There comes a time in most people's lives when they harken to a call of the blood. Their ancestral roots start pulling them back to where they, or their parents, originated. In my case, those roots were in Ireland.

My story started in Toronto, Canada. My personal relationship of sixteen years was ending. The house was up for sale. My career was ebbing and I was yearning for deeper meaning in life. I felt drawn to go into retreat, and Ireland beckoned. At the same time this was happening, a friend of mine was going to Ireland and I asked her if she could find me a retreat place. I wanted a little cottage, somewhere away from towns and villages, where I could sit and meditate for the summer.

I had a goal in mind: to become enlightened. I'd read in various spiritual books that if you gave up attachments and committed yourself to a spiritual path, you became enlightened. I had given up my home, family and career, and I could think of nothing else to which I was attached. Obviously, I qualified.

Two months later my friend Elizabeth returned from Ireland, eager to see me. She told me that throughout her travels she had asked people if they knew of a peaceful countryside cottage for rent. However it wasn't until her last night in Dublin, while eating dinner with an old friend, that something turned up. Her friend volunteered that he knew of a cottage that would be available for the summer. It was on Achill Island on the west coast of Ireland.

Within two weeks, having said good-bye to my old life, I was on the plane to Dublin. I knew that the house in Toronto would be sold and that Bill, my companion, would have started a new life by the time I returned.

I arrived in Dublin at the dawn of a business day and went to see the owner of the cottage to pay the rent and get the key. Mr. Davidson was a middle-aged, relatively successful British businessman who had worked for a long time in Ireland. Polite and reserved, he motioned me to a chair.

"Mr. Davidson," I started, careful to observe the European protocol of using last names, "how long has your family had the cottage?"

"Twenty years, but we only use it during the summer. It's vacant the rest of the year but we have a caretaker, a neighbor, Mrs. O'Toole, who sees to its care. I've told her that you're coming and she'll have the door unlocked for you."

He paused, cleared his throat, and said, "Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Within the last two weeks, the cottage has been sold."

My heart sank as he continued, "Still, the good news is that I've told the new owners that they can't have it for a month, as I had promised it to you. But after a month you're going to have to look for something else."

I sat there, stunned. I couldn't believe how quickly the circumstances of my retreat were changing, and seemingly not for the better. Two possibilities leapt to mind. Either I needed only one month to become enlightened, or there were going to be some twists and turns that I hadn't anticipated. I suspected that the latter was the most probable and that the path to enlightenment was not going to be as easy as I had hoped.

Remembering my British manners, I shook hands and thanked Mr. Davidson for giving me the cottage for a month. Heart beating with anxiety, I left his office, flagged down a cab, and headed for the bus station. The clock was ticking; within an hour I had boarded a bus bound for Achill Island in County Mayo.

We drove from city to town, town to village, village to country. The scenery became more desolate, more rugged. By the time we arrived in County Mayo, the hills were bare and rocky. The higher hills had been slashed open by farmers and local people who had cut the peat from their family plots. Approximately five hours after leaving Dublin, the bus driver pulled over at the bottom of a country lane and gestured to a hill in the distance.

"That's where you'll find the cottage," he said.

How uncanny, I thought, that a driver from Dublin would know the cottage I was seeking. I hadn't as yet learned about the highly efficient Irish grapevine.

I hoisted my pack onto my back. It was laden with sheets and clothes for the cool Irish summer. Dusk was approaching as I started up the lane, my anxiety increasing with each step.

Where would I go in a month when my time here ran out? What would I find at the cottage? Had I misconstrued the reason for coming to Ireland? And why was I always second-guessing every decision I made and worrying about the future--as I was doing right this minute?

After a half-hour walk, I came to a small, white cottage with a slate roof and a blue door surrounded by a white fence. The cottage matched Mr. Davidson's description, so I opened the gate and walked up to the door. I was surprised to see that it was ajar and called out, "Hello, anyone home?" No one answered, so I tiptoed in.

There was a fire blazing in the hearth. I let the pack drop to the floor and sat down on the nearest chair. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkening room, I slowly took in my surroundings. There was a pile of peat beside the hearth and a bellows standing nose-down beside it. In front of the hearth was a saggy old green couch and, behind that, a large wooden table with six very sturdy chairs. To my left was a small empty room, obviously not used, and to my right was a door through which I could see a window and wardrobe, suggesting a bedroom. Behind me was a tiny kitchen which served double duty as an entrance way.

Since entering, I had felt as if I was intruding on someone's home, as if someone had left for a few minutes but would soon return to discover me. I tried to push this feeling aside, but more and more I was convinced that I was being watched. More accustomed to the fading light, my eyes swung over to the corner from which these vibrations emanated. I was shocked to find four people watching me: a small man, a small woman, and two children. I froze in place, not breathing. I've walked into someone's home, I thought, but what strange clothes they're wearing. My God, they're not human! Within milliseconds I concluded that I was in a haunted cottage. Shit, I thought, with mounting hysteria.

Before I could proceed along this line of thinking, the little man addressed me.

"We've lived in this cottage for a hundred of your years and we're willing to share it with you, but we have some conditions."

His appearance belied the authority of his words. He was no more than four feet tall and was dressed in an old-fashioned, buttoned-up green jacket that ended at his waist. It fit tightly over a fully rounded tummy. Brown trousers, cut off at the knee, extended down to thick leggings, which were inserted into large clog shoes -- larger, by all standards, than his feet had the right to be. And completing this strange attire was a gigantic black top hat.

The two boys were miniature versions of their father, minus the protruding stomach and top hat. They were fidgeting, obviously trying to behave but wanting to be somewhere else doing something different.

The little woman was dressed in a full skirt down to the floor, underneath from which peeked the same style clogs of her husband. She had on a hat that reminded me of those worn by the New England pilgrims, which seemed too large for her head. Her red hair was drawn back in a bun, but pieces refused to be confined and were busy falling down even as I looked. She was having a hard time keeping her hands still and kept wringing them, then putting them behind her back; next she'd smile at me and then, looking at her husband, she'd remove the smile and attempt to look serious.

The little man composed his face into a look of forced patience while he waited for me to respond to his offer. I was thrown off balance. Still, I had the feeling that some unexpected opportunity was awaiting me -- something unlooked for but precious. I responded, matching his serious tone.

"What are the conditions?"

"We're willing to strike a deal," he countered, seemingly relieved that I could speak.

"What's the deal?" I asked defensively. I was beginning to suspect that the "we" was really an "I," and that the little woman and children were there merely as backup.

"Well . . . you're living on a haunted lane -- and not all the elementals here are friendly to humans."

"Excuse me," I said, wanting to make absolutely sure that we were talking the same language, "but what do you mean by 'elementals'?"

"You humans," he said impatiently, "call us gnomes, goblins, dwarfs, faeries, elves, and leprechauns, but we're all elementals. That's our race, just like yours is the human species. There are many kinds of humans, just like there are many kinds of elementals. Now, as I was saying, we'll protect you for the summer. I know you'll need this protection because I know why you're here."

I almost stopped him again when I heard that, but decided I'd find out in due time. He seemed to realize my attention had wavered, because he paused before continuing.

"In return, at the end of the summer," he said, "I'll ask you for a gift."

"What's the gift?"

"We'll not tell you now. We'll tell you at the end of the summer," he responded.

Somewhere in my foggy memory bank I recalled stories of humans being tricked by faeries and elves, and I was leery of striking any open-ended deal. I could say that I didn't have any choice, as this was his cottage and I had nowhere else to go, but that wouldn't have been quite true. I believe that I could have lived there physically for the summer and simply closed myself down to these little people so that I never saw them again. But what unimaginable experiences would I be shutting out at the same time? And deep down I had a feeling that he would make a fair request. It was almost as if, even then, I was trusting him, so I said, "I agree."

I remembered Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken," in which the poet is on a walk in a wood when he comes to a fork in the road and says, "And I -- I took the the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference." I felt as if the leprechaun had offered me the same option of walking down the road not taken with him. I had no idea where this journey would lead, but I knew I would regret it if I passed up this opportunity.

Our bargain concluded, the leprechaun withdrew his attention, making it clear that our conversation was over for the evening. The little woman and children had already disappeared. Exhausted, I picked up my pack and entered the bedroom. The sturdy double bed, with wooden head- and footboard, had obviously provided comfort to generations of weary bodies. Undoing the zipper of my pack, I pulled out my bed linen and made the bed. In the cupboard were several woolen blankets, all of which I added. Shivering with cold, I took off my glasses and put them on the beside table. Then I tore off my clothes, put on my granny gown, and hopped under the covers. Within minutes, I was sound asleep.

Tanis Helliwell, M.Ed., is a student and teacher of the inner mysteries. Since 1985 she has led people on tours to sacred sites all over the world. Since childhood she has seen and heard elementals, angels, spirit guides and master teachers on other planes. For sixteen years she has conducted a therapy practice and seminars internationally to help people with their spiritual transformation.

Tours to sacred sites of Ireland in 1998 - Mystical tour, May 2-13 and Dingle Way Walk, May 13-21. Join Tanis Helliwell, author of Summer with the Leprechauns and guide to sacred sites. Call (604) 733-0339.

Reprinted by permission of Blue Dolphin Publishing, Inc., Nevada City, California. Summer with the Leprechauns: A True Story, Copyright 1997, Tanis Helliwell. Order information, please call Blue Dolphin Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 8, Nevada City, CA 95959; phones (800)643-0765; (530)265-6925; fax(530)265-0787; http://www.bluedolphinpublishing.com.

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