But her being seen dancing with a fairy man at the Cliffs of Moher a month later—how are we to take this? As the drunken imaginings of a broken-hearted boyfriend? Or as it is here offered, “a right true story.” Once again, the reader must be the judge of that.
And his conviction that the whole family was being victimized by the fairies over several generations might seem amusing if it were merely asserted. But when incidents are described which give it some substance . . . !
“I heard of a girl that got clothes long ago near a spring well. An’, Christ, clothes were very scarce, so she put ’em on, an’ they fitted her, an’ she wore ’em. But she died a very short time after. They said ’twas the fairies that done it.”
MILTOWN, JUNE 27, 1999
A Rash Intervention Condemns Woman
THERE WAS A MAN not far from here, and his wife was going in the outhouse one day, in the cabin. And this bowl, now, it came out o’ the blue; ’twas put into her hand.
She brought it in, left it on the dresser. And a neighbor came in—the same man that was here the night that my uncle was carried, that went out when the gravel was thrown up against the door when they were saying the rosary. She told him what happened.
“Where’s the bowl? Where is it?” says he.
She took it out o’ the dresser for him.
He brought it out and made forty-five pieces of it against the wall.
’Twas no length after till the wife died.
And this man above at Doonagore quarries used to come down on ragairne in the nights. ’Twas in the month o’ November or December he came down one night. ’Twas a moonlight night—oh, you’d see pins fifty yards away. Didn’t he see her standing in the door o’ the cabin—and she dead! Seen her standing, at the door o’ the cabin. The cabin was right on from the gable o’ the house going up and down, north and west, and he had only this length to the dresser to go, now, to the door o’ the house. And he seen her.
But, just as he was taking the knob o’ the door, he gave a side-glance, and she was gone.
He went in, and sat down. He didn’t say much after going in, at all.
“By God,” says Seán Finn to him, “you’re in no form tonight, Pádraic. You have no talk.”
“Ah,” says he, “I’m not feeling that well at all, now.”
He never told the story that he saw the man’s wife, that he saw her standing in the door. The fairies brought her, d’you see. That was a fairy woman, d’you see, that put the bowl into her hand. And maybe, if he hadn’t broke that bowl, she could be living.
From this story it is clear that the action of a man who on one occasion may be commended for his swift action, on another may be a cause of disaster. For as the teller says in his final sentence, if the bowl hadn’t been broken the woman might not have been taken—by the fairies.
It seems pointless to look for a motive for the woman’s abduction. The Other Crowd wanted her for their own mysterious purposes; that is all. In fact, except that the narrator is so definite that it is the fairies who have carried her, this story could well be read as a ghost story. Which demonstrates once more how difficult it is to distinguish between both of these worlds in the Irish mind.
“They were very good to you, an’ very nice to you, an’ harmless to you, if you were okay. But if you got involved with ’em in any shape or form, the other thing could happen.”
DRUMLINE, OCTOBER 17, 1992
Unbeliever Released from Fort . . . Barely!
THERE WAS A MAN, Tom Lynch, and he lived behind here. He used to go on his cuaird in the nighttime, and he used to pass this fort. And there was always a mighty rally of music and song going on in it.
One night, anyway, he said to the lads in the house where he was on cuaird, “By God, d’you know lads, you should come with me tonight.”
“Why?” they said.
“Well, that fort that’s over there,” he said, “I’ve it passed for the last five or six nights, and there’s music and song and dance and everything. They’re having a mighty time there.”
“And why don’t you go in to ’em?”
So this fellow was in the crowd.
“Listen,” says he, “ ’tis in your nerves it is. You dreamt of it.”
“No. ’Tis reality,” says the other man.
“By Christ, I’ll go with you tonight,” he said. So he went with him and they came out straight at the fort, and when they did, this small black man came out and he caught the man by the cape o’ the coat.
He said, “You’re a disbeliever. You’re like Doubting Thomas. You have to see the thing to believe it. Come on in,” he said. “We’ll show you what’s going on here.”
Sure, the man got an awful shock.
“I won’t bring that man that’s with you at all,” he said, “because he’s a very holy man,”—and he was a very holy man. He used go to communion and everything, and send off money to foreign missions and all that.
“I have nothing to do with him,” he said. “But I have to look after you.”
That man was held inside that place for a week! And ’tis unknown what he went through. When he came out you could hardly know him. But they released him after a week, and I’m telling you, the man behind here said he had a different story when he came out.
They were dancing and singing in there, he said. And one night there was a whole crowd of ’em round about, and this man was in there with a red cap. And every one of ’em got a bowl o’ soup.
So this man in charge of ’em all, the king of ’em, I s’pose, he said to him, “There’s a man there, now, and you have to pick out this man. If you aren’t able to pick out this man from the crowd that’s drinking a bowl o’ soup, you’ll never be able to leave this place.”
God, he put the man in an awful hold.
“I’ll do my best,” says he.
So then, he got a bit of a tip from one o’ the boys that was inside. “D’you know how you’ll know him?” he said.
“I don’t,” says the man. “Sure, ’tis a puzzle.”
“ ’Tisn’t,” says he. “He’s wearing a red cap and he’s supping his soup with a noise.”
So, he walked over to this man and he says, “There, he’s there.”
“How’d you know that?” says the king. Oh, he was mad. Mad. I s’pose they were looking forward to keeping him, you see.
He didn’t tell ’em, though, that ’twas one o’ the lads inside that told him. The lads, they were people that were carried, o’ course.
The king said to him then, “Go on. You can go. But you’re the lucky man you’re not staying here with us. And ’tis all your own fault. The man you was with, he passed here several nights, and we were singing and dancing here, and he knew ’twas going on. But you was a disbeliever. It just goes to show you that you did the Doubting Thomas on it and that’s why you was picked up. Go on, now. You’re a lucky man.”
So, he was let go.
Being a mocker, a disbeliever, where the fairies were concerned could have serious consequences, as the Doubting Thomas in question here discovers. That his lesson was a harsh one is hinted at briefly, but clearly: “When he came out (of the fort) you could hardly know him.” That he escaped at all was due more to good fortune than to any desire on the part of the fairies to release him. But we may be sure it served as a salutary example to all other potential scoffers to tread carefully.
“There’s no way out if they turn on you. There’s no back door. If you’re caught, you’re caught.”
DRUMLINE, SEPTEMBER 19, 2001
The Shanaglish Weaver
DURING THE FAMINE TIMES, some places got a terrible clearing out. This parish here, Shanaglish, wasn’t the worst hit, but ’twas bad enough—about half the people died, or emigrated. And among those that died was the local weaver. That was no small thing in them days, because it wasn’t like today, where you can walk into a shop and buy whatever clothes you want, there and then. No. At that time you had to get your wool spun into thread, then h
ave that woven into cloth, and after that, the tailor’d make whatever clothes you wanted out of it. Different times, entirely!
Their weaver died, anyway, and that left ’em in an awful state, because now they had to walk to Gort, five miles away, at a time when they could hardly stand, with the hunger.
It looked bad for ’em, one misfortune down on top of another. Then, about two months after their weaver died this stranger came on the road, a small man with a big pack on his back. They saw him coming and they were afraid of him.
Why wouldn’t they be? He might be carrying the cholera or some other disease. Remember, more people died o’ cholera than starvation during the Famine. They stopped him—but kept well away from him—and asked him who was he, where was he from, what did he want. He was from up north, he said—someplace they never even heard of. But when he told ’em he was a weaver they wanted to hear no more.
“Just the man we’re looking for. You’re welcome.” And that was that.
A good man at his trade he was, too. It was only when he started work that they saw how poor their own weaver was. The cloth that man used to make shirts, say, ’twould be like the canvas you’d use for the sail of a ship. You’d want thick skin to put up with it! But this new man, he could turn out any kind o’ cloth you wanted, thick or thin, soft or hard. And he’d weave little designs into it, too—little patterns, you know—if you asked him.
In no time at all the word went out about him, how good he was. And people started coming to him from miles around. He was working in a stable for a while, but not for too long. The local men, they built a house for him—a small cabin, indeed, mud walls, two rooms and thatched. But ’twas fine for a single man like him.
Things went on like that for six months or so, a queue o’ people to his door at all hours of the day. He was making money hand over fist—and giving a good service to the parish, too.
But there was one thing nagging at his mind all that time. You see, the local women were feeding him, but he took it into his mind that he’d rather be independent, able to feed himself.
So he started to make inquiries about renting out a plot o’ ground that he could plant spuds in. That should have been very easy, you might say. But no matter where he asked around the parish he always got the same answer: “Sorry. We’d love to oblige you but we can’t.”
And at last he got so disgusted by all the refusals that he said, “So that’s all you think o’ me! Here I am for all the past months, making the best o’ cloth for you, and this is the thanks I get. Well, if that’s the way of it, I’ll go someplace I’ll be appreciated.”
He made to collect his things and go, but they stopped him.
“No! Look, you have it all wrong. It isn’t that we don’t want to give you the ground for a garden. Not at all! But we haven’t it to spare. You can see how small our bits o’ farms are.”
He had to admit that. But he was still in a temper when one of ’em suggested that he should go and talk to Mick Murphy, the biggest farmer in the parish.
“Try him. He has the best part o’ sixty acres. If he can’t spare a half acre for you ’tis a poor story entirely.”
And he did that, went to Murphy’s door and offered a fair price for the rent of a garden for a year—in cash, too. Murphy wasn’t so willing at first, but when he saw the gold he changed his mind quick enough. I s’pose that’s why he was well off in the first place; he had a sharp eye for money.
“All right,” he said, took the money and shook the weaver’s hand. “You have a bargain. Come on, and I’ll show you your garden.”
He took the weaver around the back o’ his house, pointed up the field.
“There you are,” he said. And what was it that he pointed out—only a fairy fort!
I s’pose he thought he was being very funny entirely. He had the money, and there he was now offering a fort for a garden—a thing he knew well wouldn’t be taken by any Irishman in his right senses.
But he was wrong. The weaver didn’t blink an eye, only looked at it and nodded.
“That’s fine,” said he. “I’ll go into Gort today and buy a spade and enough seed potatoes. Thanks very much for your kindness, Mr. Murphy.”
I can tell you, Murphy was left standing there with his mouth hanging! What kind of a man was this weaver? Set a garden in a fort? The like of it was never heard before.
He went to Gort anyway, just like he said, and o’ course the word got out that he was going to dig the fort. People didn’t believe it, but they gathered around all the same when he came back from town, and watched him. Sure enough, he had the spade and the seed potatoes. And he made no delay, only went up the field to the fort to get started. They still didn’t take him serious. But when they saw him throwing off his coat, spitting on his hands, they knew then he was in earnest.
’Twas then that one of ’em stepped in, held up his hand.
“What kind of a man are you, at all, or where are you from, that you have no fear o’ taking the roof off o’ the fairies’ house? How long d’you expect to live?”
The weaver only laughed, and looked at him like he was some kind of a fool.
“Fairies? Where I’m from there’s no fairies. But if you have ’em here I’ll tell you this: I’ll take the skin off of ’em with this spade if they interfere with me.”
’Twas hard to talk sense to a man like that. There was nothing they could do, only let him at it. But they weren’t there while he was digging it. They blessed themselves and went off about their business, in case, maybe, the Good People might think they were in on it, too. Would you blame ’em!
He planted his garden anyway, set his spuds, and kept on with his weaving. And nothing happened, even though all the neighbors were expecting the worst from day to day. Time passed. The stalks came up. And remember, now, in them years the first thing people used to look out for was the leaves o’ the new plants. ’Cause if they had black spots on ’em there was another year’s blight coming, and more hunger.
But there was no spots on any one o’ the plants in that fort. They grew up green, lovely and healthy-looking. And you know yourself how high potato stalks grow, don’t you? About four feet. Well, these ones grew that much. And then five feet. Then six feet. Seven feet!
The neighbors spent more time there outside the fort looking in, more interested in his spuds than their own.
So the summer passed away. The stalks began to wither. And at last it came time to dig the spuds. I can tell you, the morning he turned up with the spade, every one o’ the neighbors were there. All he did was salute ’em as if ’twas any ordinary day. And I s’pose he thought ’twas.
But not for long. ’Cause as soon as he started trying to dig he found that he couldn’t. No matter how much he leaned on the spade he couldn’t turn the sod. ’Twas like there’d be rocks there—but there couldn’t be. Hadn’t he dug it earlier on, when he was planting the spuds!
They all thought ’twas weak he was getting, or something like that. But no one made any offer to help him, all the same. He kept at it, anyway, until at last he turned up this . . . this thing that looked like a spud, all right, but ’twas about twice as big as one o’ them pumpkins the children have at Halloween. They looked at it.
“Holy God, but what’s that?” says Murphy.
Whatever it was, ’twas perfect—no blight, no scabs, nothing.
And the next one was the same. And the next. And the next. They couldn’t understand it at all. Never saw anything like ’em in their lives.
Now, when you’re digging spuds with a spade, you’re bound to cut some of ’em. But there’s no need to waste ’em. All you do with those ones is use ’em first, before they rot. And he was bound to cut some o’ the ones in this garden, they were so big. He was only a small distance down the first ridge when the spade sliced a chunk out o’ one o’ these huge spuds.
And what do you think . . . it started bleeding! As red as if he cut his own hand.
The crowd outside the fort took on
e good look, blessed themselves, and left in a hurry. They were certain sure now that that garden was going to come to no good end.
But he didn’t seem to care a bit. He took up the piece o’ the spud that was cut, looked at it, smelt it, then threw it from him. He thought ’twas some local variety. No more than that.
He cut several more of ’em too, and threw ’em aside the same way, just like they were a thing o’ nothing. And when he finished digging for the day he collected up the damaged spuds and brought ’em back to the house for his supper. He was very pleased with himself, and why wouldn’t he be, with a good day’s work done?
But the following morning, around eleven o’ clock, a man from Coole—that’s over two miles the other side o’ Gort—arrived at the house to collect a piece o’ cloth. He knocked. But no answer. He knocked again, and still no reply. So, he was wondering what he’d do. ’Twas more than six miles of a walk home, and if he arrived empty-handed to his wife he’d have a bit of explaining to do. So he knocked again.
Still nothing.
He was wondering what should he do when one o’ the neighbors passed by on the road outside.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Ah, he told me he’d be here at this time today, but I’m here knocking for the last ten minutes and there’s no trace of him.”
“That’s not like him,” said the neighbor. “He’s very particular about being here when he says he will.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Maybe he’s out the back. Did you try there?”
He didn’t, he said. So they took a look.
No good.
Meeting the Other Crowd Page 25
