Perhaps the fairies are a cultural thing, of a particular time and place, like those who believe in them. A proof of this might be that they ride horses, never drive cars. They play hurling, Gaelic football, never soccer, bowls (iron!), chess, etc. They fight with sticks, hurleys, not with guns, knives (hardly, since they fear steel). Note: These things they are associated with are natural, of the landscape. Leading from this, a question might be asked, one which rarely is: Have they a religion and have they revealed it to anyone? Can it be inferred?
I think it can: respect for things old, for tradition, for the landscape, for nature.
The fact that they seem mostly to be experienced at night or in gloom could be interpreted in more than one way:1. They belong to that indefinite, unclear time when we are, even nowadays, most susceptible to insecurity, uncertainty—because our sight (our most important sense)—is reduced and because all our subconscious fears come to the surface then.
2. At that time we normally have more silence in which to think (or be frightened, if we’re that kind of person). Consider here that the fairies are not usually experienced where many people congregate—in towns, well-lighted places, etc. This, for skeptics, is the sure proof that they are just a figment of the imagination. But is this a correct conclusion? Could it not be that lights and crowds and movement distract us so much that we no longer are in a frame of mind that allows us to experience Them, make contact with Them?
CHRISTIANITY IS clever here. It says that we are to see Christ in our fellow man, that this is how we may see God. But could anyone imagine seeing the fairies in his fellow man? The very notion would provoke laughter nowadays. Yet it need not, for the same notion is allowed for in the idea of a changeling, where indeed a person may be a fairy, or a fairy a person. And another similarity (once we have got over our initial skepticism) is that we see the otherworldly in our this-worldly “fallen” fellow man in order to improve him, just as we recognize the changeling as that same, in order to help him become what he really is, or get back to what he once was.
I have very few answers. I am still, after a search of over twenty-seven years, fumbling to ask the questions that will make some sense of all the responses I have got in innumerable talks with old Irish people whose belief in that other world of the fairies is unshakable.
Are they fools? Am I a fool? Those are matters you will have to settle for yourself as you turn the pages of this book.
Eddie Lenihan
Crusheen, County Clare, August 2002
PART ONE
“ The Queerest Thing I Ever Saw”
WHO THEY ARE AND
WHAT THEY WANT
“The Other Crowd, they’re the Devil’s crowd. I wouldn’t be for saying that them’d see Heaven. No.”
KILCOLUM, KILMALEY, AUGUST 11, 1999
The Vicious Fairies
EVERY COUNTY TRIES to make out that it has the best o’ this and the best o’ that. I s’pose ’tis only natural. But wouldn’t you wonder, though, why anyplace might want to lay claim to fairies that were vicious. And even be proud to have ’em! But that’s what they say about the Clare fairies more than any of the others in all of Ireland—that they’re the most vicious of all. And how did that come about, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you if you want to know.
They say ’twas here in this parish o’ Crusheen it happened. There was a parish priest here one time, and he was well liked, respected. And the reason wasn’t because he said a short Mass on Sunday and let the drinkers off to the pub early—the same crowd, they’d go, anyway, ’cause their thirst kept ’em near the church door! No, ’twas because he took his job serious, and not the kind o’ serious that persecuted people for nothing, either; there was plenty o’ them kind o’ priests around. The reason that man was liked was because anytime there was someone in trouble in the parish—sick, especially—he was there to tend ’em, no matter whether ’twas in the middle o’ day or night. People appreciated that, too. Like I said, he was well respected. And rightly so.
Now, there was this certain man in the parish sick, an old man, and he wasn’t expected to live long. He was nearly ninety! Four times the priest was called to him in less than six months, and each time he came, anointed him, and said all the prayers. And d’you know what! In each case the man recovered.
Naturally enough, the local people said, “Aha! There you are! The priests have the power, if they want to use it.”
But time went on, anyway, and ’twas later on that same year, the month o’ November. And the parish priest, this night, he was long gone to bed—and the curate, too. ’Twas well after midnight, in the dead hours, in fact, when all of a sudden there was this knock on the presbytery door.
The parish priest was a very light sleeper—used to being called in the night, I s’pose. He sat up in the bed and shook himself, wondering was he hearing things.
But he knew he wasn’t when the knocking started again. He jumped out o’ the bed, pulled his overcoat across his shoulders, and off out the hall with him. He opened the door, and standing there outside was a young man. The priest knew him immediately—he was from the house where the old man was sick.
He wasn’t even asked in, only, “What’s wrong?”
“He’s sick again, Father. Bad. They want you to come, as soon as you can.”
“Go on back, now, this minute. Tell ’em I’ll be there after you.”
He went in then, to dress himself, but as he passed the curate’s room he knocked.
“Get up,” he says, “and tackle the horse. We have a call to go on.”
The curate woke and started muttering and cursing under his breath, “God blast ’em, but wouldn’t you think they’d pick some better time than this to be dying? . . .”
“None o’ that kind o’ talk out o’ you!” says the parish priest “Tackle up the horse. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
That’s the reason, you know, why curates were never given a parish in them days until they had about seven years served—so that all kinds of impatience and other dirty tricks could be knocked out of ’em first by an older priest. Just like training a dog or a horse, you know. But that isn’t done anymore, o’ course, and more’s the pity.
But . . . back to the story.
The curate tackled up the horse and trap, anyway, and by the time the parish priest had his bag packed—holy oil, candles, his book, and all the rest—there was his transport ready and waiting at the door.
Now, you might ask why was it that the parish priest wanted the young man to go with him. Grandeur? It wasn’t, but for company. And why? Every one o’ the old people that time—and some of ’em even today—could tell you that a priest, or minister, going on a sick-call at night was in fierce danger.
From who? The Devil, o’ course! That’s the time, when a person is dying, that he’ll try his best to sink his claws in him, to carry him to the Place Below. And the last thing he wants is a priest putting in on him. And you know, yourself, that the Devil can take any shape he likes. The Devil could be the person sitting next to you, your nearest friend. And often that’s proved. He could be on the road—no, he would be on the road, on a night like that, to put the priest astray if he could. And there was only one way to get the better o’ him: take company. And what better company than another priest!
That’s the main reason he called the curate, whether the younger man realized it or not.
By the time he was dressed for the road, anyway, and had his bag packed, there was the curate outside the door with the horse and trap, all ready.
They started out, off down the Tulla road, and I s’pose with the jogging and swaying o’ the trap, they were dozing off to sleep. But it didn’t make any difference. The horse knew every foot o’ the road. Why wouldn’t he? The priest’s horse, in them days, he’d know every road in the parish, day or night. Wasn’t he traveling ’em full-time!
They went on, anyway, a couple o’ miles south o’ Crusheen, and I’d say the priests were maybe asleep by the time they ca
me to Sunnagh Cross. But the horse knew the way as well as themselves. He turned left at the cross, up that Sunnagh road. He knew where to go, I s’pose, from all the times that year they visited the man that was dying.
Whatever ’twas, they were only gone a few hundred yards up that road—narrow country road, overgrown with big trees, like it is to this very day—when the moon came out from behind a cloud. And at that very minute, out from behind a big old bush—’tis still there, on the right-hand side as you’re facing for Ballinruan—a man stepped out, into the middle o’ the road.
The horse shied, o’ course, reared up. But the parish priest, he was awake while you’d be counting one. Wide awake! And he was a good horseman, too. Calmed the animal in a few seconds.
But . . . there in front of ’em in the road was a man. No doubt about it! The first thing that came into their minds was, a robber. But no. There was no weapon, no orders. They could see him clear enough, though, all except his face. He was wearing some kind of a hood, and his face was in shadow.
Then, while they were half-wondering what they’d do, he reached in under his right oxter and pulled out a fiddle. He reached under his left oxter then and brought out a bow. And there, on that road, that very minute, he started to play—the most lonesome music that them priests ever in their lives heard. It brought water out o’ their teeth, so it did. Never heard the like of it before!
And when that man—whoever he was—turned around and walked that narrow road in front of ’em playing that music, every bit of it, what could they do? Only follow him. They couldn’t get around him. The road wasn’t wide enough. And they were hardly going to drive out over him—priests in them days wouldn’t do that, whatever about today!
Step for step they followed him, until they came to the gateway to the house where the old man was dying. He walked three steps beyond it, still playing, and just as the curate was turning the horse in between the piers, glad enough to get on with their business, the man stopped, turned, and held up his hand. He looked at the parish priest
“One minute, Father!” says he. “I want you to do something for me.”
They looked at him. Then the parish priest says, “If—if ’tis nothing sinful or unholy, o’ course we’ll do it. What is it?”
“I want you to ask a question, Father, to that man that’s dying above there in the bed.”
“What . . . kind of a question?”
“I want you to ask him what’s going to happen to the Good People on the Day of Judgment.”
The priest looked at him.
“You what?!”
“Isn’t it simple enough?! What’s going to happen to the Good People on the Day of Judgment?”
The priest only nodded. He was half frightened.
“All right,” says he, and the curate whipped on the horse. But the man had the last word.
“Remember this, Father. I’ll be here, waiting for my answer.”
On they went then, up the passageway to the house, and when they arrived into the yard, there was the woman o’ the house, the wife o’ the man that was dying within in the bed, standing there in the doorway. I s’pose she heard the wheels o’ the trap coming.
“Thanks be to God ye’re here, Father,” says she. “Hurry on, please. He’s very low.”
The parish priest took his bag, left the curate to tie up the horse, and hurried in after her. And there inside, the kitchen was full o’ people. All the neighbors were there; that was the custom o’ the time, and still the same today when someone is laid out at home. They were there to help, to console the poor woman, like any good neighbors would. And when the priest arrived in, they all stood up, out o’ respect.
“Welcome, Father. Good night. And thanks for coming.”
He nodded. But first things first, talk later. He headed for the sickroom, closed the door behind him, and looked at the bed.
There was the dying man, not a move out o’ him, eyes closed, hands folded. No sign o’ life at all, and that gray-green color on him that you’ll see on dying people. But the parish priest had it all seen before. That kind o’ thing was his job, wasn’t it? He opened his bag, took out all the bits and pieces he’d need—his prayer book, the holy candles, the oil, holy water.
He lit the candles on the little bedside table. He got down on his knees then and heard the man’s confession—although I s’pose he didn’t actually hear it, when the man was so far gone. But you know what I mean. In cases like that the priest could give absolution even if a person was unconscious. They had a name for it, too: conditional absolution.
Anyway, he said the prayers, and when he was finished, and the last blessing was given, he quenched the candles and put his stuff back into his bag.
He had full intention, now, of asking the question, just like he promised, but . . . in them few seconds, while he was putting his bits and pieces away, there was silence, o’ course. And I s’pose the woman o’ the house, she was listening at the door, worried, naturally. And when she heard nothing from the room, in she went to find out how things were—and in her hand a glass o’ whiskey for the priest. She wasn’t alone, either, ’cause in after her came most o’ the crowd that was in the kitchen.
And that’s when the damage was done, ’cause the parish priest wasn’t a drinking man at all. He might have a few small ones when friends called to the presbytery, or maybe at Christmas, but that was all. Still, when the mourners were there now with him in that room, what could he do? Only be sociable and take what he was offered! He was a friendly kind o’ man, like I said.
He sipped away, anyway, while the talk went on all around him. And ’twas mainly about the man dying there in the bed—the good neighbor he was, a decent man, kind and charitable, never turned anyone away from his door. All that kind o’ talk. And you could understand that! What else would you say about a dying man, when he can’t talk for himself? That’s only ordinary decency. We’ll all need that when the time comes.
He finished the first glass o’ whiskey, anyway, but when he did, a second one was put into his hand. And the bother was, ’twas neat. You see, the woman o’ the house wasn’t a drinker either, knew nothing about it! So she filled the glass up to the top. Left no room at all for water! Thought she was doing the right thing. What chance had the poor parish priest with that kind o’ drink?! I often said it, and I’ll say it again now: Non-drinkers do more harm than drinkers ever do! They have no notion how to handle drink, at all. And she proved it that night. A full glass o’ whiskey and no water!
The priest, in the middle of all the talk, sipped away. And when that glass was finished, the third one was put into his fist.
But, by the time he was gone down halfway in that one, he was beginning to go sideways. Why wouldn’t he when he wasn’t used to it!?
Lucky enough, the curate saw the way things were. He leaned over, took the glass, and said, “We’ll go, Father. We have to be up early for Mass in the morning.”
Now, the parish priest, he was never a troublesome man. Even with drink in him now, he made no objection, only stood up, and said to all the people there, “We . . . we’ll see ye . . . in the morning. Good night! ’Night.”
They stood, o’ course, out o’ respect. They knew the way he was, but not one of ’em there was going to say a word against him. Why would they, a man like him!?
The curate took him by the arm and led him out.
“Good night, Father,” they said, “and thanks again for coming.”
There was the horse outside. Same place, tied. They got into the trap, and off down the passageway to the road. But when they passed out the gate piers, turned right, for home, there in front of ’em on the road was the lad, with his hand up. The horse stopped.
“Well, Father,” says he, “have you my answer?”
They looked at him.
“Answer?” says the parish priest. “What . . . answer?”
“You promised you’d ask a certain question for me, Father. Have you an answer?”
He w
as moving towards ’em all the time, and for the first time they saw his face. ’Twas yellow and wrinkled, a face that must be as old as . . . as the hills. ’Twasn’t natural.
The parish priest—he was sobering up quick, now—he says, “Stay where you are! I forgot. But I’ll go back this very minute, and find out for you.”
He threw the reins to the curate.
“Here! Hold these till I come back.”
“Me? I will in my backside! I’m not staying here alone.”
He threw the reins over a bush, and back they went, the two of ’em, up the passageway to the house.
And when they knocked at the door, the woman came out. She was surprised to see ’em back, o’ course.
“What is it, Father? Is there—?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I forgot something, that’s all,” says he.
He made for the bedroom, left the curate there to keep the crowd talking, and closed the door behind him. There was going to be no mistake this time.
The man was still the same way inside in the bed—stretched, no move.
The priest, he went to the bedside, down on his knees, and whispered into the dying man’s ear, “What’s going to happen to the Good People on the Day of Judgment?”
I don’t know did he expect an answer or not, but, by God, he got it!
The man in the bed, his eyes opened up, as wide as saucers, and he began to pull himself up on the pillow. The priest jumped back.
Meeting the Other Crowd Page 3
