by Bram Stoker
“‘Where is your crown?’ sez the Saint.
“‘It’s hid,’ sez the Shnake, leerin’ at him.
“‘Where is it hid?’ “‘It’s hid in the mountain! Buried where you nor the likes iv you can’t touch it in a thousand years!’ an’ he leered agin. “‘Tell me where it may be found?’ sez the Saint starnly. An’ thin the Shnake leers at him agin wid an eviller smile than before; an’ sez he: “‘Did ye see the wather what was in the lake?’ “‘I did,’ sez St. Pathrick.
“‘Thin, when ye find that wather ye may find me jool’d crown, too,’ sez he; an’ before the Saint could say a word, he wint on:
“‘An’ till ye git me crown I’m king here still, though ye banish me. An’ mayhap I’ll come in some forrum what ye don’t suspect, for I must watch me crown. An’ now I go away — iv me own accord.’ An’ widout one word more, good or bad, he shlid right away into the say, dhrivin’ through the rock an’ makin’ the clift that they call the Shleenanaher — an’ that’s Irish for the Shnake’s Pass — until this day.”
“An’ now, sir, if Mrs. Kelligan hasn’t dhrunk up the whole bar’l, I’d like a dhrop iv punch, for talkin’ is dhry wurrk,” and he buried his head in the steaming jorum, which the hostess had already prepared. The company then began to discuss the legend. Said one of the women: “I wondher what forrum he tuk when he kem back!” Jerry answered:
“Sure, they do say that the shiftin’ bog wor the forrum he tuk. The mountain wid the lake on top used to be the ferti lest shpot in the whole counthry; but iver since the bog began to shift this was niver the same.” Here a hard-faced man named McGlown, who had been silent, struck in with a question: “But who knows when the bog did begin to shift?” “Musha! sorra one of me knows; but it was whin th’ ould Shnake druv the wather iv the lake into the hill!” There was a twinkle in the eyes of the story-teller, which made one doubt his own belief in his story. “Well, for ma own part,” said McGlown, “A don’t believe a sengle word of it.” “An’ for why not?” said one of the women. “Isn’t the mountain called ‘Knockcalltecrore,’ or ‘The Hill of the Lost Crown iv Gold,’ till this day?” Said another: “Musha! how could Misther McGlown believe anythin’, an’ him a Protestan’.”
“A’ll tell ye that A much prefer the facs,” said McGlown. “Ef hestory es till be believed, A much prefer the story told till me by yon old man. Damn me! but A believe he’s old enough till remember the theng itself.”
He pointed as he spoke to old Moynahan, who, shrivelled up and white-haired, crouched in a corner of the inglenook, holding close to the fire his wrinkled, shaky hands.
“What is the story that Mr. Moynahan has, may I ask?” said I. “Pray oblige, me, won’t you? I am anxious to hear all I can of the mountain, for it has taken my fancy strangely.’’ The old man took the glass of punch, which Mrs.
Kelligan handed him as the necessary condition antecedent to a story, and began:
“Oh, sorra one of me knows anythin’ except what I’ve heerd from me father. But I oft heerd him say that he was tould that it was said that in the Frinch invasion that didn’t come off undher Gineral Humbert, whin the attimpt was over an’ all hope was gone, the English sodgers made sure of great prize-money whin they should git hould of the threasure-chist. For it was known that there was much money goin’ an’ that they had brought a lot more than iver they wanted for pay and expinses in ordher to help bribe some of the people that was houldin’ off to be bought by wan side or the other — if they couldn’t manage to git bought be both. But, sure enough, they wor all sould, bad cess to thim! and the divil a bit of money could they lay their hands on at all.”
Here the old man took a pull at his jug of punch, with so transparent a wish to be further interrogated that a smile flashed round the company. One of the old crones remarked, in an audible sotto voce: “Musha! but Bat is the cute story-teller intirely. Ye have to dhrag it out iv him! Go on, Bat, go on! Tell us what become iv the money.” “Oh, what become iv the money? So ye would like to hear? Well, I’ll tell ye — just one more fill of the jug, Mrs. Kelligan, as the gintleman wishes to know all about it — well, they did say that the officer what had charge of the money got well away with some five or six others. The chist was a heavy wan — an iron chist bang full up iv goold! Oh, my! but it was fine! A big chist — that high, an’ as long as the table, an’ full up to the led wid goolden money an’ paper money, an’ divil a piece of white money in it at all! All goold, every pound note iv it.” He paused, and glanced anxiously at Mrs. Kelligan, who was engaged in the new brew. “Not too much wather, if ye love me, Katty; you know me wakeness! Well, they do say that it tuk hard work to lift the chist into the boat; an’ thin they put in a gun-carriage to carry it on, an’ tuk out two horses, an’ whin the shmoke was all round an’ the darkness of night was on, they got on shore, an’ made away down south from where the landin’ was made at Killala. But, anyhow, they say that none of them was ever heerd of agin. But they was thraced through Ardnaree an’ Lough Conn, an’ through Castlebar Lake an’ Lough Carra, an’ through Lough Mask an’ Lough Corrib. But they niver kem out through Galway, for the river was watched for thim day an’ night be the sodgers; and how they got along God knows, for ‘twas said they suffered quare hardships. They tuk the chist an’ the gun-carriage an’ the horses in the boat, an’ whin they couldn’t go no farther they dhragged the boat over the land to the next lake, an’ so on. Sure, one dhry sayson, when the wathers iv Corrib was down feet lower nor they was iver known afore, a boat was found up at the Bealanabrack end that had lay there for years; but the min nor the horses nor the treasure was never heerd of from that day to this — so they say,” he added, in a mysterious way, and he renewed his attention to the punch, as if his tale was ended.
“But, man alive!” said McGlown, “that’s only a part. Go on, man dear! an’ fenesh the punch after.” “Oh, oh! Yes, of course, you want to know the end. Well, no wan knows the end. But they used to say that whin the min lift the boat they wint due west, till one night they sthruck the mountain beyant; an’ that there they buried the chist an’ killed the horses, or rode away on them. But anyhow, they wor niver seen again; an’, as sure as you’re alive, the money is there in the hill! For luk at the name iv it! Why did any wan iver call it ‘Knockcalltore’ — an’ that’s Irish for ‘The Hill of the Lost Gold’ — if the money isn’t there?” “Thrue for ye!” murmured an old woman with a cutty pipe. “For why, indeed? There’s some people what won’t believe nothin’ altho’ it’s undher their eyes!” and she puffed away in silent rebuke to the spirit of scepticism — which, by the way, had not been manifested by any person present.
There was a long pause, broken only by one of the old women, who occasionally gave a sort of half-grunt, half- sigh, as if unconsciously to fill up the hiatus in the talk. She was a “keener” by profession, and was evidently well fitted to and well drilled in her work. Presently old Moynahan broke the silence: “Well, it’s a mighty quare thing, anyhow, that the hill beyant has been singled out for laygends and sthories and gossip iv all kinds consarnin’ shnakes an’ the like. An’ I’m not so sure, naythur, that some iv thim isn’t there shtill; for, mind ye! it’s a mighty curious thin’ that the bog beyant keeps shiftin’ till this day. And I’m not so sure, naythur, that the shnakes has all left the hill yit!” There was a chorus of “Thrue for ye!” “Aye, an’ it’s a black shnake too!” said one. “An’ wid side-whishkers!” said another. “Begorra! we want St. Pathrick to luk in here agin!” said a third.
I whispered to Andy the driver: “Who is it they mean?” “Whisht!” he answered, but without moving his lips; “but don’t let on I tould ye! Sure an’ it’s Black Murdock they mane.”
“Who or what is Murdock?” I queried. “Sure an’ he is the Gombeen Man.” “What is that? What is a gombeen man?” “Whisper me now,” said Andy; “ax some iv the others.
They’ll larn it ye more betther nor I can.” “What is a gombeen man?” I asked to the company generally.
“A gombeen man, is it? Well, I’ll tell ye,” said an old, shrewd-looking man at the other side of the hearth. “He’s a man that linds you a few shillin’s or a few pounds whin ye want it bad, and then niver laves ye till he has tuk all ye’ve got — yer land an’ yer shanty an’ yer holdin’ an’ yer money an’ yer craps; an’ he would take the blood out of yer body if he could sell it or use it anyhow!”
“Oh, I see — a sort of usurer.” “Ushurer? aye, that’s it; but a ushurer lives in the city, an’ has laws to hould him in. But the Gombeen has nayther law nor the fear iv law. He’s like wan that the Scriptures says ‘grinds the faces iv the poor.’ Begor, it’s him that’d do little for God’s sake if the divil was dead!” “Then I suppose this man Murdock is a man of means — a rich man in his way?” “Rich is it? Sure an’ it’s him as has plinty. He could lave this place if he chose an’ settle in Galway — aye, or in Dublin itself if he liked betther, and lind money to big min — landlords an’ the like — instead iv playin’ wid poor min here an’ swallyin’ them up, wan be wan. But he can’t go! He can’t go!” This he said with a vengeful light in his eyes; I turned to Andy for explanation. “Can’t go! How does he mean? What does he mean?”
“Whisht! Don’t ax me. Ax Dan, there. He doesn’t owe him any money!”
“Which is Dan?” “The ould man there be the settle what has just spoke — Dan Moriarty. He’s a warrum man, wid money in bank an’ what owns his houldin’; an’ he’s not afeerd to have his say about Murdock.’ “Can any of you tell me why Murdock can’t leave the Hill?” I spoke out.
“Begor, I can,” said Dan quickly. “He can’t lave it because the Hill houlds him!” “What on earth do you mean? How can the Hill hold him?”
“It can hould tight enough! There may be raysons that a man gives — sometimes wan thing, an’ sometimes another; but the Hill houlds — an’ houlds tight all the same!” Here the door was opened suddenly, and the fire blazed up with the rush of wind that entered. All stood up suddenly, for the new-comer was a priest. He was a sturdy man of middle age, with a cheerful countenance. Sturdy as he was, however, it took all his strength to shut the door, but he succeeded before any of the men could get near enough to help him. Then he turned and saluted all the company: “God save all here.” All present tried to do him some service. One took his wet great-coat, another his dripping hat, and a third pressed him into the warmest seat in the chimney-corner, where, in a very few seconds, Mrs. Kelligan handed him a steaming glass of punch, saying, “Dhrink that up, yer rivYence. ‘Twill help to kape ye from catchin’ cowld.” “Thank ye, kindly,” he answered, as he took it. When he had half emptied the glass, he said: “What was it I heard as I came in about the Hill holding some one?” Dan answered: “‘Twas me, yer riv’rence. I said that the Hill had hould of Black Murdock, and could hould him tight.”
“Pooh! pooh! man; don’t talk such nonsense. The fact is, sir,” said he, turning to me, after throwing a searching glance round the company, “the people here have all sorts of stories about that unlucky Hill — why, God knows; and this man Murdock, that they call Black Murdock, is a moneylender as well as a farmer, and none of them like him, for he is a hard man and has done some cruel things among them. When they say the Hill holds him, they mean that he doesn’t like to leave it because he hopes to find a treasure that is said to be buried in it. I’m not sure but that the blame is to be thrown on the different names given to the Hill. That most commonly given is Knockcalltecrore, which is a corruption of the Irish phrase Knock-na-callte-croin-oir, meaning, ‘The Hill of the Lost Golden Crown;’ but it has been sometimes called Knockcalltore — short for the Irish words Knock-na-callte-oir, or ‘The Hill of the Lost Gold’. It is said that in some old past time it was called Knocknanaher, or ‘The Hill of the Snake;’ and, indeed, there’s one place on it they call Shleenahaher, meaning the ‘Snake’s Pass’. I dare say, now, that they have been giving you the legends and stories and all the rubbish of that kind. I suppose you know, sir, that in most places the local fancy has run riot at some period and has left a good crop of absurdities and impossibilities behind it?”
I acquiesced warmly, for I felt touched by the good priest’s desire to explain matters, and to hold his own people blameless for crude ideas which he did not share.
He went on:
“It is a queer thing that men must be always putting abstract ideas into concrete shape. No doubt there have been some strange matters regarding this mountain that they’ve been talking about — the Shifting Bog, for instance; and as the people could not account for it in any way that they can understand, they knocked up a legend about it. Indeed, to be just to them, the legend is a very old one, and is mentioned in a manuscript of the twelfth century. But somehow it was lost sight of till about a hundred ago, when the loss of the treasure-chest from the French invasion at Killala set all the imaginations of the people at work, from Donegal to Cork, and they fixed the Hill of the Lost Gold as the spot where the money was to be found. There is not a word of fact in the story from beginning to end, and” — here he gave a somewhat stern glance round the room — ”I’m a little ashamed to hear so much chat and nonsense given to a strange gentleman like as if it was so much gospel. However, you mustn’t be too hard in your thoughts on the poor people here, sir, for they’re good people — none better in all Ireland — in all the world for that — but they talk too free to do themselves justice.”
All those present were silent for awhile. Old Moynahan was the first to speak.
“Well, Father Pether, I don’t say nothin’ about St. Pathrick an’ the shnakes meself, because I don’t know nothin’ about them; but I know that me own father tould me that he seen the Frinchmin wid his own eyes crossin’ the sthrame below, an’ facin’ up the mountain. The moon was risin’ in the west, an’ the hill threw a big shadda. There was two min an’ two horses, an’ they had a big box on a gun- carriage. Me father seen them cross the sthrame. The load was so heavy that the wheels sunk in the clay, an’ the min had to pull at them to git them up again. An’ didn’t he see the marks iv the wheels in the ground the very nixt day?”
“Bartholomew Moynahan, are you telling the truth?” interrupted the priest, speaking sternly. “Throth an’ I am, Father Pether; divil a word iv a lie in all I’ve said.”
“Then how is it you’ve never told a word of this before?” “But I have tould it, Father Pether. There’s more nor wan here now what has heerd me tell it; but they wor tould as a saycret!”
“Thrue for ye!” came the chorus of almost every person in the room. The unanimity was somewhat comic and caused among them a shamefaced silence, which lasted quite several seconds. The pause was not wasted, for by this time Mrs. Kelligan had brewed another jug of punch, and glasses were replenished. This interested the little crowd, and they entered afresh into the subject. As for myself, however, I felt strangely uncomfortable. I could not quite account for it in any reasonable way. I suppose there must be an instinct in men as well as in the lower orders of animal creation — I felt as though there were a strange presence near me.
I quietly looked round. Close to where I sat, on the sheltered side of the house, was a little window built in the deep recess of the wall, and, farther, almost obliterated by the shadow of the priest as he sat close to the fire, pressed against the empty lattice, where the glass had once been, I saw the face of a man — a dark, forbidding face it seemed in the slight glimpse I caught of it. The profile was towards me, for he was evidently listening intently, and he did not see me. Old Moynahan went on with his story: “Me father hid behind a whin bush, an’ lay as close as a hare in his forrum. The min seemed suspicious of bein’ seen, and they looked carefully all round for the sign of any wan. Thin they started up the side of the Hill; an’ a cloud came over the moon, so that for a bit me father could see nothin’. But prisintly he seen the two min up on the side of the Hill at the south, near Joyce’s mearin’. Thin they disappeared agin, an’ prisintly he seen the horses an’ the
gun-carriage, an’ all, up in the same place, an’ the moonlight sthruck thim as they wint out iv the shadda; and min, an’ horses, an’ gun-carriage, an’ chist, an’ all wint round to the back iv the hill at the west an’ disappeared. Me father waited a minute or two to make sure, an’ thin he run round as hard as he could an’ hid behind the projectin’ rock at the enthrance iv the Shleenanaher, an’ there foreninst him, right up the hill-side, he seen two min carryin’ the chist, an’ it nigh weighed thim down. But the horses an’ the gun- carriage was nowhere to be seen. Well, me father was stealin’ out to folly thim when he loosened a sthone, an’ it clattered down through the rocks at the Shnake’s Pass wid a noise like a dhrum, an’ the two min sot down the chist an’ they turned; an’ whin they seen me father, one of them runs at him, and he turned an’ run. An’ thin another black cloud crossed the moon; but me father knew ivery foot of the mountain-side, and he run on through the dark. He heerd the footsteps behind him for a bit, but they seemed to get fainter an’ fainter; but he niver stopped runnin’ till he got to his own cabin. And that was the last he iver see iv the men, or the horses, or the chist. Maybe they wint into the air or the say, or the mountin; but, anyhow, they vanished, and from that day to this no sight, or sound, or word iv them was ever known!”
There was a universal, “Oh!” of relief as he concluded, while he drained his glass.
I looked round again at the little window; but the dark face was gone.
Then there arose a perfect babel of sounds. All commented on the story, some in Irish, some in English, and some in a speech, English indeed, but so purely and locally idiomatic that I could only guess at what was intended to be conveyed. The comment generally took the form that two men were to be envied — one of them, the Gombeen Man, Murdock, who owned a portion of the western side of the hill; the other one, Joyce, who owned another portion of the same aspect. In the midst of the buzz of conversation the clatteri ng of hoofs was heard. There was a shout, and the door opened again and admitted a stalwart stranger of some fifty years of age, with a strong, determined face, with kindly eyes, well-dressed, but wringing wet and haggard, and seemingly disturbed in mind. One arm hung useless by his side. “Here’s one of them!” said Father Peter.
