Long ago, before the mountain shadows deepened and the wind carried whispers, there lived a healer named Hazel on the slopes of Slieve Gullion.Her cottage, nestled in a hollow where hawthorn trees grew thick and ancient, was a place of comfort. Villagers climbed the winding paths for her teas, her tinctures, and her smile, a soft, sweet thing that made even the sick feel mended. Hazel spoke to the land as if it were an old friend. She sang to the spring that bubbled from the rock, coaxed herbs from frozen ground, and thanked the wind for its wisdom. Some said the mountain itself favoured her, blessing her with gentle weather and rare flowers no one else could grow. But peace, like a mirror, is easily shattered.One winter, a traveller came, cloaked in black frost and silence. He claimed to be a scholar, seeking old magics hidden in the hills. He asked Hazel questions she had never thought to answer. About life beyond life, about bending the will of nature instead of serving it.The traveller left when the snows melted. But he left behind a book. Bound in bark and sinew, the book whispered to Hazel at night. It called her by her name, in her own voice. It promised her strength, not just to heal, but to command. Not just to speak to the wind, but to command. Not just to speak to the wind, but make it howl.She resisted, at first.But when a child she could not save died in her arms, Hazel opened the book. The change came slowly and then all at once. Her golden hair withered to grey, stringy as nettle roots. Her skin turned the colour of swamp moss. Her once gentle voice turned raspy, as dry leaves dragged across stone.She left the village behind.Now, Hazel still lives on Slieve Gullion, but the mountain no longer welcomes travellers. The wind cuts like teeth. The spring runs bitter. No birds sing in her woods. She curses crops and twists the weather into cruel shapes. Children cry out in their sleep, dreaming of a woman with green skin and thorny fingers. Some say she regrets what she’s become. That in the hollow of the night, she weeps where her garden once bloomed. But her mission is clear: to disturb the peace she once lived in, and to remind all those who seek comfort that even the kindest of hearts can rot when they drink too deeply from the well of power. So, when you walk near Slieve Gullion, leave no offerings, speak no names, and never follow the music.This story was published in The Irish Times Fighting Words magazine, a collection of stories, poems and essays by young and international writers