Meeting the Other Crowd

by Eddie Lenihan

  But were the resulting stories all just the product of vivid imagination?

  We will probably never know for certain. All we can do is note the details and estimate the probability (or lack of it) for ourselves.

  In the second story above, note that the changeling speaks Irish. This was commonly believed of the fairies, that Irish was—and is—their native language; and that he should run off to join his family on Knockma would hardly be surprising, for it is reputedly the burial place of Maeve, mythical queen of Connacht (from which it derives its name) and the seat of Finnbheara, leader of the Connacht fairies.

  “This woman, she had a sister, an’ didn’t the sister die—a girl of seven or eight years of age, in her health. An’ it wasn’t an ordinary death, at all. She started to wither, an’ she was left with a little, withered thing, oh, a real little witchy thing inside in the bed.” DRUMLINE, MARCH 13, 1997

  A Tailor Saves a Baby

  THERE WAS A TAILOR and his mother that was doing a lot o’ chauffeuring around and catering when a baby was going to be born in the house next door.

  Eventually the parents o’ the baby said that since the tailor and his mother done such a lot o’ work for them, ’twas right for ’em to ask ’em to be sponsors for the little baby. So they asked ’em, anyway, and the two—the mother and the tailor—was delighted when they were asked.

  Anyway, the tailor was an awful man for gambling, and he’d go far and near for a game o’ cards. But this night, anyway, when he was coming back ’twas very late. He had to pass near the house where the little baby was that he stood for, and when he was coming back he heard the child crying.

  He stood and thought to himself, “Why’s the child crying at this hour o’ the night?”

  There was no light in the house, and no commotion. Curiosity overpowered him. He said he wouldn’t go home until he’d see what was wrong. So he came up to the house. And when he was coming in around the corner o’ the house, he seen a fairly tall woman standing by the kitchen window. And when she saw him she vanished away. He couldn’t see her at all then. But he went over to the window, to see what she was doing at the window. And the kitchen window was wide open. There was another one inside and she had the child, and she was handing him out, as she thought, to the woman outside. But when she handed him out ’twas the tailor standing there. The tailor took the child, put him under his coat, and away he went home. He went in, told his mother what had happened, and asked would she nurse the child along with him until morning.

  “God,” she says, “why wouldn’t we? Is it the little baby we stood for a month ago?”

  So they put down a big fire, she warmed milk for him and gave him a great old feed. And the two of ’em sat down by the fire and minded him until morning.

  But when the morning came, and the day broke, the tailor said to the mother, “I’ll go back over, now, to the house, until I see what’s going on.”

  So he did. And when he was coming very near the house, he heard the hullabaloo and the crying, and the first thing that he heard was, “How the hell would we have any luck with our little child when we put a little bastard of a tailor standing for him?”

  So, begod, in the tailor walked and he asked what was the commotion.

  “Oh, what is it,” she says, “only look at our little baby there in the cot and he’s stone dead.”

  “That’s not your baby at all. I have your baby high and dry beyond. My mother is minding him, and he’s well fed and well looked after. That’s not your baby at all,” he said.

  They sent for the priest. And the priest came and read over the cot. And what appeared after a few minutes when he was reading? Only a broom o’ heather.29 The priest got the tongs, fixed up the fire, caught the broom o’ heather, and shoved it into the fire. And up it went, up the chimney in flames.

  And the priest said, “You’ll never get any trouble from that again. That’ll never come around this village again.”

  And they went over to the tailor’s house and brought home their child. He grew up to be a big strong man after.

  I got that from my mother. She was from Ballyhogan in Barefield.

  But, children being taken that way, I believe ’twas a common thing at that time. There was a lot about fairy business going on at that time. There was. But, sure, they had to believe it when they seen it.

  Even though this story comes from seventy miles away from where the changeling story on the previous page occurred, the details are remarkably similar, e.g., the handing out of the child by a woman to a woman in each case, the threat of burning, the flight up the chimney.

  But in this version, we have the added detail of how the fairies can change the shape of ordinary things for their own purposes. The priest is not fooled, though, and uses his (in this case) superior power to make certain that the banishment of the changeling is permanent.

  “Will the fairies be saved the Last Day, do you think, will they?

  Well, if they do, all them people they brought’ll be saved,

  too, won’t they? So, I hope they will.”

  LISCANNOR, JULY 17, 1999

  The Fairies Get Set on a Whole Family

  I DO PRAY for my own two people that the fairies brought. And when I have prayed for ’em—I don’t know if I’m doing right or wrong—I’m offering up the prayers also to save the fairies that brought my people. The Last Day. By saying that, d’you see, they could be saved.

  My uncle was working in Doonagore quarries above, just a mile up from here. You can go no farther. Doonagore quarries was working at full swing over a hundred years ago. The United Stone Firm Company Limited, George Watson and Company Limited—they was working there over twenty years. They was transporting the flagstones for floors and footpaths, sending ’em out to Liverpool and Manchester from Liscannor dock below.

  So, this man, my uncle, was working in it. He was working inside in a forge. Where you have a quarry working like that, you have to have chisels and pickaxes, and bars—sharpening, you see. Because the stone does blunt ’em. And ’tisn’t every man that’s able to sharpen ’em, you see. He can sharpen ’em, all right, but the bother is to temper ’em.

  So, this man came in one day and he said, “John, you’re getting so big and so strong and such a fine man, they’ll have to knock the door o’ the forge for you soon,”—that he was getting big, and good-looking, and heavy, you know.

  But, ’twas his last day working in the quarry. He got sick the day after. He never put “God bless” on the man. No, never put “God bless” on him. No.

  He was sick the following day, and they didn’t know. They thought ’twas flu or something he had. He was there for days upon days, and they had two or three doctors at him, and they couldn’t find what was wrong.

  Eventually, a woman came up there from Liscannor. She had an ass and baskets and she was selling fish. She was around a few weeks before that, and she had heard about his sickness.

  “How’s the patient today?” says she.

  “If ’tis anything,” says the father, “ ’tis worse he is since you was here last.”

  “Why don’t you go down to Liscannor?” she said. “There’s a great priest there. He has great power. He can cure people.”

  “Begod,” he said, “I’d go to Limerick if I thought there was a priest there that could cure him.”

  “Oh, there is,” she said.

  So he went on his horse and saddle down to the priest. And he told the priest about his son.

  “I can’t go up today,” the priest said, “but I’ll go up in the morning. Where are you living?”

  He told him. This priest used to be coming to Moymore church below here. So he did come up the following day. And he came in.

  “God bless,” he said. “Where is the patient?”

  “He’s down in that room,” they said.

  So the priest went down and he closed the door. He was below in the room for about ten minutes talking to him. Then, he came up.

  “I have
to clear the house now,” he said. “I’ll have to put you out in that cow house above, the far up cow house near the road. Go in that. And don’t come out till I call you. I can’t perform the cure while you’re in the building. And bear in mind, this cure is only for seven years,” he said. “Seven years.”

  “If ’twas only for a year, itself,” says the father, “I appreciate that very much. Thank you very much, Father,” says he.

  So, he went in, and whatever he was doing below in the room, or whatever way he cured him I don’t know, but he called ’em in.

  “The cure is done now,” he said. “As I already told you, ’tis only for seven years.”

  “That’s grand,” says the father.

  “How many cows have you?” he asked the father.

  I don’t know if ’twas five or six, or four, or whatever he had.

  “You’ll put the very best o’ them cows, now, in that cow house above tonight,” he said. “If you put the worst of ’em in it, I’ll be dead in the morning. You think o’ that.”

  “Oh, God,” says the father, “I wouldn’t do a thing like that at all. If she was worth a thousand pounds, I’ll put her in.” So he did. And the cow was stone dead in the morning.

  “You’ll follow me down, now,” says he. “Gimme a chance until I’m below for a half an hour or three-quarters. Follow me down on the horse and saddle and I’ll give you blessed Augustines to put on his neck, to wear for the seven years.” They’re something in the form of scapulars, or something.

  So, he brought up the blessed Augustines and he put ’em on his neck.

  That man was up working the following day—working! Back to the forge again.

  Unfortunately, the seven years fell on a May Eve, when the fairies are out, you see.

  So, he said to his father and mother, “I think I’ll go up to Seán Pheadair’s for a few pints tonight”—that was the pub in Doolin.

  “Oh, in the honor o’ God,” they said, “whatever you do, don’t do that.”

  “Oh, my God,” says the mother, “don’t do that. Are you aware your seven years are up?” says she. “Don’t go out.”

  Well, if they tied him with a rope they couldn’t keep him at home. And ’twas an evil thought, the worst thought he ever thought.

  His mother, she didn’t sleep one wink o’ the night until he came in about two o’clock.

  Now, d’you see, when you go up to Doonagore you can’t go no higher. You’re seven hundred feet over sea level. If you go fifty yards farther than Doonagore quarries you’re going down, down, down, down, down, downhill. Or to Doolin downhill. Or to Lisdoonvarna downhill. So, with the drink he took, and the climbing up all the hills, I suppose he lied down at the side o’ the road in some dry spot—there was a small lake at one side—lied down and went off to sleep in it, with the drink.

  The mother heard him coming in about two or three o’clock in the morning, and she let him alone. She thought he was asleep below in the bed. She stole down, and she put her hand in his bosom, inside his shirt, to his skin. Tanan ’on diabhal,30 wasn’t the Augustines gone! They were taken out o’ his neck. The seven years was up.

  She came back to her husband and she said, “He’s swept.”

  That man never rose the following morning out o’ that bed. And for days after he didn’t rise out of it.

  So, his brother—my father—used to go up to Doonagore quarries; there was two great houses up there you’d go on ragairne. One of ’em was Darcy’s and the other was Davoren’s. There was an old man over here, he was old Seán Finn. He’s dead for years. He was out in the Bush in Australia, this man, and nothing in the world’d frighten him.

  He was here one night saying the rosary with the family on their knees—my father was gone up to Davoren’s on ragairne—when there was a tin can o’ gravel flung against the door from outside. He got up off o’ his knees and he went out like a bullet.

  “Don’t think,” says he, “if you have that man in the room taken, you’re going to make a mockery o’ the rosary. We’ll say the rosary in spite o’ you.” Oh, he was right vexed and cross to ’em. Wasn’t he a great man!

  After the rosary he asked for my father, where was he.

  “He’s above on ragairne at Davoren’s.”

  “Tell him to mind himself. They’re after him, too,” says he. He knew the fairies had the man above in the room, you see.

  So, when my father came down they told him that.

  And d’you know what he had to do to save himself, do you? An unusual thing he had to do. Every time he’d make his water, he’d have to put a cross o’ the water on his forehead, a cross o’ the urine. They couldn’t bring him then, d’you see.

  And the man in the bed, they buried him and there was no more about him.

  But wait’ll you hear what happened to his sister, the sister o’ the man that the fairies brought, that was down in that room. She was married above at Doonagore quarries.

  Now, her brother was dead a good while by this time and another sister was going up to the sister at the quarries—to some party that was on this Saturday night.

  She went out that gate outside there. She turned to her right, and she went over a quarter of a mile to the crossroad. She turned up to her left. ’Twas a mile up exactly from this place. She was only gone up a half a mile o’ the road when this woman came out o’ the blue and walked by her side, never before seen her.

  She said good night to the woman, o’ course. No answer. “Good night,” again. No answer. “Good night,” again. No answer. Oh, she was getting very lonely then, the little girl. Just when they came on top o’ the hill above she said, “Good night,” again, and no answer.

  There was a stream o’ water crossing the road above, under the road, a kind of a wide gullet. D’you ever hear they can’t cross the water? She was coming to that stream o’ water and the woman looked at her and tapped her three times on the shoulder.

  That girl went in above to that party and sat down. And the first one that asked her to dance was her boyfriend. No, she refused him. She told him she was sick.

  Her brother had to come home with her from that party at twelve o’clock in the night. And she never rose out o’ the bed, until she died.

  So, her boyfriend, he used go over from Doonagore quarries. There’s an old road going over, a bog at both sides of it; ’tis over a mile long. ’Twould bring you out over on a branch that’s coming out o’ the road that’s going past the Cliffs o’ Moher. And when you come out on the branch road, if you continue on straight ahead, you was out on the tour road. That’s the way he used to go to Saint Brigid’s Well. He’d have a few drinks at the weekend.

  He went over this night, and ’twas one o’clock when he left the pub. Didn’t he hear the music inside at the Cliffs o’ Moher, and see the light. Heard the music and seen the light. Sure, when a man has a few drinks, when he’s heated up, he’ll go anywhere if he hears amusement or light or music and dance, won’t he? He went in. I declare to the Almighty God, he saw her dancing within at the Cliffs o’ Moher. And she was only dead a month. She was dancing with a man he didn’t know at all, a fairy man. There was fairies, you see. Fairies dancing in it. He nearly got a heart attack.

  Well, I’m telling you, he wasn’t long coming home and never again went to Saint Brigid’s Well. He got as sober as a judge. Oh, that’s the truest talk.

  Lots o’ people wouldn’t believe them things at all, but, sure, her sister wouldn’t go telling a lie, would she? And ’tis her sister told me about her brother, too.

  “The fairies done a very cruel turn on us,” she said, “to take my brother and sister, to take the two of ’em together.”

  There isn’t a shadow of a doubt about that; ’tis a right true story. A right true story. ’Tis.

  But there was one thing baffling me. I’ll tell you. My father never told me a word o’ them things. No. But when we were young, he did something that gave me a suspicion of it. He got a piece o’ that strong cord and he got a l
ot of old rusty horseshoe nails. Old rusty nails, you see, that came out of horses’ shoes, they’d be short. He bended them in and made a ring of ’em and put the cord through ’em, and hung ’em around our necks. Don’t you know why he done it? The fairies couldn’t touch you then, you see!

  The fear o’ God was in his heart over what happened to his brother and his sister. He was sure the fairies’d bring us, too. Maybe he was right. Because there’s no doubt but the fairies had some set on our family.

  Even his father, now, he came into that yard one night with a horse and trap. ’Twould be about twelve o’clock in the night, I suppose. He took the trap from the horse, took off the harness and he was going over around the turn o’ the gable o’ the house with the horse, and a piece of iron, like a piece of a band of a cart, got tangled in the horse’s legs. Oh, a big gash o’ light went out of it. He couldn’t know for the life of him what ’twas, because there was nothing o’ the sort ever around that place. Where did it come out of?

  He went out with a lantern—a lantern and a candle they had in them days. ’Twas no good. Searched in the morning. Found nothing.

  His father went to Ennis with the horse and trap the following morning. And that horse broke her leg on the road below around Inagh, without anything coming before her. What do you think o’ that? Broke the leg on the road! Hadn’t they some set on our family after that, the fairies, hadn’t they?! Hadn’t they some set on ’em?

  It is obvious from the tone of this story that the teller is deeply in sympathy with what he speaks of. His very opening admission, that he prays for the salvation of the fairies, is something I have never come across from anyone else in twenty-eight years of collecting folklore. And the description of the carrying of his uncle which follows, with its demonstration of a “powerful” priest at work, the cured man’s carelessness on May Eve, the seeming contempt of the fairies for a family at prayer, how one may protect oneself against them (with urine), all reads graphically and credibly—as does the account of the carrying of his aunt. He is in no doubt that the silent woman who accosts her on her way to the party is one of the Other Crowd; she does not cross the stream of water. And after her three (!) touches it is only a matter of time before the aunt sickens and dies, i.e., is carried.