Proud Jenny Jay

Bran Quickbeak

The village of Dùn-Mallacht slumbered uneasily beneath the ever-watchful gaze of The Seann Blackspire, an ancient oak twisted by time and violence. Its jagged, lightning-scarred trunk loomed atop Cnoc na Gaoithe, the Hill of Winds, where storms seemed to gather as if summoned by the tree’s brooding presence. The gnarled branches clawed at the heavens like the grasping fingers of some skeletal god, and in the highest crook of its gaunt frame nested a menace that had earned both fear and grudging awe across the land. That terror of the skies was Bran Quickbeak.

Bran was no ordinary jackdaw. His feathers shimmered like polished midnight, catching the sun in elusive flashes of blue and black, and his keen, glittering eyes gleamed with the cunning of a thief and the arrogance of a king. Bran wasn’t merely a bird; he was a legend, a plague upon Dùn-Mallacht that flew on silent wings. No brooch, no buckle, no coin was safe when Bran took to the skies, his dark form darting and weaving through the air like an arrow’s shadow.

His strikes were surgical, his escapes masterful. Market stalls were emptied of silver trinkets in the blink of an eye, and firelit hearths surrendered their polished baubles to his beak before a shout could rise. Even the chieftain’s prized torc, a heavy gold collar gifted to him by the druids themselves, had disappeared one summer solstice, only for its twisted form to reappear months later, glinting mockingly from Bran’s treetop hoard.

The Seann Blackspire’s hollowed heart was Bran’s throne room, a cavernous hollow deep within the oak. Here, Bran wove a shimmering nest of stolen treasures, a bed of coins from distant lands, of brooches adorned with glass beads, of delicate silver chains, and even the occasional gleaming shell plucked from the nearby riverbank. When the moonlight spilled through the cracks in the oak’s bark, the nest glowed like the hidden trove of a dragon, and Bran, proud and untouchable, perched above it all like a king surveying his domain.

The villagers cursed him with bitter tongues and impotent fists. “That bird’s the Devil’s own thief,” growled old Tad Tolmach, jabbing a crooked finger skyward. His rheumy eyes followed the jackdaw’s silhouette as the bird spiralled lazily over the village, taunting those below. “His wings are woven with tricks and shadows, and his soul’s blacker than a moonless night.”

And yet, for all their malice, none could catch him. Traps baited with mirrors and coins were found empty, their sprung mechanisms mocking their creators. Arrows loosed from frustrated hunters vanished into the sky, the bird always a wingbeat ahead of their mark. Even the village falconer’s swiftest birds returned empty-handed, their vicious heads hung low with shame as Bran circled overhead, his tchakking laughter echoing in the restless winds of Cnoc na Gaoithe.

The people of Dùn-Mallacht had long learned to guard their treasures, but their vigilance only seemed to embolden Bran. His raids grew bolder, his prize pile higher. The villagers spoke his name in hushed tones, invoking him like a curse, but deep down, they feared something far worse than just a clever jackdaw. The Seann Blackspire had stood for centuries, its roots twisting deep into the earth, and some claimed that the tree was a portal and that Bran was a messenger from the Otherworld, a creature sent to remind them that the ancient powers of the land still watched and waited beyond the reach of the Roman gladius.

Whenever Bran Quickbeak soared back to his treetop kingdom, a single gold coin glinting in his beak, the villagers could only watch in helpless fury. Above them, on the Hill of Winds, the oak loomed darker than ever, and the jackdaw’s piercing cry rang out loudly, a sound that carried not just triumph, but a challenge.

One Market Day the village square buzzed with life, offering up a cacophony of chatter, bartering, and the occasional clatter of a dropped basket. The smell of fresh-baked bread mingled with the pungent tang of fish laid out on wooden stalls. Inga Beirne, her palms roughened by the forge, adjusted the basket of iron horseshoes on her hip as she wove through the crowd. Her father’s forge had grown cold that morning, the embers too feeble to melt iron. The empty space in their coin purse weighed more heavily on her mind than her basket did upon her hip. Each sale today wasn’t just a transaction, it was a meal, a roof, a day spared from hunger, and charcoal for the fire.

She reached her corner of the square, where sunlight glinted off the dull metal in her basket. Arranging the horseshoes with the care of a jeweller presenting gold rings to a fair maiden. Her hand instinctively brushed the small silver ring resting against her chest, tied to a simple leather cord. It was her mother’s ring, one of the few things left to her that she had not yet had to sell. The ring felt warm under her fingers, and her lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile.

A sharp tchakk shattered her reverie. The crowd seemed to freeze for a heartbeat as a shadow darted overhead. Bran Quickbeak, the jackdaw with feathers as black as midnight circled above. His wings sliced through the air like carving knives, glinting with a blue sheen under the noonday sun. When his piercing eyes locked onto her mother’s ring, a shiver coursed down Inga’s spine.

With a flick of his wings, Bran swooped low and landed on the edge of a nearby merchant’s cart, scattering a small pile of onions. He cocked his head, his black eyes glittering like obsidian. Then, in a voice that sent a ripple of unease through the square, he spoke.

“Fine ring you have there,” he rasped, his tone oily and laced with a hint of mockery. “Worthy of a queen, not a smith’s daughter. For sale?”

Inga’s stomach twisted, but she masked it with a scornful laugh. “Would I sell it? And what could a jackdaw offer me?” she countered, folding her arms.

Bran’s beak parted in a way that almost seemed like a smirk. “Treasure,” he croaked. “Jewels from the hollow hills. Gold stolen from kings. Coins enough to fill your purse for all time.”

The promise hung in the air, gilded and tempting. She thought of her father, stooped over his forge, trying to fashion scraps of metal into a livelihood. She was instantly reminded of the half-empty larder at home. Her fingers tightened around her mother’s ring, the familiar weight being both a comfort and a burden.

“And what would you take in return?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bran spread his wings slightly, his feathers ruffling like silk against the breeze. “Only that little trinket around your neck,” he said with deceptive softness. “Nothing more.”

The market seemed to blur around Inga, the cries of vendors fading to a dull hum. Inga’s heart was beating quickly as she looked into the jackdaw’s eyes, the promise of a solution to her struggles warring with the deep-seated warning that no deal with Bran Quickbeak came without a cost.

Against her better judgment, Inga slowly loosened the cord from around her neck, the ancient ring warm in her palm. Her pulse quickened as she held it up, the setting sun catching the gleam of the precious metal. “Prove your offer,” she said, her voice steady despite the rising storm of doubt in her gut.

Bran let out a triumphant call, his eyes gleaming with malice and mirth. With a swift flick of his wings, the jackdaw darted from the merchant’s cart. “Follow if you dare!” he shouted, his voice sharp and brittle like the crackle of autumn leaves burning in the wind.

Inga’s heart pounded in her chest. The audacity of the bird stirred something primal within her. She tightened her grip on the ring and sprinted after him. The path ahead was treacherous, winding through brambles, slick with moss, and twisted with ancient roots that reached like knotty fingers to trip her. Each breath came harder than the last, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and impending storm, yet, she pressed on, determination surging through her veins as her boots pounded the earth beneath her. The hill rose higher, steeper, until at last, she saw it, the ancient oak, towering like a god over the landscape, its limbs sprawling wide like Cthulhu.

Perched high above, Bran let out a mocking tchakk from his perch. Inga’s eyes widened in disbelief. There, nestled among the thick boughs of the oak, was an immense treasure, more even than the stories had ever hinted at. Jewels gleamed, catching the last rays of the sun, goblets of gold and silver, strings of glistening pearls, and piles of coins stacked high, glinted as though they were stars scattered carelessly in the tree’s embrace. The sight of it took Inga’s breath away. The legends were true. Bran, the clever, cursed jackdaw, had amassed a fortune beyond any mortal’s imagining.

Bran caught sight of the ring once more and he knew that he must have it, not for the value in coin, but for the power of sentimental anguish that would come to Inga with the loss of her mother’s only heirloom. Bran’s voice echoed down to her from above, cold and dismissive. “You’ve seen your reward,” he croaked, the words dripping with mockery. “Give me the ring, take what you can carry, and be gone.”

But Inga wasn’t a fool. She had come for something far greater than this small pile of stolen treasure. Her eyes narrowed, and she planted her feet firmly on the ground, her resolve hardening.. She had endured too much, she had sacrificed too much to let this thieving bird mock her now. She decided to try a little ruse, telling the bird that the ring was enchanted. “You promised treasure beyond my wildest dreams,” she called up, her voice clear and commanding, the wind tugging at her hair. “Not scraps stolen from poor villages. These are nothing but baubles. Cowards’ gold. This ring holds great magic. You’ll need to make a better offer, bird, much better.”

The jackdaw’s feathers fluffed in indignation, a dangerous gleam flashing in his eyes. A magic ring! He must have it. He flapped his wings, his form casting a shadow over the treasure below. He tried to sound uninterested. “Greedy, are we?” he hissed, the sound like the scrape of metal against stone. “What more could you possibly want than what you see, mortal?”

Inga stood taller, her chin lifted, her chest burning with a fierce pride. “I want a treasure beyond my wildest dreams,” she said, her voice low but fierce, a command she would not back down from. “The ring is magical. You’ll not steal it from me with trinkets. This ring bears the spirit of my mother, and mothers in our family line for generations. I offer you my birthright.”

Bran’s beak snapped shut, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, the jackdaw chattered sharply, his voice filled with venom. “A deal’s a deal, girl!” he screeched. “You asked for treasure. You never said what sort! You never specified what kind of treasure you wanted!”

Anger and cunning flared in Inga’s chest, white-hot and searing. She felt the heat of her anger burn through her, flooding every inch of her body. “Then keep your cursed gold!” she cried, her voice breaking through the air like thunder. “May it bind you tighter than chains! Let your greed choke you until your wings are too heavy to fly!”

Bran let out a furious cry, his wings flapping in agitation, but Inga didn’t flinch. The sky darkened overhead, the storm on the horizon creeping closer. Inga wondered if the world itself recognised the strength of purpose in her words. As the wind grew in strength and swirled around them, Inga stood tall, her heart beating steadily in the face of the jackdaw’s greed, ready for whatever would come next.

To Inga’s surprise, Bran cocked his head and then said, “Agreed, then. I’ll bring you treasure beyond your wildest dreams. Come here tomorrow and see.”

The next evening Inga made her way up the hill to stand underneath The Seann Blackspire, calling out for Bran. The bird perched gracefully upon the one of the lower branches of the great old oak, his glossy feathers catching the rising moonlight like polished obsidian. His dark eyes glittered with cunning intelligence as he regarded Inga with a tilt of his head. Carefully, he placed before her a golden necklace, intricate and finely wrought, shimmering with huge emeralds.

“Finest Roman workmanship. You’ll never starve once you sell this. Priceless…” he croaked.

Inga lifted the necklace, laughing softly as she let the cool metal slide between her fingers. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and a shadow of disappointment. "Pretty, Bran," she mused, "but nothing beyond my imagination. I’ve dreamed of greater treasures than this. You must do better."

Bran sighed inwardly. It was as he had expected, but worth a try, nevertheless. Undeterred, he disappeared into the night, returning the next evening with a small, ornate chest clutched tightly in his talons. With a gentle thud, he deposited it onto the ground beneath the old oak tree. As he did so he noticed that Inga was wearing the necklace, and he felt a deep pang of regret. Inga, meanwhile, opened the chest  and saw within it an array of fabulous jewels; sapphires deeper than midnight, rubies aflame with inner fire, and diamonds that glittered with star-like brilliance.

Inga leaned forward, her laughter clearer and sharper, tinged with a blend of delight and scepticism. "Ah, Bran, these sparkle brightly, for sure, but still, they are no more magnificent than the dreams of wealth I've had since childhood. Surely, you can surpass even this?"

With a rising sense of anger masked by a solemn blink, Bran soared once more into the velvet darkness. When he returned the following evening, exhaustion heavy in his wings, he carried something wrapped in delicate silk. He placed it reverently at Inga’s feet and pulled aside the fabric, revealing a crown so finely wrought, so laden with pearls, diamonds, and golden filigree that it seemed to pulse with its own regal light.

Inga lifted the crown, her laughter echoing through the night air, rich and edged with a bittersweet irony. "A crown, Bran? Beautiful beyond question, yet still it fails to eclipse the wonders of my own dreams. My imagination conjures kingdoms, not mere crowns. Is this truly the limit of your efforts?"

Bran tilted his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers in silent, thoughtful challenge, for he knew that imagination, when insatiable, could indeed be the greatest curse of all. He must have that ring. It was time to change the game. Bran left Inga with the necklace, the chest and the crown, flying up to the topmost branches of The Seann Blackspire. He would summon the old ones, and rain down upon the young woman the greatest fury.

As he began to bon and sway, reciting the old words, a strange shift rippled through the air, a hum so deep it seemed to come from the caverns of the earth themselves. A power, ancient and unseen, stirred like a sleeping giant beneath the soil. The Blackspire Oak, old beyond memory, its bark as dark as charcoal, twitched, as though awakening from a long slumber. The air vibrated with the tree’s wrath. Over so many years it had heard every whispered word, every sly promise, and every deceitful murmur that had passed through Bran’s beak. Its roots, twisted deep in the soil, coiled and pulsed like living serpents, while its branches began to stir, creaking and groaning with the fury of ages.

Bran laughed at first, but as the tree grew and came to dark life, he realised that something was wrong. Bran froze, a shiver racing up his spine as the oak seemed to draw in the very breath of the land. His wings flapped once, twice, his body a blur of panic as he tried to take flight. But it was too late. The great tree was alive and there was not breaking through its cage-like canopy.

Before he could soar into the open sky, the oak’s twisted limbs surged forward, closing with the speed and force of a cobra’s strike. They twisted around Bran, ensnaring him in a cage of bark and bone, pulling him into the hollow of its trunk as if he were a mere twig caught in a tidal storm surge. His wings beat frantically, desperately, but the enchanted branches held him fast, their grasp impossibly strong.

A deep, rumbling voice echoed through the night, accompanied by the sound of roots scraping on stone and branches cracking like thunder. To Bran, the tree whispered a curse, “And you, bird, who have sullied my heart, I offer an eternity in chains.”

Bran’s heart hammered in his chest as the weight of those words sank in. Cold dread settled like a stone in his gut. The Seann Blackspire, ageless and unyielding, claimed him, its ancient magic binding Bran in ways no mortal creature could escape. His breath came in sharp gasps, but the oak only tightened its hold, squeezing him deeper into its hollow heart.

Time, it seemed, had stopped. The world outside, the sky, the wind, the wild creatures of the wood, all faded away, leaving only the furious beating of his wings and the unrelenting pressure of the tree’s grip. Bran was not merely caught. He was imprisoned. Forever.

The Blackspire’s bark pulsed with an eerie glow as Bran’s stolen riches, gold, silver, and gleaming jewels, fused into the very wood of the ancient tree. The heavy clink of coin and the soft whisper of melting metal merging with magical timber filled the air, as if the treasures themselves conspired to trap the bird. With each passing moment, the gold flowed, while jewels burned with an unnatural fire, the light reflecting off the wooden boughs in a thousand fractured rays. The Seann Blackspire made a nest for Bran, a nest built by greed, a shrine to avarice, and now, it was his prison.

Bran stood in the heart of the chamber, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, his eyes wild with the realisation that he was alone and imprisoned for the remainder of his days. The riches that had once promised power now twisted around him, forming a cage of such dazzling beauty that it stole the very air from his lungs. He had wanted wealth, but now, as the walls closed in, he understood the price of his ambition. His riches had become his fate, and he would never leave this gleaming tomb, and all for the want of a magical ring.

Inga stood transfixed as Bran succumbed to the ancient tree’s curse. Once Bran was imprisoned, Inga heard that deep, rumbling voice once again, a voice thick with centuries of bitter knowledge, saying, “Woman, you sought treasure beyond measure. Now you too shall keep it… forever.”

Suddenly, the earth trembled violently beneath Inga's feet. From the roots of the oak, gold coins erupted like a torrential flood, glinting cruelly in the dim moonlight. They cascaded around her ankles, rising swiftly to her knees, then to her waist, trapping her in an avalanche of cold, glittering wealth. Pearls, rubies, and sapphires spilled forth in waves, piling heavily upon her, burying her hands, her arms, then her shoulders.

Inga cried out, first in astonishment, then in panic, as the relentless treasure continued its deadly ascent, filling her mouth, and choking her desperate pleas. Her cries for mercy twisted into strangled screams, muffled beneath the oppressive weight of her own greed. Slowly, inexorably, she sank beneath the growing mound of riches, her breath crushed from her lungs as the glittering hoard sealed her away forever. From his prison within the great oak, Bran watched impassively through a fissure in the tree’s bark, his obsidian eyes reflecting the deadly gleam of the treasure, a silent witness to the bitter end of both his own and Inga’s unbounded desire.