The Horned Women
Arich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called out, “Open! Open!”
“Who is there?” said the woman of the house.
“I am the Witch of the One Horn,” was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud, “Where are the women; they delay too long?”
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, “Open! Open!”
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
“Give me place,” she said; “I am the Witch of the Two Horns”; and she began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire—the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread and turned their spinning-wheels, and wound and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, “Rise, woman, and make us a cake.” Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.
And they said to her, “Take a sieve, and bring water in it.” And she took the sieve, and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then came a voice by her, and said, “Take yellow clayand moss and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.”
This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice said again:
“Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house cry aloud three times, and say, ‘The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.’”
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and, lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited.
Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for vengeance.
“Open! Open!” they screamed. “Open, feet-water!”
“I cannot,” said the feet-water; “I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.”
“Open, open, wood and trees and beam!” they cried to the door.
“I cannot,” said the door, “for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I have no power to move.”
“Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!” they cried again.
“I cannot,” said the cake, “for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.”
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night’s awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.
Lady Wilde.
“Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultrey; an’ he was out iv all rason partial to geese—an’ small blame to him for that same—for twice’t a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a fine price for the feathers, an’ plenty of rale sizable eggs—an’ when they are too ouldto lay any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d’ye see, let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out.
“Well, it happened in the coorse iv time that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, an’ lookin’ up in his face jist like any other Christian id do; an’, begorra, the likes iv it was never seen—Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great.
An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more, an’ kep it from that time out for love an’ affection—just all as one like one iv his childer.
“But happiness in perfection never lasts long, an’ the neighbours begin’d to suspect the nathur an’ intentions iv the gandher, an’ some iv them said it was the divil, an’ more iv them that it was a fairy.
“Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, an’ you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor, in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the illigant hand at the business, an’ divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’, moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney—this man’s father that was.
“So without more about it he was sint for, an’, sure enough, the divil a long he was about it, for he kem backthat very evenin’ along wid the boy that was sint for him, an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he begin’d, of coorse, to look into the gandher.
“Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right an’ to the left, an’ straight-ways an’ upside-down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney:
“‘Terence,’ says he, ‘you must remove the bird into the next room,’ says he, ‘an’ put a petticoat,’ says he, ‘or anny other convaynience round his head,’ says he.
“‘An’ why so?’ says Terence.
“‘Becase,’ says Jer, says he.
“‘Becase what?’ says Terence.
Becase,’ says Jer, ‘if it isn’t done you’ll never be asy agin,’ says he, ‘or pusillanimous in your mind,’ says he; ‘so ax no more questions, but do my biddin’,’ says he.
“‘Well,’ says Terence, ‘have your own way,’ says he.
“An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher an’ giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.
“‘An’ take care,’ says he, ‘don’t smother the crathur,’ says he.
“Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he:
“‘Do you know what that old gandheris, Terence Mooney?’
“‘Divil a taste,’ says Terence.
“‘Well, then,’ says Jer, ‘the gandher is your own father,’ says he.
“‘It’s jokin’ you are,’ says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; ‘how can an ould gandher be my father?’ says he.
“‘I’m not funnin’ you at all,’ says Jer; ‘it’s thrue what I tell you, it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,’ says he, ‘that’s naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s body,’ says he. ‘I know him many ways, and I wondher,’ says he, ‘you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,’ says he.
“‘Oh, blur an’ ages!’ says Terence, ‘what the divil will I ever do at all at all,’ says he; ‘it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,’ says he.
“‘That can’t be helped now,’ says Jer; ‘it was a sevare act, surely,’ says he, ‘but it’s too late to lamint for it now,’ says he; ‘the only way to prevint what’s past,’ says he, ‘is to put a stop to it before it happens,’ says he.
Thrue for you,’ says Terence, ‘but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,’ says he, ‘bein’ in the ould gandher,’ says he.
“‘If I tould you,’ says Jer, ‘you would not undherstand me,’ says he, ‘without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,’ says he; ‘so ax me no questions,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll tell you no lies. But b’lieve me in this much,’ says he, ‘it’s your father that’s in it,’ says he; ‘an’ if I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,’ says he, ‘I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,’ says he.
“‘Say no more,’ says Terence; ‘that settles the business,’ says he; ‘an’ oh, blur and ages! is it not a quare thing,’ says he, ‘for a dacent, respictable man,’ says he, ‘to be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,’ says he;‘and oh, murdher, murdher! is not it often I plucked him,’ says he, ‘an’ tundher and ouns! might not I have ate him?’ says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, an’ on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.
“Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him, quite an’ asy:
“‘Terence,’ says he, ‘don’t be aggravatin’ yourself,’ says he; ‘for I have a plan composed that ’ill make him spake out,’ says he, ‘an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,’ says he; ‘an’ mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther, an’ to say agin anything I tell you,’ says he, ‘but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,’ says he, ‘how that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,’ says he. ‘An’ if he don’t spake to-night,’ says he, ‘or gother himself out iv the place,’ says he, ‘put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,’ says he, ‘straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating,’ says he, ‘along wid the two gossoons,’ says he, ‘an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,’ says he, ‘if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,’ says he. ‘An’ mind,’ says he, ‘as soon as iver he says the first word,’ says he, ‘that very minute bring him aff to Father Crotty,’ says he; ‘an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,’ says he, ‘like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,’ says he, ‘into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory,’ says he, ‘there’s no vartue in my charums,’ says he.
“Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an’ they all begin’d to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled. But divil a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord-Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, an’ to ‘settle it out wid hay soft an’ shnug,’ says he, ‘for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ’ill get in this world,’ says he.
“Well, as the night was gettin’ late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs wor fairly in bed, he brought out some illigint potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it; an’, begorra, the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them. It wasn’t an imparial, though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew—the Lord purloin his raverince—begin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland.
An’, begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ it’s proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry.
“Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop; ‘for enough is as good as a faste,’ says he; ‘an’ I pity the vagabond,’ says he, ‘that is not able to conthroul his licquor,’ says he, ‘an’ to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,’ says he; an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night an’ walked out iv the room.
“But he wint out the wrong door, bein’ a thrifle hearty in himself an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’. An’, sure enough, he sunk down soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ and roulin’ about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’.
“So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that wor to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they cotched the ould gandher an’ put him in the hamper, an’ clapped a good wisp iv hay an the top iv him, an’ tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an’ med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up an the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould bird so surprisin’ heavy.
Well, they wint along quite anasy towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same.
“But although they wor shaking in their skhins in dhread iv the ould bird beginnin’ to convarse them every minute, they did not let an to one another, but kep singin’ an’ whistlin’ like mad to keep the dread out iv their hearts.
“Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil of a rut three feet deep at the laste; an’the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it that it wakened Terence widin in the basket.
“‘Bad luck to ye,’ says he, ‘my bones is bruck wid yer thricks; what the divil are ye doin’ wid me?’
“‘Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?’ says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a mushroom; ‘did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?’ says he.
“‘No, nor you,’ says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself. ‘It’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,’ says he.
“‘Where the divil have ye put me into?’ says Terence inside. ‘Bad luck to your sowls,’ says he; ‘let me out, or I’ll be smothered this minute,’ says he.
There’s no use in purtending,’ says the boy; ‘the gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God,’ says he.
“‘Let me out, you murdherers,’ says Terence.
“‘In the name iv the blessed Vargin,’ says Thady, ‘an’ iv all the holy saints, hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,’ says he.
“‘Who’s that, that dar to call me nicknames?’ says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion. ‘Let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,’ says he, ‘or by this crass I’ll stretch ye,’ says he.
“‘In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven,’ says Thady, ‘who the divil are ye?’
“‘Who the divil would I be, but Terence Mooney,’ says he. ‘It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,’ sayshe. ‘Let me out, or, by the holy, I’ll get out in spite iv yes,’ says he, ‘an’, by jaburs, I’ll wallop yes in arnest,’ says he.
“‘It’s ould Terence, sure enough,’ says Thady. ‘Isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out?’ says he.
“‘I’m an the pint of snuffication,’ says Terence. ‘Let me out, I tell you, an’ wait till I get at ye,’ says he, ‘for, begorra, the divil a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,’ says he.
“An’ wid that he beginned kickin’ and flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wonder he did not knock it to pieces.
Well, as soon as the boys seen that they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet up in the air with the joultin’; glory be to God.
“So it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverince’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out of poor Terence, so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
“Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher in the hamper, an’ how he beginned to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney; an’ they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ all.
“So says his raverince, says he:
“‘I’ll take my booke,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll read some ralesthrong holy bits out iv it,’ says he, ‘an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,’ says he, ‘an’ let it swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,’ says he, ‘an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out iv it,’ says he.
“Well, wid that the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher his arm, an’ the boys follied his raverince, ladin’ the horse down to the bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an’ finish him intirely.
“Well, as soon as they wor all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had wid them an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper, an’ swung it fairly over the bridge, lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather.
And his raverince rode down to the bank of the river close by, an’ beginned to read mighty loud and bould intirely.
“An’ whin he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence, falling splash into the wather, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him. Down they both wint to the bottom, wid a souse you’d hear half a mile off.
“An’ before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’ before he knew where he was, in he wint, horse an’ all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom.
“Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ and puffin’, an’ off down wid the current wid them, like shot in under the arch iv the bridge till they kem to the shallow wather.
“The ould gandher was the first out, and the priest andTerence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded, an’ his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin’ he got and wid the sight iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better of it for a month.
“An’ as soon as Terence could spake he swore he’d have the life of the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will. An’ as soon as he was got quiter they all endivoured to explain it; but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his wife said the same to shilter him from the suspision for havin’ th’ dhrop taken. An’ his raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched anyone laughin’ at the accident he’d lay the horsewhip across their shoulders.
“An’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful old age, lavin’ the gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childher.
“An’ to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney’s lenial and legitimate postariors.”
Joseph Sheridan Le Fann.
The Fairies Passage
Tap, tap, rap, rap! “Get up, gaffer Ferryman.”“Eh! Who is there?” The clock strikes three.“Get up, do, gaffer! You are the very manWe have been long, long, longing to see.”The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumblingOver the wares on his way to the door.But he sees no moreThan he saw before,Till a voice is heard: “O Ferryman, dear!Here we are waiting, all of us, here.We are a wee, wee colony, we;Some two hundred in all, or three.Ferry us over the River LeeEre dawn of day,And we will payThe most we mayIn our own wee way!”“Who are you? Whence came you?What place are you going to?”“Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land:The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!Nothing at all but they now understand.We are daily vanishing under the thunderOf some huge engine or iron wonder;That iron—ah! it has entered our souls.”“Your souls? O gholes!You queer little drolls,Do you mean ——?” “Good gaffer, do aid us with speed,For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!And a very long way we have to go:Eight or ten thousand miles or so,Hither and thither, and to and fro,With our pots and pansAnd little gold cans;But our light caravansRun swifter than man’s.”“Well, well, you may come,” said the ferryman affably;“Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge.”Then again to the little folk: “Tho’ you seem laughablySmall, I don’t mind, if your coppers be large.”Oh, dear! what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing(The watermen making vain efforts at hushingThe hubbub the while), there followed these words!What clapping of boards,What strapping of cords,What stowing away of children and wives,And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives!Till all had safely got into the boat,And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat,And his wee little fairies were safely afloat;Then ding, ding, ding,And kling, kling, kling,How the coppers did ringIn the tin pitcherling!Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly,Smoothly, and so forth; but after a whileIt swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presentlyChest after chest, and pile after pileOf the little folk’s goods began tossing and rolling,And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling.O Mab! if the hubbub were great before,It was now some two or three million times more.Crash! went the wee crocks and the clocks; and the locksOf each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks;And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries:“Take care!”—“See there!”—“Oh, dear, my eyes!”—“I am killed!”—“I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs,Till to land they drew.“Yeo-ho! Pull to!Tiller-rope, thro’ and thro’!”And all’s right anew.“Now jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities.(Eh, what is this?... Where are they, at all?Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?Well, as I live!”....) He looks blank as a wall,Poor ferryman! Round him and round him he gazes,But only gets deeplier lost in the mazesOf utter bewilderment. All, all are gone,And he stands alone,Like a statue of stone,In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer,And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear,With other odd sounds: “Ha, ha, ha, ha!Fol lol! zidzizzle! quee, quee! bah, bah!Fizzigigiggidy! pshee! sha, sha!”“O ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves!”The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher,And there, alas, to his horror perceivesThat the little folk’s mode of making him richerHas been to pay him with withered leaves!
Tap, tap, rap, rap! “Get up, gaffer Ferryman.”“Eh! Who is there?” The clock strikes three.“Get up, do, gaffer! You are the very manWe have been long, long, longing to see.”The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumblingOver the wares on his way to the door.But he sees no moreThan he saw before,Till a voice is heard: “O Ferryman, dear!Here we are waiting, all of us, here.We are a wee, wee colony, we;Some two hundred in all, or three.Ferry us over the River LeeEre dawn of day,And we will payThe most we mayIn our own wee way!”“Who are you? Whence came you?What place are you going to?”“Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land:The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!Nothing at all but they now understand.We are daily vanishing under the thunderOf some huge engine or iron wonder;That iron—ah! it has entered our souls.”“Your souls? O gholes!You queer little drolls,Do you mean ——?” “Good gaffer, do aid us with speed,For our time, like our stature, is short indeed!And a very long way we have to go:Eight or ten thousand miles or so,Hither and thither, and to and fro,With our pots and pansAnd little gold cans;But our light caravansRun swifter than man’s.”“Well, well, you may come,” said the ferryman affably;“Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge.”Then again to the little folk: “Tho’ you seem laughablySmall, I don’t mind, if your coppers be large.”Oh, dear! what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing(The watermen making vain efforts at hushingThe hubbub the while), there followed these words!What clapping of boards,What strapping of cords,What stowing away of children and wives,And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives!Till all had safely got into the boat,And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat,And his wee little fairies were safely afloat;Then ding, ding, ding,And kling, kling, kling,How the coppers did ringIn the tin pitcherling!Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly,Smoothly, and so forth; but after a whileIt swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presentlyChest after chest, and pile after pileOf the little folk’s goods began tossing and rolling,And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling.O Mab! if the hubbub were great before,It was now some two or three million times more.Crash! went the wee crocks and the clocks; and the locksOf each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks;And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries:“Take care!”—“See there!”—“Oh, dear, my eyes!”—“I am killed!”—“I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs,Till to land they drew.“Yeo-ho! Pull to!Tiller-rope, thro’ and thro’!”And all’s right anew.“Now jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities.(Eh, what is this?... Where are they, at all?Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?Well, as I live!”....) He looks blank as a wall,Poor ferryman! Round him and round him he gazes,But only gets deeplier lost in the mazesOf utter bewilderment. All, all are gone,And he stands alone,Like a statue of stone,In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer,And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear,With other odd sounds: “Ha, ha, ha, ha!Fol lol! zidzizzle! quee, quee! bah, bah!Fizzigigiggidy! pshee! sha, sha!”“O ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves!”The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher,And there, alas, to his horror perceivesThat the little folk’s mode of making him richerHas been to pay him with withered leaves!
James Clarence Mangan.
The King of the Black Desert
This story was told by one Laurence O’Flynn from near Swinford, in the County Mayo, to my friend, the late F. O’Conor, of Athlone, from whom I got it in Irish. It is the eleventh story in the “Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach,” and is here for the first time literally translated into English.An Chraoibhin Aoibhinn.
This story was told by one Laurence O’Flynn from near Swinford, in the County Mayo, to my friend, the late F. O’Conor, of Athlone, from whom I got it in Irish. It is the eleventh story in the “Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach,” and is here for the first time literally translated into English.
An Chraoibhin Aoibhinn.
When O’Conor was King over Ireland he was living in Rathcroghan, of Connacht. He had one son, but he, when he grew up, was wild, and the King could not control him, because he would have his own will in everything.
One morning he went out—
His hound at his foot,And his hawk on his hand,And his fine black horse to bear him—
and he went forward, singing a verse of a song to himself, until he came as far as a big bush that was growing on the brink of a glen. There was a grey old man sitting at the foot of the bush, and he said, “King’s son, if you are able to play as well as you are able to sing songs, I would liketo play a game with you.” The King’s son thought that it was a silly old man that was in it, and he alighted, threw bridle over branch, and sat down by the side of the grey old man.
The old man drew out a pack of cards and asked, “Can you play these?”
“I can,” said the King’s son.
“What shall we play for?” said the grey old man.
“Anything you wish,” says the King’s son.
“All right; if I win you must do for me anything I shall ask of you, and if you win I must do for you anything you ask of me,” says the grey old man.
“I’m satisfied,” says the King’s son.
They played the game, and the King’s son beat the grey old man. Then he said, “What would you like me to do for you, King’s son?”
“I won’t ask you to do anything for me,” says the King’s son. “I think that you are not able to do much.”
“Don’t mind that,” said the old man. “You must ask me to do something. I never lost a bet yet that I wasn’t able to pay it.”
As I said, the King’s son thought that it was a silly old man that was in it, and to satisfy him he said to him, “Take the head off my stepmother and put a goat’s head on her for a week.”
“I’ll do that for you,” said the grey old man. The King’s son went a-riding on his horse—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand—
and he faced for another place, and never thought more about the grey old man until he came home.
He found a cry and great grief in the castle. The servants told him that an enchanter had come into the room where the Queen was, and had put a goat’s head on her in place of her own head.
“By my hand, but that’s a wonderful thing,” says the King’s son. “If I had been at home I’d have whipt the head off him with my sword.”
There was great grief on the King, and he sent for a wise councillor, and asked him did he know how the thing happened to the Queen.
“Indeed, I cannot tell you that,” said he; “it’s a work of enchantment.”
The King’s son did not let on that he had any knowledge of the matter, but on the morrow morning he went out—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand,And his fine black horse to bear him—
and he never drew rein until he came as far as the big bush on the brink of the glen. The grey old man was sitting there under the bush, and said, “King’s son, will you have a game to-day?” The King’s son got down and said, “I will.” With that he threw bridle over branch and sat down by the side of the old man. He drew out the cards and asked the King’s son did he get the thing he had won yesterday.
“That’s all right,” said the King’s son.
“We’ll play for the same bet to-day,” says the grey old man.
“I’m satisfied,” said the King’s son.
They played—the King’s son won. “What would you like me to do for you this time?” says the grey old man. The King’s son thought and said to himself, “I’ll give him a hard job this time.” Then he said, “There’s a field of seven acres at the back of my father’s castle; let it be filled to-morrow morning with cows, and no two of them to be of one colour, or one height, or one age.”
“That shall be done,” says the grey old man.
The King’s son went riding on his horse—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand—
and faced for home. The King was sorrowful about the Queen; there were doctors out of every place in Ireland, but they could not do her any good.
On the morning of the next day the King’s herd went out early, and he saw the field at the back of the castle filled with cows, and no two of them of the same colour, the same age, or the same height. He went in and told the King the wonderful news. “Go and drive them out,” says the King. The herd got men, and went with them driving out the cows, but no sooner would he put them out on one side than they would come in on the other. The herd went to the King again, and told him that all the men that were in Ireland would not be able to put out these cows that were in the field. “They’re enchanted cows,” said the King.
When the King’s son saw the cows, he said to himself,“I’ll have another game with the grey old man to-day!” That morning he went out—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand,And his fine black horse to bear him—
and he never drew rein till he came as far as the big bush on the brink of the glen. The grey old man was there before him, and asked him would he have a game of cards.
“I will,” says the King’s son; “but you know well that I can beat you playing cards.”
“We’ll have another game, then,” says the grey old man. “Did you ever play ball?”
“I did, indeed,” said the King’s son; “but I think that you are too old to play ball, and, besides that, we have no place here to play it.”
“If you’re contented to play, I’ll find a place,” says the grey old man.
“I’m contented,” says the King’s son.
“Follow me,” says the grey old man.
The King’s son followed him through the glen until he came to a fine green hill. There he drew out a little enchanted rod, spoke some words which the King’s son did not understand, and after a moment the hill opened and the two went in, and they passed through a number of splendid halls until they came out into a garden. There was everything finer than another in that garden, and at the bottom of the garden there was a place for playing ball. They threw up a piece of silver to see who would have hand-in, and the grey old man got it.
They began then, and the grey old man never stopped until he won out the game. The King’s son did not know what he would do. At last he asked the old man what would he desire him to do for him.
“I am King over the Black Desert, and you must find out myself and my dwelling-place within a year and a day, or I shall find you out and you shall lose your head.”
Then he brought the King’s son out the same way by which he went in. The green hill closed behind them, and the grey old man disappeared out of sight.
The King’s son went home, riding on his horse—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand—
and he sorrowful enough.
That evening the King observed that there was grief and great trouble on his young son, and when he went to sleep the King and every person that was in the castle heard heavy sighings and ravings from him. The King was in grief—a goat’s head to be on the Queen—but he was seven times worse when they told him the (whole) story how it happened from beginning to end.
He sent for a wise councillor, and asked him did he know where the King of the Black Desert was living.
“I do not, indeed,” said he; “but as sure as there’s a tail on the cat, unless the young heir finds out that enchanter he will lose his head.”
There was great grief that day in the castle of the King. There was a goat’s head on the Queen, and the King’s sonwas going searching for an enchanter, without knowing whether he would ever come back.
After a week the goat’s head was taken off the Queen, and her own head was put upon her. When she heard of how the goat’s head was put upon her, a great hate came upon her against the King’s son, and she said “that he may never come back, alive or dead.”
Of a Monday morning he left his blessing with his father and his kindred; his travelling bag was bound upon his shoulder, and he went—
His hound at his foot,His hawk on his hand,And his fine black horse to bear him.
He walked that day until the sun was gone beneath the shadow of the hills and till the darkness of the night was coming, without knowing where he could get lodgings. He noticed a large wood on his left-hand side, and he drew towards it as quickly as he could, hoping to spend the night under the shelter of the trees. He sat down at the foot of a large oak tree, and opened his travelling bag to take some food and drink, when he saw a great eagle coming towards him.
“Do not be afraid of me, King’s son; I know you—you are the son of O’Conor, King of Ireland. I am a friend, and if you give me your horse to give to eat to four hungry birds that I have, I shall bear you farther than your horse would bear you, and, perhaps, I would put you on the track of him you are looking for.”
“You can have the horse, and welcome,” says the King’s son, “although I’m sorrowful at parting from him.”
“All right, I shall be here to-morrow at sunrise.” With that she opened her great gob, caught hold of the horse, struck in his two sides against one another, took wing, and disappeared out of sight.
The King’s son ate and drank his enough, put his travelling bag under his head, and it was not long till he was asleep, and he never awoke till the eagle came and said, “It is time for us to be going; there is a long journey before us. Take hold of your bag and leap up upon my back.”
“But to my grief,” says he, “I must part from my hound and my hawk.”
“Do not be grieved,” says she; “they will be here before you when you come back.”
Then he leaped up on her back. She took wing, and off and away with her through the air. She brought him across hills and hollows, over a great sea, and over woods, till he thought that he was at the end of the world. When the sun was going under the shadow of the hills, she came to earth in the midst of a great desert, and said to him, “Followthe path on your right-hand side, and it will bring you to the house of a friend. I must return again to provide for my birds.”
He followed the path, and it was not long till he came to the house, and he went in. There was a grey old man sitting in the corner. He rose and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, King’s son, from Rathcroghan of Connacht.”
“I have no knowledge of you,” said the King’s son.
“I was acquainted with your grandfather,” said the grey old man. “Sit down; no doubt there is hunger and thirst on you.”
“I’m not free from them,” said the King’s son.
The old man then smote his two palms against one another, and two servants came and laid a board with beef, mutton, pork, and plenty of bread before the King’s son, and the old man said to him:
Eat and drink your enough. Perhaps it may be a long time before you get the like again.”
He ate and drank as much as he desired, and thanked him for it.
Then the old man said, “You are going seeking for the King of the Black Desert. Go to sleep now, and I will go through my books to see if I can find out the dwelling-place of that King.” Then he smote his palms together, and a servant came, and he told him, “Take the King’s son to his chamber.” He took him to a fine chamber, and it was not long till he fell asleep.
On the morning of the next day the old man came and said:
“Rise up, there is a long journey before you. You must do five hundred miles before midday.”
“I could not do it,” said the King’s son.
“If you are a good rider I will give you a horse that will bring you over the journey.”
“I will do as you say,” said the King’s son.
The old man gave him plenty to eat and to drink, and, when he was satisfied, he gave him a little white garron, and said, “Give the garron his head, and when he stops look up into the air, and you will see three swans as white as snow. Those are the three daughters of the King of the Black Desert. There will be a green napkin in the mouth of one of them: that is the youngest daughter, and there is not anyone alive except her who could bring you to the house of the King of the Black Desert. When the garron stops you will be near a lake. The three swans will come to land on the brink of that lake, and they will make three young women of themselves, and they will go into the lake swimming and dancing. Keep your eye on the green napkin, and when you get the young women in the lake, go and get the napkin, and do not part with it. Go into hiding under a tree, and when the young women will come out, two of them will make swans of themselves, and will go away in the air. Then the youngest daughter will say, “I will do anything for him who will give me my napkin.” Come forward then and give her the napkin, and say there is nothing you want but to bring you to her father’s house, and tell her you are a king’s son from a powerful country.”
The King’s son did everything as the old man desired him, and when he gave the napkin to the daughter of the King of the Black Desert, he said, “I am the son of O’Conor,King of Connaught. Bring me to your father. Long am I seeking him.”
“Would not it be better for me to do something else for you?” said she.
“I do not want anything else,” said he.
“If I show you the house will you not be satisfied?” said she.
“I will be satisfied,” said he.
“Now,” said she, “upon your life do not tell my father that it was I who brought you to his house, and I shall be a good friend to you; but let on,” said she, “that you have great powers of enchantment.”
“I will do as you say,” says he.
Then she made a swan of herself, and said, “Leap up on my back and put your hands under my neck, and keep a hard hold.”
He did so, and she shook her wings, and off and away with her over hills and over glens, over sea and over mountains, until she came to earth as the sun was going under. Then she said to him, “Do you see that great house yonder? That is my father’s house. Farewell. Any time that you are in danger I shall be at your side.” Then she went from him.
The King’s son went to the house and went in, and who should he see sitting in a golden chair but the grey old man who had played the cards and the ball with him.
“King’s son,” said he, “I see that you have found me out before the day and the year. How long since you left home?”
“This morning, when I was rising out of my bed, I saw a rainbow. I gave a leap, spread my two legs on it, and slid as far as this.”
“By my hand, it was a great feat you performed,” said the old King.
“I could do a more wonderful thing than that if I chose,” said the King’s son.
“I have three things for you to do,” says the old King, “and if you are able to do them, you shall have the choice of my three daughters for wife, and unless you are able to do them, you shall lose your head, as a good many other young men have lost it before you.”
“Then,” he said, “there be’s neither eating nor drinking in my house except once in the week, and we had it this morning.”
“It’s all one to me,” said the King’s son. “I could fast for a month if I were on a pinch.”
“No doubt you can go without sleep also,” says the old King.
Ican, without doubt,” said the King’s son.
“You shall have a hard bed to-night, then,” says the old King. “Come with me till I show it to you.” He brought him out then and showed him a great tree with a fork in it, and said, “Get up there and sleep in the fork, and be ready with the rise of the sun.”
He went up into the fork, but as soon as the old King was asleep the young daughter came and brought him into a fine room, and kept him there until the old King was aboutto rise. Then she put him out again into the fork of the tree.
With the rise of the sun the old King came to him, and said, “Come down now and come with me until I show you the thing that you have to do to-day.”
He brought the King’s son to the brink of a lake and showed him an old castle, and said to him, “Throw every stone in that castle out into the loch, and let you have it done before the sun goes down in the evening.” He went away from him then.
The King’s son began working, but the stones were stuck to one another so fast that he was not able to raise one of them, and if he were to be working until this day, there would not be one stone out of the castle. He sat down then, thinking what he ought to do, and it was not long until the daughter of the old King came to him and said, “What is the cause of your grief?” He told her the work which he had to do. “Let that put no grief on you; I will do it,” said she. Then she gave him bread, meat, and wine, pulled out a little enchanted rod, struck a blow on the old castle, and in a moment every stone of it was at the bottom of the lake. “Now,” said she, “do not tell my father that it was I who did the work for you.”
When the sun was going down in the evening, the old King came and said, “I see that you have your day’s work done.”
“I have,” said the King’s son; “I can do any work at all.”
The old King thought now that the King’s son had great powers of enchantment, and he said to him, “Your day’s work for to-morrow is to lift the stones out of the loch, and to set up the castle again as it was before.”