This Magic Ring

Let me tell you a tale of a woman with a magic ring. 

Our tale starts in Ireland, in a small remote fishing village, sometime in the seventeenth century. In this quaint village, we are drawn to one particular man: Richard Joyce. Particularly, we are interested in following the events that occurred on one dreadful day; Richard was captured by swash buckling pirates after their savage ransacking of said village, and taken aboard their gruesome ship, to sell off to those rich enough to own a slave. Quite an unfortunate series of events for our Richard, partly because he was decently happy in his home, and even more so because the raving booty hunters took him away from that which he loved most: a beautiful young woman who held the key to his heart. 

Alas, after the fateful disruption to his everyday routine of fishing, selling fish, eating fish and pining after his love, we find him to be the slave of a rather talented and generous goldsmith. Slavery is an exaggerated term for Richard's condition, for after mere days of working for his master, he began to inquire about the art of goldsmithing, and rather than receiving a lashing, he was rewarded with lessons and the opportunity to practice it himself. Our dear Richard became a bit of a goldsmith himself, and given the first free moment, fashioned for his love something wondrous. It was a ring, bearing a heart dressed with a crown held by two hands that wrapped around the finger and acted as the band. 

He soldered it all together. A heart, to represent their love. Two hands holding the heart up, representing their years of friendship. A crown, upon the heart, representing his loyalty and devotion to her, even while separated by seas. He only wished he would live to be able to give it to her. 

Let us return now to our heroine, in the present day. 

It seems that through some simple deduction, we can amount to the conclusion that she has a magic ring. Yes, indeed, this most curious case presents itself an abnormality of all previous rings made with the same intention. Love, friendship and loyalty. No, no, when this woman gazes upon the sterling silver band, residing on her middle finger, she does not hear the call of these virtues imbued in the ring by the maker. It does invoke the most peculiar effect however, wherein she finds herself completely transported to a mystical land from the past. In a whirlwind of a moment, she is somewhere very cold and green. She stands upon large and barren fields, fiercely swept about by a deceptively hushed wind which rushes over the edge of the chalky cliffs. Whenever the ring brings her here, she feels a sense of longing and nostalgia. 

See, sometimes when the ring transports her, she is not alone. Greeted by faces that she feels are familiar, yet when she tries to recall who they belong to, she’s met only with the rather alarming feeling that she’s shrinking and reverting to a younger self. I can say with confidence that she much prefers to be alone on the cliffs of Moher, watching the Puffin colonies jump about. She remembers the birds the most. Yes, there are Atlantic Puffins, but there are also Black Guillemots, Eurasian Oystercatchers and Razorbills. The people can be hard to recall, but the birds soar with her even when she glances at the ring. They are lifted up by the brisk winds that carry across the landscapes, known by everyone in the land of Éire. This is where our heroine travels to. And it is here that she contradicts the original purpose of the ring: to serve as a symbol of love. She has willed it and it has become a portal to beloved worlds, embedded in the very matter it is made of, transformed and made anew for her. 

 by Alicja Krotofil