Many years ago on a particularly clement evening, my good friend Rich and his wife Diane hosted a summer party at their handsome row house in Brooklyn’s Park Slope.

Most of the adults mingled inside, but the children played in the spacious yard behind the house. A point of pride for Rich, the rectangular backyard rolls away from the rear stairs on a carpet of lush grass with a well-maintained garden and leafy canopies of old-growth oaks overhanging the far end.

On that magical evening, with stars visible in the Brooklyn sky and fireflies adding their own intermittent constellations, the sward unfurled its green invitation all the way to the Old Sod itself. As it grew dark, I stepped outside to enjoy the air, filled with the shrieks of frolicking kids.

One of my honorary nieces, Cassandra, spotted me and rushed the whole gang over to me. Exhausted from an hours-long game of tag, they wanted me to tell them a story. With my young audience sitting around me on the stairs, I told them the following tale:

In ancient Ireland there was a great hero named Oisín [pronounced “Oo-sheen”]. His name meant “Little Deer” and he was the son of Finn McCool, the mightiest, most valiant hero of them all, renowned for his strength and good deeds. Like his father, Oisín was strong and brave, a mighty warrior who was always fair and just.

Oisín enjoyed walking along the beach on Ireland’s coast, the sea stretching endlessly into the West. What he didn’t know was that he was being watched—by a goddess!

Murmurs and whispers circulated for a second among my young friends.

Niamh[the anglicized spelling counterintuitively pronounced “Neev”] was a goddess who lived across the ocean in a place called Tír na nÓg [Teer-na-nogue], which literally means “land no age”—the undying land, a realm where no one grows old. She had watched Oisín, who was so handsome and strong, and she’d fallen in love with him.

So one day, she appeared to him. Oisín suddenly saw this beautiful goddess with golden hair riding toward him over the waves on a magnificent white horse. She galloped up to him and from atop her horse she said: “I am Niamh of Tír na nÓg. Come away with me and be my husband in the land without sorrow or death.” Enchanted by her beauty and beguiled by her offer, Oisín leapt up on her horse and the two rode west, far across the waves to Tír na nÓg.

The gods greeted Oisín with celebration and wonderment. Every night they held a great feast in his honor with music and singing afterwards. The songs of the gods were so happy and beautiful that Oisín cried tears of pure joy. Then Oisín would sing and his songs, filled with sorrow and loss, made the gods weep for sadness.

Life went on this way for Oisín and Niamh and they were very happy, but one day Oisín said to Niamh: “I miss Ireland. I miss the places I walked and hunted. I miss the cheerful company of my father Finn and our fellow warriors.”

Niamh now told him: “Oisín, time passes differently in Tír na nÓg. You’ve been here a very, very long time. What seems years to you has been centuries. You can never set foot on Ireland’s soil or else the ages you have lived in Tír na nÓg will catch up with you.”

At this turn in the tale, my young audience showed their extreme concern with widened eyes and open mouths, as well as little audible intakes of breath.

Oisín persisted. “There must be some way I could go back just to look at my old land.”

Niamh grudgingly admitted there was a way. “Yes, you could ride across the waves on my horse but you mustn’t get off the horse! Ride along Ireland’s strand if you will, but if your feet touch its earth you will pay for all the time you’ve enjoyed here.”

And so Oisín rode across the waves and soon saw Ireland’s shores, but as his horse trotted along the beach he began to notice that his land had changed. Villages now stood where none had been before. Mighty castles—the homes of his dearest friends—lay in ruins and, judging by the moss grown over the stones, for quite some time.

How long had he been away?

Judging by the expressions around me, Oisín wasn’t the only one who wondered.

Then Oisín saw people in the distance working at something. When he rode to them, they looked up and gasped in astonishment! Who was this striking young man dressed in the costume of an ancient warrior of Ireland?

Oisín asked the men what they were doing and they explained that they were lifting stones from this old ruin to build a wall. Now Oisín felt lightheaded with a realization that began to dawn on him—this ruin was once his home. But before he could give it another thought, the hero in him compelled him to jump down from his horse to help the men at their task.

Now several kids sighed “Oh no.”

The men cried out with fright at what happened next. Instantly, the handsome young warrior turned into a wizened old man bent over with age, his wrinkled face lost beneath a bushy beard and long, brittle hair, all white as clouds.

Silence.

The fireflies emitted their yellow beacons like so many lighthouses. Stars twinkled. A slim crescent of a moon could now be seen. Twilight enveloped the garden, suddenly grown vast and exquisitely mysterious.

Then came the questions:
“Why did Oisín get off his horse?”
“How come Niamh didn’t stop Oisín?”
“So how long was Oisín in Tír na nÓg?”
“Did he really miss Ireland that much?”
“Uncle Patrick, tell us that story again!”