But if Gilaspick Qualtrough had a fault it was this: he could never leave a story to the plain facts. He like to adorn his tales and make them even taller than they seemed at first. He was known as a teller of the tallest stories that had ever been heard from the Point of Ayre in the north to the Calf of Man in the south. Not that anyone would call him a liar, but everyone knew what a fierce exaggerator he was.
One day, when he had taken a catch to Ramsey and sold it at a good profit, he was sitting in the Elfin Arms, which stands by Elfin Glen, and talking about the dangers that he had survived in the unpredictable tides off the sharp cliffs of Traie ny Halsall. He waxed lyrical as he sipped his whiskey and began to embellish his story for the third time of its telling.
“Loayrt ommidys!” snapped one of his listeners, which is not a nice way of saying that Gilaspick Qualtrough was talking rubbish.
It was a man whom he had never seen before.
“Do you doubt my word?” Gilaspick demanded indignantly.
“Doubt it?” replied the man. “Instead of a fisherman lifting mackerel or catching crabs, one would think that you were Maeldún the Voyager himself. I’m never a braggart myself, but what I say is that a man who does a bit of fishing along this coast should not be boasting of his sea prowess with a man who has dared sail to Fingal and back.”
Now Gilaspick had never heard of Fingal, nor did he know the nature of the place. But, if Gilaspick Qualtrough had a second fault, it was in never admitting his ignorance. So rather than admit ignorance, that he had no idea of where Fingal was, he merely said that while he respected a man who had sailed to Fingal and back, he would argue that there were just as many dangers sailing along the Manx coast from Gob ny Strona at Maughold Head down to Dreswick Point. Anyway, he was willing to go and cast his nets in the waters of Fingal any day to prove his worth.
The stranger smiled cruelly. “Is that so? Well, when you go there be sure and pick up the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak and bring the bell here and by that we will know that you have cast your nets in the waters of Fingal.”
“Easy to do,” cried Gilaspick boldly. He did not want to seem ignorant in front of the Ramsey men.
“When may we expect you back?” pressed the stranger, still smiling.
Now if he gave a time, it might be too long or too short because he did not know where the place was to judge time nor distance.
“It’ll depend on the weather,” Gilaspick replied airily. “I shan’t be raising canvas in a bad wind.”
The Ramsey fishermen nodded, for this was good sea sense.
“I shall return here at the next full of the moon,” the stranger announced, “by which time I’ll expect you to have returned. But do not forget to bring the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak. That will be the only proof I’ll accept that you have been to Fingal.”
“Do you doubt that I can bring this bell back?” demanded Gilaspick in annoyance.
“The proof of the pudding is in the eating of it,” chuckled the stranger. “Perhaps you will take a solemn oath on the bet? If you do not return with the Bell of Ballakissak, and give up the Bell to me, relinquishing any claim you might have, I shall not only take your honour but all you possess in this land.”
Now Gilaspick Qualtrough was not one to back down on a point of honour, and he immediately agreed to the wager.
Then Gilaspick Qualtrough left the Elfin Arms and trod with heavy steps to Ballure on his way south to his home. But at Ballure, he stopped off and asked if any local fishermen had heard of a place called Fingal or if they knew anything about the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak. No one had. Next he stopped off at Lewaigue under the shadow of Sleiau Lewaigue, the great hill. No one knew there. He tried at Ballacreggan and Ballasaig and Dreemskerry and Ballajora and home he came to Booilushag. But no one had heard of Fingal nor of the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak.
“Now,” he said to himself, “I cannot well put to sea if I don’t know where to go. If I head to sea and turn north, I might be going in the wrong direction, and if I head south, I might also be going the wrong way.”
However, he knew that there was a wise old man who lived up on the hill at Baldromma Beg.
“Fingal?” the old man said, staring at Gilaspick. “That’s the other side of the world, so it matters not whether you go south or north.”
Now Gilaspick was a fine coastal fisherman, but he had never had to wrestle with the concept of the world being round.
“Surely I must go one way or the other, dooinney creeney,” he said politely. It was always best to address men who had more wisdom than oneself in the most polite terms.
“No. Whichever way you go you’ll find it,” the old man assured him.
However, the wise old man did not know anything about the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak.
So, the next morning, Gilaspick Qualtrough provisioned up and sailed out of Port Mooar. When he came to the headland he thought he would turn south, because southern climes are more balmy than the harsh north and he did not want to enter a storm-tossed water before he had to.
Off he sailed boldly enough and then he suddenly realized that there was one question which he should have asked. How was he going to recognise the waters of Fingal when he saw them?
He gave a sigh. But it would not do to turn back now. Already the tides had put him outside of the Manx coastline. He hoisted his sail and away his boat went skimming across the waves, until a heavy sea mist suddenly came down. The curious thing was that, in spite of the mist and the thickness of it, the wind did not cease to fill out his sail and on he went, cleaving a way through the water.
With an abruptness which left him breathless, he was suddenly out of the mist and on a bright blue ocean with a yellow sandy shoreline in front of him. He peered round to examine the strange mist but, again to his surprise, he could not see sign of it at all. He shivered slightly. Then he turned back and examined the land he was approaching. It was a pleasant place and the yellow shore was lined with dark green trees and a riot of flowers of many colours.
An old woman was sitting on a rock by the shore, watching him as he brought his boat up to the beach. She had a yellow shawl around her bent shoulders.
“Good day, old woman,” he cried leaping out. Then, realizing that he must be in a foreign country where Manx might not be spoken, he added: “Vel oo loayrt Gaelg?”
He was most relieved when she greeted him in the language of Ellan Vannin.
“Bannaghtyn!”
But the greeting made him think a moment. “Have I come ashore in my own land again?” he asked. “Is this Ellan Vannin?”
“No, a mhic,” she answered. “This is not Ellan Vannin.”
“Then tell me what land it is?”
She smiled cautiously. “What land do you seek?”
“I seek a place called Fingal.”
“Then this is it.”
Now he was fair amazed and said so. “Then tell me, where do I find the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak?”
The old woman sniffed in disapproval. “Now you ask a lot of questions, a mhic.”
“I have promised that I would cast my nets in the waters of Fingal and bring back to my own county the Bell of Ballakissak.”
“A promise is a sacred thing. If you go to the king’s palace, up the path here, you will find what you seek and you may be able to accomplish what you have promised.”
Then the old lady stood up and was gone. He could not swear that she had vanished because, at that moment, he had turned to make sure his boat was beached above the water-line. However, it was only a momentary glance and when he peered back, the old lady had vanished.
He went up the path that she had indicated. At the end of it, there was a great palace and apparently a feast was going on. There were noblemen a-plenty, dressed in silks and satins and gold and silver, and young ladies and great dames in bright dresses. Musicians made music and servants were carrying food here and there. Gilaspick had never seen anything so splendid in all his life. There were tables with dr
ink and meat that would feed the entire population of Ellan Vannin, as well as cakes and sweetmeats and food for which he had no words to describe.
He turned to an old woman who was standing nearby. For a moment he thought that she was the same old woman who had been sitting on the seashore, but he noticed that she was wearing a green shawl around her bent shoulders.
“Tell me, old woman, what is happening?”
“Why, a mhic, it is the king’s daughter who is getting married. See, there she is.”
He looked across the great room and saw the most beautiful girl he had ever seen dressed in the finest wedding dress. Yet instead of appearing happy on this, her wedding day, the girl’s eyes were rimmed red and it was clear that grief was on her features.
“Why is it that she grieves when everyone here is apparently celebrating and full of joy?”
“Ah, a mhic, it is against her will that she’s marrying, for she has no love for her husband. And see him there . . . you may judge why she has no liking for him.”
She pointed and he swallowed hard, for there was a hunchback dwarf with a hooked nose and green skin and his face covered in leprous spots.
“How can the king marry his daughter to that?”
“Easy enough, when a curse is placed on your kingdom and the only person who can take it off is the one who put it on. That is Prince Imshee, and perdition is his name and perdition his nature.”
Now Gilaspick pitied the young princess with all his heart. You see, for all his faults, and he had a few, Gilaspick Qualtrough was a kindly and generous fellow. But he realised that he had more urgent matters to attend to than get caught up in the affairs of a strange land.
“Where might I find the Blessed Bell of Ballakissak, old woman?” he asked.
“That is none other than the Princess of Ballakissak,” replied the old woman, and vanished into the crowd.
Now this left Gilaspick puzzled. What did she mean? It began to dawn on him that rather than a bell that rang, the strange man at Ramsey might have referred to a belle, being a beautiful girl.
Seeing the sobbing princess was alone in a corner of the feasting room, he went carefully over to her and bowed low. “Forgive me, lady, but are you Princess of Ballakissak?”
The young woman looked up at him with a tear-stained face. He swallowed hard when his eyes met hers, for she was, indeed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. There was a blush of a rose on her snow-white cheeks and honey-gold were the curls of her hair, held in place with silver combs. Her eyes were light blue.
“Good stranger,” her voice was a melodious soft soprano, “surely you must know as I am the unhappiest person here. Yes, I am the Princess of Ballakissak.”
“Lady, I grieve for your grief. But there is one question that I must know. Is there a bell of Ballakissak, that is a clageen, or is there a belle of Ballakissack, that is a caillin, yn caillin s’aaley?”
She frowned at him and, despite her red-rimmed eyes, a smile came to her lips.
“Truly, stranger, you speak in a riddle. There is no bell but I am called yn caillin bannee.”
Gilaspick let out a long, low sigh. “Then, lady, it is you that I have come for.”
She stared at him and it seemed as if there was an expression of hope crossing her features.
He seized her up and began to dance with her through the hall, a whirling merry dance, so that they crossed the great hall towards the door without anyone crying alarm. Then out of the door they went. Gilaspick held on to her hand as they ran down the path to the sea shore.
“Where are we going?” gasped the girl, though she was eager enough to follow him.
“I am taking you with me to Ellan Vannin,” cried Gilaspick.
Now there was a great outcry behind them and, casting a glance over his shoulder, Gilaspick saw the crooked little figure of Prince Imshee leaping down the path.
Quickly, he handed the princess into his boat and pushed off from the shore, leaping in and grasping his oars until he rowed the boat a little way out.
“Oh, look!” cried the princess in alarm.
As Gilaspick looked, he saw the gnome-like figure of the prince astride a bough of hazel, riding it like a great horse, and taking into the air after them.
“Ah, good sir,” cried the princess, “nothing can save us now, for Prince Imshee is a fer obbee, a wizard of great power!”
Gilaspick Qualtrough had not been a fisherman all his life without knowing what a Manx seaman must do, when in extremis.
“Oh, Mannánan Beg Mac-y-Leirr!” he cried out. “God of the oceans whose island I come from! If there was ever a time when your mantle was needed to be shaken between my enemies and myself, now is the time. Shake forth your mantle, Mannanan!”
There was the sound of a great noise coming, like a whirl of wind on a storm-tossed sea, but the sea remained calm. Suddenly, they were enveloped by a thick sea mist. It was the same sea mist that had overtaken him in his outward journey. He could hardly see his hand in front of his face.
The princess looked around perplexed. “What does this mean, good sir?”
Gilaspick Qualtrough smiled nervously. “I come from the island of the Ocean God, Mannánan Beg Mac-y-Leirr, which is called Mannánan’s Island. I called on the ocean god to protect me by shaking his mantle between me and the wizard, so that he might not see us. And I am no ‘sir’, lady. I am but a poor fisherman named Gilaspick Qualtrough of Booilushag.”
The princess sighed. “Would that I was poor, dear Gilaspick. For I would rather have a life of happiness as a poor fisherman’s wife than be a princess in a gold palace, who has to have a life of sadness married to such an evil thing as Prince Imshee.”
Gilaspick was about to answer when he felt the wind at his back. Curiously, as before, the wind was blowing but the mist remained thick and firm. He could only suppose that it was the magic of the ocean god which made it so. Anyway, it reminded him to hoist his sail and soon they were speeding across the water.
Almost in a blink of an eye they emerged on a dark storm-tossed shore.
Gilaspick was worried. “I do not recognise this place,” he muttered to himself.
It took him all his skills to manoeuvre the boat onto the wave-lashed beach.
“Look!” said the princess. “There is an old woman sitting there on that rock. She will tell us where we are.”
“Greetings, old woman,” cried Gilaspick, going up to the woman. He thought, for a moment, that he had seen her before, for she looked like the two old women he had seen on the island of Fingal. But then he looked closer and found that her shawl was blue.
“No greeting here for you, Gilaspick Qualtrough,” replied the old woman. “No greeting for stealing Prince Imshee’s wife. You had best begone and soon.”
Gilaspick frowned. “I have done no such thing. For it is not stealing when someone comes willingly away.”
“Is that not the Princess Ballakissak yonder in your boat?”
“It is, but . . .”
“Then know that this is Ellan Imshee, the island of the prince. You have been blown here by his will.”
Now Gilaspick exclaimed in anger, for he wondered if the ocean god had played him a mean trick.
The old woman laughed sourly and spoke as if she had read his mind. “Blame not the ocean god. Prince Imshee is a great wizard. He had outwitted your Mannánan and see, here he comes.”
Down came the ugly Prince Imshee, descending from the clouds. The old woman quickly scurried off.
“So, you thought that you could call on the ocean god to rescue you?” cried the evil dwarf. “Well, I merely turned the wind to bring you here and now I shall have my revenge on you both!”
The princess began to sob in terror and this irritated Prince Imshee. He pointed a long crooked finger towards the Princess Ballakissak. “This sound offends me. You will not speak, unless I tell you to.”
Straightaway, the princess was struck with a magical dumbness.
Prince Imshee roared w
ith laughter at her attempts to cry out. It seemed to please his warped sense of humour. Then he remembered Gilaspick and took a step towards the fisherman.
“Oh, Mannánan Beg, Mac-y-Leirr!” cried Gilaspick in desperation. “Are you deaf that you have ignored my entreaty? I am a son of Ellan Vannin, your own jewel in the storm-tossed sea. Help me now!”
The crooked-backed Prince Imshee hesitated a moment but, when nothing happened immediately, he chuckled cruelly. “It seems that your ocean god has forsaken you, little fisherman.”
Gilaspick was no coward, though he feared the magic of the little wizard, but he, unarmed, raised his fists and set to defend himself.
The little man stood, hands on hips, grinning scornfully. “You’ll need more than two fists to fend off my spells,” he sniggered.
“If the ocean god were not deaf,” breathed Gilaspick, “you would not dare harm a fisherman of Ellan Vannin.”
“Would I not?”
The little wizard pointed his long crooked finger at him and a bolt of lightning snaked out and sent Gilaspick flying backwards on the sand. His whole body seemed to be on fire.
“Oh, Mannánan Beg, Mac-y-Leirr!” groaned Gilaspick. “Have you no pity on the girl, if you have none for me? Help her!”
He was not sure what happened then, but there was a sudden burst of sound, like the angry tempest of the sea, and suddenly a great foamy chariot drew out of the waves. On it there stood a man which Gilaspick was sure he had seen before.
The man grinned at him. “It is a difficulty that you have found yourself in, Gilaspick Qualtrough,” he remarked; his voice seemed to have a great roaring quality like the sea breaking on the rocks.
“No thanks to you!” replied Gilaspick, realizing that this must be Mannánan Beg, Mac-y-Leirr, the ocean god himself. He wondered where he had seen the ocean god before.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 23
