Irish Stories and Folklore

by Stephen Brennan

  ‘It’s time for us to be shortening the road,’ says Cuimin, after a little spell.

  We got a move on us. We took the road home. The night was dark. There was no wish for talk on any of us, at all. When we came to the head of the street Cuimin stood in the middle of the road.

  ‘Where’s Coilin Muirne?’ says he.

  We didn’t feel him from us till Cuimin spoke. He wasn’t in the company.

  Myself went back to the public-house. Coilin wasn’t in it. I questioned the pot-boy. He said that Coilin and the black man left the shop together five minutes after our going. I searched the town. There wasn’t tale or tidings of Coilin anywhere. I left the town and I followed the other men. I hoped it might be that he’d be to find before me. He wasn’t, nor the track of him.

  It was very far in the night when we reached Glashaduff bridge. There was a light in Muirne’s house. Muirne herself was standing in the door.

  ‘God save you, men,’ says she, coming over to us.‘Is Coilin with you?’

  ‘He isn’t, maise,’ says I. ‘He stayed behind us in Uachtar Ard.’

  ‘Did he sell?’ says she.

  ‘He did, and well,’ says I. ‘There’s every chance that he’ll stay in the town till morning. The night’s black and cold in itself. Wouldn’t it be as well for you to go in and lie down?’

  ‘It’s not worth my while,’ says she. ‘I’ll wait up till he comes. May God hasten you.’

  We departed. There was, as it would be, a load on my heart. I was afraid that there was something after happening to Coilin. I had ill notions of that black man I lay down on my bed after coming home, but I didn’t sleep.

  The next morning myself and your mother were eating breakfast, when the latch was lifted from the door, and in comes Cuimin O’Niadh. He could hardly draw his breath.

  ‘What’s the news with you, man?,’ says I.

  ‘Bad news,’ says he. ‘The lord was murdered last night. He was got on the road a mile to the east of Uachtar Ard, and a bullet through his heart. The soldiers were in Muirne’s house this morning on the track of Coilin, but he wasn’t there. He hasn’t come home yet. It’s said it was he murdered the lord. You mind the words he said last night?’

  I leaped up, and out the door with me. Down the road, and east to Muirne’s house. There was no one before me but herself. The furniture of the house was this way and that way, where the soldiers were searching. Muirne got up when she saw me in the door.

  ‘Sean O’Conaire,’ says she, ‘for God’s pitiful sake, tell me where’s my son? You were along with him. Why isn’t he coming home to me?’

  ‘Let you have patience, Muirne,’ says I. ‘I’m going to Uachtar Ard after him.’

  I struck the road. Going in the street of Uachtar Ard, I saw a great ruck of people. The bridge and the street before the chapel were black with people. People were making on the spot from every art. But, a thing that put terror on my heart, there wasn’t a sound out of that terrible gathering—only the eyes of every man stuck in a little knot that was in the right-middle of the crowd. Soldiers that were in that little knot, black coats and red coats on them, and guns and swords in their hands; and among the black coats and red coats I saw a country boy, and bawneens on him. Coilin Muirne that was in it, and he in holds of the soldiers. The poor boy’s face was as white as my shirt, but he had the beautiful head of him lifted proudly, and it wasn’t the head of a coward, that head.

  He was brought to the barracks, and that crowd following him. He was taken to Galway that night. He was put on his trial the next month. It was sworn that he was in the public-house that night. It was sworn that the black man was discoursing on the landlords. It was sworn that he said the lord would be coming that night to throw the people out of their holdings the next day. It was sworn that Coilin Muirne was listening attentively to him. It was sworn that Coilin said those words, ‘Murder him this night,’ when Cuimin O’Niadh said, ‘What way can we stop the bodach?’ It was sworn that the black man praised him for saying those words, that he shook hands with him, that they drank a glass together. It was sworn that Coilin remained in the shop after the going of the Rossnageeragh people, and that himself and the black man left the shop together five minutes after that. There came a peeler then, and he swore he saw Coilin and the black man leaving the town, and that it wasn’t the Rossnageeragh road they took on themselves, but the Galway road. At eight o’clock they left the town. At half after eight a shot was fired at the lord on the Galway road. Another peeler swore he heard the report of the shot. He swore he ran to the place, and, closing up to the place, he saw two men running away. A thin man one of them was, and he dressed like a gentleman would be.

  A country boy the other man was.

  ‘What kind of clothes was the country boy wearing?’ says the lawyer.

  ‘A suit of bawneens,’ says the peeler.

  ‘Is that the man you saw?’ says the lawyer, stretching his finger towards Coilin.

  ‘I would say it was.’

  ‘Do you swear it?’

  The peeler didn’t speak for a spell.

  ‘Do you swear it?’ says the lawyer again.

  ‘I do,’ says the peeler. The peeler’s face at that moment was whiter than the face of Coilin himself.

  A share of us swore then that Coilin never fired a shot out of a gun; that he was a decent, kindly boy that wouldn’t hurt a fly, if he had the power for it. The parish priest swore that he knew Coilin from the day he baptized him; that it was his opinion that he never committed a sin, and that he wouldn’t believe from anyone at all that he would slay a man. It was no use for us. What good was our testimony against the testimony of the police? Judgment of death was given on Coilin.

  His mother was present all that time. She didn’t speak a word from start to finish, but her two eyes stuck in the two eyes of her son, and her two hands knitted under her shawl.

  ‘He won’t be hanged,’ says Muirne that night. ‘God promised me that he won’t be hanged.’

  A couple of days after that we heard that Coilin wouldn’t be hanged, that it’s how his soul would be spared him on account of him being so young as he was, but that he’d be kept in gaol for the term of his life.

  ‘He won’t be kept,’ says Muirne. ‘O Jesus,’ she would say, ‘don’t let them keep my son from me.’

  It’s marvellous the patience that woman had, and the trust she had in the Son of God. It’s marvellous the faith and the hope and the patience of women.

  She went to the parish priest. She said to him that if he’d write to the people of Dublin, asking them to let Coilin out to her, it’s certain he would be let out.

  ‘They won’t refuse you, Father,’ says she.

  The priest said that there would be no use at all in writing, that no heed would be paid to his letter, but that he himself would go to Dublin and that he would speak with the great people, and that, maybe, some good might come out of it. He went. Muirne was full-sure her son would be home to her by the end of a week or two. She readied the house before him. She put lime on it herself, inside and outside. She set two neighbours to put a new thatch on it. She spun the makings of a new suit of clothes for him; she dyed the wool with her own hands; she brought it to the weaver, and she made the suit when the frieze came home.

  We thought it long while the priest was away. He wrote a couple of times to the master, but there was nothing new in the letters. He was doing his best, he said, but he wasn’t succeeding too well. He was going from person to person, but it’s not much satisfaction anybody was giving him. It was plain from the priest’s letters that he hadn’t much hope he’d be able to do anything. None of us had much hope, either. But Muirne didn’t lose the wonderful trust she had in God.

  ‘The priest will bring my son home with him,’ she used say.

  There was nothing making her anxious but fear that she wouldn’t have the new suit ready before Coilin’s coming. But it was finished at last; she had everything ready, repair on the house, the new
suit laid on a chair before the fire,—and still no word of the priest.

  ‘Isn’t it Coilin will be glad when he sees the comfort I have in the house,’ she would say. ‘Isn’t it he will look spruce going the road to Mass of a Sunday, and that suit on him!’

  It’s well I mind the evening the priest came home. Muirne was waiting for him since morning, the house cleaned up, and the table laid.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she said, when the priest came in. She was watching the door, as she would be expecting someone else to come in. But the priest closed the door after him.

  ‘I thought that it’s with yourself he’d come, Father,’ says Muirne. ‘But, sure it’s the way he wouldn’t like to come on the priest’s car. He was shy like that always, the creature.’

  ‘Oh, poor Muirne,’ says the priest, holding her by the two hands, ‘I can’t conceal the truth from you. He’s not coming, at all. I didn’t succeed in doing anything. They wouldn’t listen to me.’

  Muirne didn’t say a word. She went over and she sat down before the fire. The priest followed her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Muirne,’ says he, like that.

  ‘Let me be, Father, for a little while,’ says she. ‘May God and His Mother reward you for what you’ve done for me. But leave me to myself for a while. I thought you’d bring him home to me, and it’s a great blow on me that he hasn’t come.’

  The priest left her to herself. He thought he’d be no help to her till the pain of that blow would be blunted.

  The next day Muirne wasn’t to be found. Tale or tidings no one had of her. Word nor wisdom we never heard of her till the end of a quarter. A share of us thought that it’s maybe out of her mind the creature went, and a lonely death to come on her in the hollow of some mountain, or drowning in a boghole. The neighbours searched the hills round about, but her track wasn’t to be seen.

  One evening myself was digging potatoes in the garden, when I saw a solitary woman making on me up the road. A tall, thin woman. Her head well-set. A great walk under her. ‘If Muirne ni Fhiannachta is living,’ says I to myself, ‘it’s she that’s in it.’ ’Twas she, and none else. Down with me to-the road.

  ‘Welcome home, Muirne,’ says I to her. ‘Have you any news?’

  ‘I have, then,’ says she, ‘and good news. I went to Galway. I saw the Governor of the gaol. He said to me that he wouldn’t be able to do a taste, that it’s the Dublin people would be able to let him out of gaol, if his letting-out was to be got. I went off to Dublin. O, Lord, isn’t it many a hard, stony road I walked, isn’t it many a fine town I saw before I came to Dublin? ‘Isn’t it a great country, Ireland is?’ I used say to myself every evening when I’d be told I’d have so many miles to walk before I’d see Dublin. But, great thanks to God and to the Glorious Virgin, I walked in on the street of Dublin at last, one cold, wet evening. I found a lodging. The morning of the next day I enquired for the Castle. I was put on the way. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in at first, but I was at them till I got leave of talk with some man. He put me on to another man, a man that was higher than himself. He sent me to another man. I said to them all I wanted was to see the Lord Lieutenant of the Queen. I saw him at last. I told him my story. He said to me that he couldn’t do anything. I gave my curse to the Castle of Dublin, and out the door with me. I had a pound in my pocket. I went aboard a ship, and the morning after I was in Liverpool of the English. I walked the long roads of England from Liverpool to London. When I came to London I asked knowledge of the Queen’s Castle. I was told. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in. I went there every day, hoping that I’d see the Queen coming out. After a week I saw her coming out. There were soldiers and great people about her. I went over to the Queen before she went in to her coach.

  There was a paper, a man in Dublin wrote for me, in my hand. An officer seized me. The Queen spoke to him, and he freed me from him. I spoke to the Queen. She didn’t understand me. I stretched the paper to her. She gave the paper to the officer, and he read it. He wrote certain words on the paper, and he gave it back to me. The Queen spoke to another woman that was along with her. The woman drew out a crown piece and gave it to me. I gave her back the crown piece, and I said that it’s not silver I wanted, but my son. They laughed. It’s my opinion they didn’t understand me. I showed them the paper again. The officer laid his finger on the words he was after writing. I curtseyed to the Queen and went off with me. A man read for me the words the officer wrote. It’s what was in it, that they would write to me about Coilin without delay. I struck the road home then, hoping that, maybe, there would be a letter before me. ‘Do you think, Sean,’ says Muirne, finishing her story, ‘has the priest any letter?’ There wasn’t a letter at all in the house before me coming out the road; but I’m thinking it’s to the priest they’d send the letter, for it’s a chance the great people might know him.’

  ‘I don’t know did any letter come,’ says I. ‘I would say there didn’t, for if there did the priest would be telling us.’

  ‘It will be here some day yet,’ says Muirne. ‘I’ll go in to the priest, anyhow, and I’ll tell him my story.’

  In the road with her, and up the hill to the priest’s house. I saw her going home again that night, and the darkness falling. It’s wonderful how she was giving it to her footsoles, considering what she suffered of distress and hardship for a quarter.

  A week went by. There didn’t come any letter. Another week passed. No letter came. The third week, and still no letter. It would take tears out of the grey stones to be looking at Muirne, and the anxiety that was on her. It would break your heart to see her going in the road to the priest every morning. We were afraid to speak to her about Coilin. We had evil notions. The priest had evil notions. He said to us one day that he heard from another priest in Galway that it’s not more than well Coilin was, that it’s greatly the prison was preying on his health, that he was going back daily. That story wasn’t told to Muirne.

  One day myself had business with the priest, and I went in to him. We were conversing in the parlour when we heard a person’s footstep on the street outside. Never a knock on the house-door, or on the parlour-door, but in into the room with Muirne ni Fhiannachta, and a letter in her hand. It’s with trouble she could talk.

  ‘A letter from the Queen, a letter from the Queen!’ says she.

  The priest took the letter. He opened it. I noticed that his hand was shaking, and he opening it. There came the colour of death in his face after reading it. Muirne was standing out opposite him, her two eyes blazing in her head, her mouth half open.

  ‘What does she say, Father?’ says she. ‘Is she sending him home to me?’

  ‘It’s not from the Queen this letter came, Muirne,’ says the priest, speaking slowly, like as there would be some impediment on him, ‘but from the Governor of the gaol in Dublin.’

  ‘And what does he say? Is he sending him home to me?’

  The priest didn’t speak for a minute. It seemed to me that he was trying to mind certain words, and the words, as you would say, going from him.

  ‘Muirne,’ says he at last, ‘he says that poor Coilin died yesterday.’

  At the hearing of those words, Muirne burst a-laughing. The like of such laughter I never heard. That laughter was ringing in my ears for a month after that. She made a couple of terrible screeches of laughter, and then she fell in a faint on the floor.

  She was fetched home, and she was on her bed for a half year. She was out of her mind all that time. She came to herself at long last, and no person at all would think there was a thing the matter with her,—only the delusion that her son isn’t returned home yet from the fair of Uachtar Ard. She does be expecting him always, standing or sitting in the door half the day, and everything ready for his home-coming. She doesn’t understand that there’s any change on the world since that night. ‘That’s the reason, Coilin,’ says my father to me, ‘that she didn’t know the railway was coming as far as Burnt House. Times she remembers hers
elf, and she starts keening like you saw her. ‘Twas herself that made yon keen you heard from her. May God comfort her, says my father,’ putting an end to his story.

  ‘And daddy,’ says I, ‘did any letter come from the Queen after that?’

  ‘There didn’t, nor the colour of one.’

  ‘Do you think, daddy, was it Coilin that killed the lord?’

  ‘I know it wasn’t,’ says my father. ‘If it was he’d acknowledge it. I’m as certain as I’m living this night that it’s the black man killed the lord. I don’t say that poor Coilin wasn’t present.’

  ‘Was the black man ever caught?’ says my sister.

  ‘He wasn’t, maise,’ says my father. ‘Little danger on him.’

  ‘Where did he belong, the black man, do you think, daddy?’ says I.

  ‘I believe, before God,’ says my father, ‘that it’s a peeler from Dublin Castle was in it. Cuimin O’Niadh saw a man very like him giving evidence against another boy in Tuam a year after that.’

  ‘Daddy,’ says Seaneen suddenly, ‘when I’m a man I’ll kill that black man.’

  ‘God save us,’ says my mother.

  My father laid his hand on Seaneen’s head.

  ‘Maybe, little son,’ says he, ‘we’ll all be taking tally-ho out of the black soldiers before the clay will come on us.’

  ‘It’s time for the Rosary,’ says my mother.

  GRACE

  BY JAMES JOYCE

  Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.