Meeting the Other Crowd

by Eddie Lenihan

  “Did you try opening the door?” said the neighbor.

  “No. When he didn’t answer my knock I thought he mustn’t be in.”

  “We’ll check, anyway,” the neighbor said. “If he went anywhere I’d nearly have noticed him going.”

  He tried the latch, and when he did, the door swung in. But . . . but . . . talk about a stink that came out against ’em! It nearly knocked ’em. They staggered back, holding their noses.

  “Merciful God, what’s that?” said the man from Coole.

  “I don’t know, but ’tis nothing good. I’ll get the priest, quick.”

  He did that—they were near the presbytery—and in five minutes he came, with his bag, prepared for the worst. But when he stepped into the kitchen, he staggered back from the smell.

  “Holy God,” he said, “is there someone dead?”

  And ’twasn’t easy to frighten that same man. All during the worst days o’ the Famine he was visiting houses where people were dying o’ starvation or the cholera, and some o’ the things he saw, they’d frighten even the toughest of men—like whole families dead and rotten, or eaten by the rats.

  But when he set foot in the weaver’s house that morning he knew that ’twas something else entirely was wrong.

  He held his handkerchief over his nose and looked around him. No one there. He pushed in the door o’ the bedroom and there, stretched on the bed, was the weaver, every bit of him twisted—hands, legs, mouth, and his eyes turned back in his head. He was still alive, though, because as soon as he saw the priest he tried to talk. But all that came out o’ him was a kind of a croak, Agkkhhh!

  “Go for the doctor, quick! Run!” said the priest, and opened his bag. “I’ll do what I can, but . . . I don’t know will it be enough.”

  They had to go as far as Gort, and by the time they arrived back with the doctor the priest had done the best he could. The weaver was still alive, anyway.

  But the doctor took one quick look at him and said, “I can do little for him. He’ll have to be brought in to Gort to the workhouse. They might be able to do something more for him there.”

  That was done. And when they arrived at the door, the matron looked at their patient, then got the horrible smell.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “I don’t know, any more than you do,” said the doctor. “Take him in, wash him, and put him to bed.”

  They did that, washed him with carbolic soap. But a few minutes after they took him out o’ the water and dried him, the smell was as bad as ever.

  “We can’t put him in with the other patients,” said the matron. “He’d stifle ’em.”

  So they put him under the stairs on a straw mattress, and that’s where he was when the surgeon from Galway arrived the next morning. You see, this surgeon used to visit the different workhouses once a week or so—Ballinasloe, Loughrea, Kinvara, and the rest—and the following day ’twas Gort’s turn.

  But when he looked at the man on the mattress under the stairs all he did was cock his nose. No fear he was going to touch a case that was stinking like that. All he did was to rummage around inside his bag, and took out a jar of ointment.

  “Here. Rub this to him three times a day.”

  That’s all he said. No more. I s’pose he didn’t care whether the man lived or died. You know yourself how much an Irishman’s life was worth in them days—less than a dog’s!

  He went off about his business, but the matron wasn’t going to do the dirty job herself. No fear, when she had nurses to do it!

  She called one of ’em, a young country girl, and gave her the ointment.

  “Rub that to the lad there under the stairs three times a day for as long as it lasts.”

  The girl did what she was told, o’ course. In the middle o’ that day she took him his dinner, whatever it was—not much in the workhouse, you can be sure!—and when he was finished it, she rubbed the ointment to him. But as she was doing it, over his shoulders, arms, chest, she noticed something strange: His skin was peeling off, just like you’d get a bad dose o’ sunburn. She went to the matron and told her about it.

  “I know nothing about that,” was the answer she got. “Just do what you were told.”

  So she did.

  That evening she arrived back with his supper, but he was lying back on the mattress. She called him. No move. So she put her hand under his shoulders, rose him up to feed him. But when she did, every bit of his hair stayed on the pillow. She ran to the matron, told her story.

  “I know nothing about that,” she said. “Do what you were told to. That’s all.”

  She did. But as she rubbed that ointment on him, every hair on him fell out—arms, chest, any part of him that she touched, even his eyebrows and eyelashes.

  The following morning she came back with his breakfast, not knowing what to expect. He was stretched. She helped him up on the pillow, but he couldn’t eat. Instead o’ that, he started to spit. And what he spat out was teeth, a whole mouthful of ’em, one after the other.

  She dropped him and ran to the matron again, but she got the same reception as before. She didn’t want to know anything about it.

  “Do what the surgeon said! That’s all.”

  The girl had to obey orders, I s’pose, but she was frightened. You can be sure o’ that.

  And it wasn’t over yet, because when dinnertime came she went again with her tray and jar of ointment. And like before, he couldn’t get up. She helped him, o’ course, but when he tried to hold the spoon she noticed that he had no fingernails on either hand! She was just about to run for help when—I don’t know why—she thought to lift up the blanket at the bottom o’ the bed. And there she saw that every one o’ his toenails had fallen out, too. They were all there together on the mattress!

  I don’t know whether she told the matron about that or not, but what I do know is that when she went back that evening with his supper, the poor man was dead. Stiff and cold.

  The news that he was dead came back to Shanaglish in a few hours. So his neighbors got together and decided that they couldn’t let him be buried in the workhouse graveyard, whatever else. To be buried there—like a dog, maybe even without a coffin—was the lowest any man could go. If you were buried there ’twas an admission that you hadn’t a single friend left in this world.

  So, they got a coffin made, collected him and brought him back here to Shanaglish.

  But there was one problem: He had no grave. Because he was a stranger, I s’pose. So, the only place he could be buried was here in this cillín.

  The grave was dug; the priest was there; everything was ready. But, when the prayers were being said, while the coffin was being let down, one o’ the people standing there, he pointed at the coffin and said to the man next to him, “Wasn’t he the man that said, that day above in the fort, that he’d take the skin off o’ the fairies with the spade if they interfered with him?”

  “ ’Twas him, all right.”

  There was no more said. The same thing was in every one o’ their minds: He thought he’d take the skin off them, but ’twas they took it off o’ him—and not just his skin, but teeth, hair, nails, until they took the very life from him.

  And how many fairy forts were interfered with in this parish since? Not one. If you don’t believe me, do your own inquiring.

  If, even after all the examples to the contrary that this book presents, there should still be a lingering feeling that the Irish fairies are cute little creatures with transparent wings and sparkling wands, kindly leaving money under children’s pillows for fallen-out teeth, this final story may dispel that feeling. Its message is direct, clear, and all too horrible in its detail: One who knowingly interferes with fairy property must be prepared for the consequences. And such consequences sometimes throw our own carelessly used words painfully back in our faces—a proof that where the Other Crowd are concerned, our opinions are best kept to ourselves.

  In this age of wonderful technology, when the imposs
ible is almost within our grasp in so many fields of endeavor, how ironic it is that these foregoing stories, from a technologically far more backward era, should still have that one vital lesson to impart to us, without which all our technology will get us nowhere in the end: respect.

  For no matter whether the fairies are seen metaphorically or as real beings inhabiting their own real world, a study of them shows us that those who came before us (and many of that mindset still survive) realized that we are—no matter what we may think to the contrary—very little creatures, here for a short time only (“passing through,” as the old people say) and that we have no right to destroy what the next generation will most assuredly need to also see itself through.

  If only we could learn that lesson, maybe someday we might be worthy of the wisdom of those who knew that to respect the Good People is basically to respect yourself.

  Acknowledgments

  ALL OF THE FOLLOWING shared their stories with me. That some of them have since died to this world is merely an interruption; I am certain that they are still telling, but now to an otherworldly audience, large, more comprehending, one to which fairy stories, in particular, must be the essence of everyday life, just as they once were in Ireland.

  So, my sincere thanks to (in alphabetical order): Jimmy Armstrong, Martin “Junior” Crehan, Matthew Feheny, Pat Fogarty, Paddy Guthrie, Tom Hickey, Michael Kelliher, Francie Kennelly, Jack Killourhy, Paddy Lawlor, Jack Leahy, Robert Lee, Flann Liddy, John Lynch, Mary McMahon, Tom McMahon, Jim McNamara, Joe Murphy, Patrick Murphy, Michael Noone, Johnny O’Connor, Michael O’Dwyer, P. J. O’Halloran, Siobhán Ní Shúilleabháin, Michael Reidy, Dan Ryan, Paddy Troy, Jack Walsh, Jack Woulfe.

  Yet, all of their stories might have remained quietly waiting for God only knows how long on my tape shelves were it not for the interest of Ken and Carolyn Green. Her diligence, especially, has brought this collection together, has shepherded its many parts to the light of day. If only I could be so hard-working, so organized, hardly anything would be impossible!

  CAROLYN GREEN thanks Eddie Lenihan, first and foremost, for his willingness to share his treasury of stories, for the delightful process of bringing them to publication, and for carefully opening a window to that otherworld; our agent, Tom Grady, for taking a leap of faith with us; Mitch Horowitz, our editor at Tarcher, for quickly grasping the essence of this book and seeing it through; Mick Bolger for patient hours of decoding Irish words and explaining a bit of the “Irish mind”; Ken Green, husband and partner on every level, for never wavering in his confidence that this project could happen; and Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche for transmitting a vast vision and teaching respect for the truth beyond cultural and religious boundaries.

  About the Authors

  Born in 1950, broadcaster, lecturer, folklorist Eddie Lenihan is the author of sixteen books, including poetry, railway history, children’s stories, and folklore, as well as eleven audio-tapes, a double CD, and a video of traditional Irish stories. His highly successful storytelling series Ten Minute Tales and Storyteller on Irish national television launched him on an international career, and today he visits many countries telling Irish tales to a constantly growing audience.

  His Tales from the Tàin is due for publication in 2003, Foreign Irish Tales for Children in 2004, and Horrors from the Roads of Ireland in 2005. He resides in Crusheen, County Clare, Ireland.

  A practicing Buddhist since the age of nine, Carolyn Eve Green has dedicated herself to preserving traditional wisdom in many forms of media. She has been a writer, director, and editor for theater, video, multimedia, and audio productions including the award-winning children’s storytelling audio series Secrets of the World. She currently lives in Boulder, Colorado, and is creative director for Windhorse Productions and a director of the Golden Sun Foundation for World Culture.

  1 A circular enclosure surrounded by an earthen bank on which whitethorn (hawthorn) bushes often grow. Often also called a “lios” or “rath” and giving its name to very many Irish places (e.g., Listowel, Rathmore). To archaeologists it is known as a “ringfort” because of its shape. Such forts vary in size from circa a quarter to circa an acre in extent. There are over 45,000 of them throughout Ireland.

  2 Grassy margin.

  3 Taken by the fairies.

  4 Night visiting.

  5 Irish for “stream.”

  6 A charm setter.

  7 Cf. my In Search of Biddy Early, Mercier Press, Cork, 1987.

  8 Part of a workhorse’s back harness.

  9 The fairies.

  10 I.e., they were determined to move it.

  11 The principal otherworld race in Irish mythology (literally, “the people of the goddess Danu”).

  12 A people who reputedly inhabited Ireland in ancient times.

  13 It has since been demolished.

  14 The fairy wind.

  15 Berated him.

  16 Make up into large heaps to await bringing home to the hay shed.

  17 An Irish general who, during the siege of Limerick in 1691, led a column of men by night out to intercept and blow up King William’s artillery at Ballyneety, thus saving the city for the moment.

  18 Irish families whose names begin with “O” or “Mac” (e.g., “O’Brien” or

  “MacNamara”).

  19 Presumably the teller means the Hudson River, East River, or Harlem River.

  20 They screamed and pissed themselves with fright.

  21 A card game played by three teams of either two or three players. The aim of each team is to make a comb (three tricks) and if unable to do so to prevent the other teams from doing so (i.e., to spoil it).

  22 A world-famous karst limestone area in County Clare where many unique species of plants are found.

  23 Small-time races in which the horses weren’t affiliated with any national governing or regulatory body and so didn’t have to comply with strict rules.

  24 Freemasonry dates back to the Middle Ages at least and was originally a craft association. By the mid to late nineteenth century in Ireland, Masonry had become anathema to most Catholics, partly because of papal condemnation, partly because of Irish political conditions. Even today the very name is synonymous, whether justifiably or not, with secrecy, sinister practices, and exclusiveness.

  25 A landlord house.

  26 The Fool of the Fairies.

  27 Night visiting.

  28 Heated the shovel until it was red hot.

  29 So, the broom o’ heather is all that was ever there; the fairies made it appear like a baby.

  30 Literally, “your soul to the Devil.”