Agus an fharraige ag béiceadh in ard a chinn is a ghutha in aice na hailleacha, thosaigh gaoith gheimhridh ag crith ar scáth an tsneachta.

As the sea shouted at the top of its voice next to the cliffs, a winter wind began to shiver in the shadow of the snow.

Bhí moill ar an lá agus an oíche ag titim go bog.

The day was delayed as the night fell gently.

Chlé, tá na hAille Móire, ar chlé, is é an t-Atlantic mórthimpeall orthu.

To the left, there are the Aille Móire, to the left, with the Atlantic all around them.

Anseo, tá fíniúnacha agus clocha gréine a bhfuil eagla orthu fiú aire a thabhairt do bheocht an tsaoil.

Here, there are vines and sunstones that are even afraid to care for the vibrancy of life.

Niamh, cailín cróga agus fiosrach, thóg sí a hat láimhe agus í ag siúl ar aghaidh vía an bhealach dorcha chuig a comhairle.

Niamh, a brave and curious girl, took her hat in hand as she walked forward via the dark path toward her counsel.

Bhí Aoife ag fanacht ag an teach, a dteach teolaí suite i dtearmann cnoic.

Aoife was waiting at the house, their cozy home nestled in a hill's sanctuary.

Tá Aoife clúiteach as scéalta mistéireacha a inse, scéalta a thógann daoine chuig an domhan draíochta.

Aoife is renowned for telling mysterious tales, stories that transport people to the magical world.

Ach bhí súil an chailín socraithe ar an bhfianaise nua a tháinig chugainn ó na farraige, solas aisteach i bhfad i gcéin.

But the girl's gaze was fixed on the new evidence that came to us from the sea, a strange light far away.

Tháinig sé i dtaithí le hImbolc, an féile a nascann an tSamhain leis an earrach, tíolactha ag líonta práinne.

It coincided with Imbolc, the festival that connects Samhain with spring, delivered with urgent nets.

“Caithfear teacht ar bunús an tsolais," a dúirt Niamh go dána.

“We must find the source of the light," said Niamh boldly.

"Caithfidh sé a bheith ina rud iontach!”

"It has to be something wonderful!”

Bhí Ciarán, an deartháir níos gránna, amhrasach faoi.

Ciarán, the grumpier brother, was skeptical.

“Ní rud ach gaoth lampa nó bád atá ann!” arsa sé.

“It's nothing but a lamp flame or a boat!” he said.

Bhí sé i gcónaí réalaíoch.

He was always realistic.

D'imigh Niamh go ciúin le hAoife.

Niamh quietly left with Aoife.

"An féidir leat rud ar bith a fhios dom faoin solas, Aoife?" a d'fhiafraigh Niamh.

"Can you tell me anything about the light, Aoife?" Niamh asked.

D'fhéach Aoife sa charnán ollmhór de leabhair a bhí aici i gcónaí agus d'osclaigh sí ceann.

Aoife looked through the huge pile of books she always had and opened one.

“Tá scéalacha ann faoi lampaí draíochta a fheictear in Imbolc,” a d’uimhir sí go mall.

“There are stories about magical lamps that appear during Imbolc,” she numbered slowly.

“Ach tá an fhearg ag méadú ar na laochra nua-aimseartha.

“But the anger is increasing towards the modern heroes.

Tá gach aon chosc fá chlaochlú."

Every prohibition is about transformation.”

Sa deireadh, d'iarr sí ar Ciarán dul in éineacht leo.

In the end, she asked Ciarán to accompany them.

Bhí sé imníoch ar dtús, ach nuair a bhreathnaigh Niamh sa tsúil air le hiarraidh air, cheadaigh sé.

He was worried at first, but when Niamh looked him in the eye to plead with him, he agreed.

Ar oíche na tuairiscí, d'fhágadar ar an mbealach sleamhain chiúin.

On the night of the reports, they set off on the quiet slippery path.

Sa deifir, maidir leis an aimsir, bhí siad fós áitiúil i dtost an nádúir.

In a hurry, concerning the weather, they were still local in nature’s silence.

Bhí siad faoi cheilt, comharthaí an lae, ag druidim leis an solas.

They were hidden, signs of the day, approaching the light.

Le naoi na n-abhaige, tháinig siad chuig cloch mhór lena hoighear á gcaomhnú ag gíontacht na clocha.

By nine of the notch, they reached a big stone, its ice preserved by the tightness of the stones.

Bhí an solas ag lasadh sa dorchadas agus iad ag teannadh leis an eolas seo.

The light was shining in the darkness, and they approached this knowledge.

Chuir Aoife lámh ar na siombailí scríofa air, ádtar a ghlanadh agus a léamh go cúramach.

Aoife placed her hand on the symbols written there, preparing to clean and read it carefully.

“Ní mioncháin ón oíche atá ann," a dhearbhaigh Aoife.

“It’s not echoes of the night,” Aoife confirmed.

“Caithfidh an áit a bheith cosanta, ina fhoirm draíochta, i gcónaí, bliain i ndiaidh bliana.”

“The place must be protected, in its magical form, always, year after year.”

Thosaigh an éirí gréine ag teacht suas, ag ceangal deireadh le tintreach ansin gardaíodh an sruth spéir.

The sunrise began to emerge, tying an end with lightning, then the stream of the sky was guarded.

Bhí brí leis don chéad uair ag Ciarán, réalaíoch nó nach raibh, an suáilce as sin.

It had meaning for the first time for Ciarán, realistic or not, the delight in that.

Tuigeann sé agus gnotti talamh na mbunús draíochta go léir.

He understands and knows the land of all magical origins.

Thuilleann Niamh beart nua tuisceana — nach bhfuil sé riachtanach fanacht ina duáin sin freisin.

Niamh acquires new understanding — that it’s not necessary to remain in that state either.

Ag seasamh os cionn uiscí beatha, teiripe neasa nár dheimhnigh sí go deo ní raibh uaithi ach rún A-S na lámhachán.

Standing above the waters of life, a healing therapy unconfirmed she wanted nothing but secret A-S of the shooters.

“Tara bomhara, i gcuimhní,” a labhair Aoife le racha, “níor scéalta iad amháin; tá sé ann le tabhair tomhas.”

“Tara smoother, in memories,” Aoife spoke quietly, “they were not just stories; it is there to provide measure.”

Ag deire seanghnéach Roimhe seo, thoisigh sí ar ais na scéalta sin, ag coinneáil an phobail faoi scáth na seanaimsire.

At the end of a bygone age, she began to return those stories, keeping the community under the shadow of old times.

An Eolas a bhí ag Fágáil ann a chothabháil le macánt agus an buíochas laistigh dá cas.

The Knowledge Leaving there to be maintained with honesty and gratitude within its case.