The Laughter of Peterkin: A retelling of old tales of the Celtic Wonderworld

On a quiet night, Peterkin awakes to a mischievous moonbeam that slips through his tangled hair and into his cupped hands. The glow transforms the poplar outside into a colossal figure, its branches stretching like arms and its leaves becoming countless tiny hands, while seven bright stars glitter among the highest twigs. As the light fades, he glimpses a hidden world of minuscule folk darting among the bark, their laughter echoing like distant music.

These tiny beings, no larger than dolls, chase one another through the green maze, climbing, sliding, and reaching for the moonshine with white hands as delicate as daisies. Their cradle‑sweet song drifts on the night air, a melody that feels both ancient and strangely familiar, as if whispered by wind, fire, and memory. When a dark cloud sweeps across the tree, silencing the tiny singers, Peterkin feels an urgent pull to follow the unseen dance, hinting at a deeper adventure within the Celtic wonderworld.