THE MAGPIE REPORT
Issue No. 1: Filed under Transport & Communications
“Carried on the wind, kept in the wing."
Filed by Hobs & Fiddle | Printed by claw on birchbark at dawn
Purpose:
To oversee the travel of ideas, the movement of messages, and the transit of curiosities across Under Lough Owel. We’re the invisible network humming between doorstep, sky, and heart.
Key Functions:
Dispatch Delivery
The magpies, Hobs and Fiddle, serve as official couriers. Whether carried on the breeze, tucked into a scroll, or perched on a windowsill, nothing reaches its destination quite like their feathers allow.
Message Monitoring
We glean secrets from humming notes, wandering tunes, and half-whispered wishes on the Wishing Line. Reports are filed at daybreak and dusk, each one a fold-out surprise.
Mail & Mobility
Every letter, lock, and longing moves through channels both seen and hidden, pier planks, weather-vanes, mirrored maps. We safeguard the passage of thought as much as it is of ink.
Forecast & Feedback
Weather, wind, and whimsy, forecasted, filed, and filtered through magpie wings into the village’s daily hum of expectation.
Vision Statement:
Foster connection in the silences and stir magic in the ordinary. Let every faltering letter find its way, every song return home, and every whisper write itself in the wind.
Pursuant to the quiet murmuring of the land and the advisory council of three (plus Orla Merrin’s dream on Tuesday last), it has been resolved that one Structure, long-standing and questionably lawful, shall be MOVED this week. No appeals. No reversals. The wind has already agreed.
Night of the Rising Lints
Magpie, magpie, peck my stone,
Leave me one Lint all my own.
Peck it once, my trust is fair,
Peck it twice, beware, beware!
Last night, the lake was calmer than a priest’s breath with not a ripple or reed-whisper. Then, sometime past midnight, the children of the village woke first. It's always the children, isn't it! their ears sharper than ours. They tumbled from beds, calling: “The lights! The lights!"
Down at the pier, we gathered old shawls pulled tight, boots unlaced in haste. And there, under the boards, the water glowed as if a hundred candles lay burning on the lakebed. Orbs, clear, round, and pulsing faintly, drifted upward like bubbles, slow and certain.
Maudie O’Byrne crossed herself, swearing they were the souls of the unborn.
Tie One On muttered about drunken eyes, though his own token shone oddly bright in his pocket.
Orla Merrin whispered to her notebook: “The mine of stars is open tonight."
As the first orb reached the surface, it did not break like a bubble but hovered a moment, then dissolved into nothing, leaving behind a faint thread of light that wound itself into the Echo Shelf. The Magpie, gave a sharp caw, three times, for the ledger was shifting even as we watched.
By dawn the glow had faded. The lake lay ordinary again, ordinary as ever Lough Owel allows. But each villager’s token carried a new glimmer, a brighter pulse, as though the night’s mining had filled them all.
Filed by Fiddle at moonset.
Pier rail still damp with dew.
The Magpie Report
Coming Soon: THE CARETAKER
Fiddle believes it was a residual haunting of joy, a memory of comfort echoing forward, not back.
Hobs says some songs are sent ahead of time, like letters to who we’ll be.
WEATHER (or What the Sky Is Thinking)
Forecast: Expect four and a half clouds by teatime, one shaped like a kettle and another like remorse.
Winds: From the east, bearing gossip from Ferryfield and a sandwich crust.
Notes: Do not hang out blue washing on Wednesdays. It invites sermons.
VILLAGE MOVEMENTS
The Whispering Shed has been moved three feet west by unknown hands or roots. Fiddle suspects Maerla. Hobs suspects the moon.
A flock of starlings rehearsed a murmuration over Lough Owel at 5:45am. Pattern resembled a ladle, then a violin, then an empty chair. Message unclear.
OBJECTS FOUND
One brass monocle, smudged. Returned to the sundial by midday.
A note in block print: “WE REMEMBER YOUR PROMISE." Tied to a poppy stalk. Not signed.
Feathered whisper-pouch caught in The Wishing Line. Tasted of wild plum and ink. Contents confidential.