Summer Stars Over Donegal

The scent of turf smoke clung to the air like a lullaby, drifting in through the half-open window of the small room in Nana Sorcha’s house. The countryside outside was draped in a thick, pearly fog, the kind that seemed to hum with ancient lullabies, but inside the cramped bedroom, three boys shared a room far too small for so many limbs, dreams, and late-night whispers.

One of them, the youngest by a few months, tossed and turned in his cot, the sheets twisted at his ankles.

“I can’t sleep,” Sam Ihle muttered into the darkness.

A soft grunt came from the bunk above him.

“Again?” Jim whispered. “You’re worse than a lamb on a stormy night.”

Joe Jr., curled up by the foot of the room on an air mattress that was steadily losing air, let out a dramatic sigh. “I was almost asleep. Now I’m awake again. Thanks, Sam.”

“I tried,” Sam said, sitting up and wiping his face. “It’s too quiet. And too loud. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Jim replied. “But neither do you most of the time.”

Outside, a sheep bleated distantly. A dog barked in reply. The mist swirled beyond the hills. Inside, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs felt louder than a marching band.

“I feel like something’s out there,” Sam said, standing up and padding toward the window.

“It’s probably a cow,” Joe Jr. muttered.

“Or a banshee,” Jim offered, clearly enjoying the idea. “Maybe Nana Sorcha is secretly a witch, and she lured us here to steal our dreams.”

“I like Nana Sorcha,” Sam replied. “She made treacle bread and called me a ‘wee gentleman.’ She doesn’t look like a dream thief.”

“Exactly,” Jim said, eyes gleaming. “That’s how they get you.”

Sam stared out the window. “C’mon,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Let’s sneak out. Let’s see what’s out there. I want to see the stars.”

“Are you mad?” Joe Jr. sat up, hair sticking out in all directions. “You want to get us grounded by three generations of Irish women?”

“No one’ll notice,” Sam said. “We’ll be back before sunrise.”

“We’ll be ghosts,” Jim added with a grin, already grabbing a hoodie. “Let’s haunt Donegal.”

By 2:17 a.m., the three boys had snuck past the kitchen creaking floorboards, tiptoed around Nana’s snoring, and quietly let themselves out the back door into the damp, mist-laced night.

The moonlight was faint, veiled behind low clouds, and the fields were blanketed in dew. The smell of peat and grass filled their lungs as they crossed the little wooden fence behind the house and stepped into the open wild.

Sam breathed deep, every inch of him alive.

This was Donegal. This was summer. This was his.

“So what now?” Joe Jr. asked, trudging along behind the other two. “We going somewhere, or are we just… walking?”

“We’re wandering,” Sam said. “Like in the books.”

“Oh, books,” Joe Jr. groaned. “You mean like that Hobbit one you keep talking about?”

“Exactly,” Sam replied, eyes bright. “This is our Shire.”

Jim snorted. “If this is the Shire, you’re definitely Samwise.”

“His name is Sam,” Joe Jr. pointed out.

“Well, you can be Gollum,” Sam said without missing a beat.

“Oi!”

They wandered up a sloped trail that led into the old part of the forest. Nana had once said there were faerie rings here, and Sam had asked so many questions she had finally shushed him and made him peel potatoes to distract him.

The boys reached a moss-covered stone wall and scrambled over it, hearts racing at the mischief. Beyond lay a clearing with a rock outcrop that looked almost like a throne. They sat on it in turns, pretending to be kings and warlords of old.

“This is what summer’s supposed to be,” Sam whispered.

Jim leaned back on the rock, hands behind his head. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How we’re all cousins, but we only get to see each other for like a few weeks every year.”

Joe Jr. nodded. “I forget your voice between summers. Then you show up again, and it’s like—oh, yeah. Sam. The American cousin.”

“I’m not just American,” Sam said, defensive.

“No, we know,” Jim said. “You’re like… a walking passport. German dad, Irish mum, living in the States. You’re the European Union in a hoodie.”

Sam laughed. “I’m a patchwork.”

“A good one,” Joe Jr. said quietly. “I mean it.”

They sat in silence, the soft wind playing with the tips of the trees. Somewhere to the east, the clouds shifted just slightly, revealing a splatter of stars above.

“Oh, wow,” Sam breathed.

The Milky Way spilled across the sky like spilled sugar, a galaxy poured from God’s hands.

“See?” he whispered. “This is what I was looking for.”

None of them spoke for a long time. The stars did the talking.

Around 3:06 a.m., they heard a sound.

Something like a shuffle.

Then a rustle.

Jim held up a hand. “Wait.”

“What is it?” Joe Jr. asked.

“I thought I saw something.”

Sam turned to look.

And there it was again—a flash of white.

At first, they all froze. Then Joe Jr. whispered, “Banshee.”

“Don’t be daft,” Jim muttered, though his voice shook.

Sam squinted. “That’s not a banshee.”

It was a goat.

A very angry goat.

It charged, bleating furiously, and the three boys yelped in terror and scrambled over the stone wall like terrified athletes. Joe Jr. dropped a shoe. Sam dragged Jim by the collar. They didn’t stop running until they reached the hilltop behind Nana Sorcha’s cottage, breathless and panting.

“Well,” Jim said between gasps. “That was not majestic.”

Joe Jr. groaned. “I lost my trainer.”

“You can fight the goat for it in the morning,” Sam wheezed, doubled over with laughter.

They collapsed onto the grass, giggling helplessly.

Later, as the horizon began to soften with the promise of dawn, they found themselves lying shoulder to shoulder on the grass, the cottage a dark shape in the distance.

“Do you think,” Sam said quietly, “when we’re older, we’ll still talk like this?”

Jim looked at the sky. “I hope so.”

Joe Jr. nodded. “Maybe we’ll have kids of our own. And we’ll tell them about that night the goat tried to murder us.”

“And how you screamed louder than the goat,” Jim added.

Joe Jr. punched him lightly.

Sam smiled, then closed his eyes. “I think I can sleep now.”

There was no reply.

He opened his eyes again.

Both his cousins were asleep beside him.

He watched the sky shift from deep navy to a blooming lavender, the mist lifting like a curtain over the hills of Donegal.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But he knew this summer—this night—would stay with him forever.

And as the first bird began to sing and the sheep stirred awake in the pasture, Sam Ihle, son of many places, grandson of Nana Sorcha, dreamer of stars and midnight adventures, finally let his eyes close.

And slept.

END