concrete mixer, lining out the spaces for the american car company to come put it's absolutely necessary to rural Ireland car charger in the next day, and a slot for their power to run to the main feed. When he had finished, a passable enough job for a tired man, straight enough of a concrete pad for county work at least, Padric swore at himself under his breath, hurriedly driving the dirt mover and its bucket up onto the trailer attached to his old truck. The truck was much like Agnew himself, solid, dependable, and with non of the flash nonsense of the newer generation, but starting to creak and wear a bit with age. Agnew set off home, trailer in tow, never did he notice the silver haze of the freshly poured concrete, unknowing he had just dismantled not only ancient fairy mound, but a deadly pact. He never did get around to finding it out, since his wife found him dead, half in and half out of his still running truck, that very afternoon, on the drive to their cottage home. His lips had gone blue, whilst he seemed to have choked on nothing but air itself, his heart, old but trusty, showing no signs of having given out. The only oddity, a soil caked copper disk, that had been clenched with his very life's strength in his stiff right hand. It bore nothing but a name, Nial, and a small knotwork design. A pity Padric Agnew, never listened more to his grandmother, that he may have paid more attention to where he dug, in spite of living in the new world, he found something very old indeed.