A Very Short Tale

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She wasn’t sure, of course, walking, as she had done, down from the mist-covered high rocks and into the mist-beloved streams.  She wasn’t sure that those people would even see her, the people with the their peat fires, and their woolen cloaks, and their blue dye.  Those people who cooked fish in skillets with butter and who drank uisce beatha, who could read both the standing rocks and the scrolls in the monastery.

But she wrapped her grey shawl around her shoulders and she walked down the mountain, just the same.

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