"An' wouldn't they disthroy meself as well," snorted the tinker in hurt surprise. "No, no. You own foive thurds of the goold, so you go in first, Darby O'Gill. That's only fair!"
"Oh, that sounds fair enough," conceded Darby, "but ye're not lookin' at it in a sinsible light. Think a bit. If anything happened to me, see what a loss entirely it'd be to the barony. Ye know well, Bill avourneen, I've a snug bit of a fa-arm, and besides that, I'm the father of eight beautiful childher, not mintioning that I'm the husband of a very shuperior woman. I'm a rayspictable, dacint man, an' you are only—You see, Bill, we must all listen to rayson—you are only—Of course, you're a grand tinker, the worruld knows that, but confaydential betwixt us now, d'ye think ye'd be much missed?"
Bill's answer was merely a splutter.
"Take yer elbow out of me back," suddenly roared Darby. "Stop scroogin' me, or by the powers, I'll—" he said no more, for with one tremendous lurch, Bill sent the knowledgeable man sprawling through the broken arch and stumbling with great strides into the dim, shadowy cloister. He himself stood without the arch a moment, his head peering through. As soon as the tinker made sure that no misfortune had befallen his friend, he followed Darby into the old abbey.
As that was no place for a quarrel, the two set silently to furious work, and ten minutes later, a wide ring of holly encircled the yew tree. Then only the moon shadows and the creeping murmurs of the trees and the mysterious noises of the grass-covered tombs stirred the churchyard. In the corner of this hallowed spot, Darby O'Gill and Bothered Bill Donohue, pickax and shovel in hand, stood waiting in shivering suspense the first ghostly sign of the fateful midnight. The chilling stillness and a quickened sense of lurking invisible beings grew heavier from moment to moment.
"Don't you think, Bill," Darby advised softly, "this'd be a foine opporchunity for ye to thry that charrum?" The tinker cleared his throat two or three times behind his hand.
"How does it begin, Darby? Isn't it th' Therums or Tharums?" he whispered.
The knowledgeable man started in dismay. "Ye don't mane to tell me ye've forgot the chune?" he asked.
"Oh, I have the chune all right," Bill answered confidently. "It's the worruds that I'm dubersome about. Do you sing the worruds, Darby, an' I'll sing the chune."
"Bad luck to ye for a forgetful tinker," wailed Darby. "Wirra, wirra, I've forgot the worruds, too."
"Well, by the powers o' pewther! Everything considhered, I think I'd betther make a run for it," Bill qailed. He dropped the pickax. "Look! There's somethin' movin' over there beyant, in the shadows. It's ayther a lion or a goat. Ye may have my four thurds, Darby. I'm goin'."
For answer, Darby caught his companion's arm with a grip of iron and fastened him there. As the two stood peering intently into the distant corner, suddenly from the shadows just behind—it seemed almost at their very ears—broke a long, sibilant whisper: "Shhh." For an instant, the treasure hunters clung to each other, cowering. Bill was the first to turn and venture a look; and when he did, every hair on his head separated like bristles on a brush, for dimly just outside the circle of holly leaves, stood what seemed the bent figure of an old woman. She wore a long, shimmering cloak that might have been a shroud. The hood was drawn so closely around her head that not one glimpse of the face was visible. Darby couldn't have moved a leg for the County Tipperary. A moment she remained as motionless as one of the slanting tombstones, till, slowly raising a stiff, dead hand, she beckoned the speechless men toward her.
"Come over," she hissed. "Come here, the both of yez, till I whusper where the crocks o' goold are hid. Ye're far from them."
Although Darby's voice came in choking gulps, he made bold to answer: "Thank ye kindly, ma-am, we're in no nade of yer advice, so if ye'll only go back quiet and dacint where ye're berried, we'll think it greatly infatuatin' of ye." It was politeness thrown away. The old woman threw back her head and let a shrieking laugh out of her that curled the leaves on the trees. Now, when an O'Gill grows afraid, he grows angry. "An' if ye're not obligatin' enough to do that little fayver," went on Darby, aroused by the disdainful insult, "then, by the hokey, I'll take one belt at ye wid this shovel, whether or no."
And then, an amazing thing happened. In the snap of a finger, the old woman changed into a raging lion the size of a horse before their bewildered eyes; and giving a roar of fury that sent Bill Donohue a foot up into the air, the great yellow beast went charging around and around the hallowed circle until the watchers grew dizzy following it.
"D'ye think I'd betther throw the spade at her?" asked Darby, swinging it above his head. At those words, the lion began backing toward the farthest corner of the cloister. Suddenly she stopped; and then, after drawing herself together, she made a leap toward the spot where they cowered. The monstrous beast landed with its two front paws almost touching the ring of holly. Then it was that Darby O'Gill, by the dint of his high courage, made himself forever after the proud boast of the village of Ballinderg. Swiftly stooping, the brave man up with a rock half the size of his head and let fly, striking the snarling creature square between the two blazing eyes.
Maurteen Cavanaugh, the schoolmaster, argues that the welt of a stone couldn't hurt Satan's head because he is a spirit. But Maurteen has no doubt but what the insult must have made Beelzebub dance with fury. At any rate, a bellow of rage answered the blow. Then, swish! the lion was gone, and the brown old woman flashed into its place. Darby stooped for another stone, but as he did so, the frightful old hag, with a great swirl of her long cloak and a wild, shrieking laugh, vanished into the air.
"By this an' that," gasped the knowledgeable man, leaning on his shovel, "who'd have thought that an-ny ould woman could be so shuple as that on her two legs? Come, Bill, now's our chance. Let's dig for our lives."
"They'll be thryin' to dayludher us till after cockcrow," whined Bill.
The tinker took the pickax, the other took the spade, and at it they went with a will. Never before had either of them worked so hard.
Thud, thud, thud! It wasn't long before a great hole loomed in the soft turf. The treasurehunters burrowed on without speaking; the perspiration poured from their faces; an ache came into the small of their backs. Still no sign of the crocks o' goold.
"Well, by the red hemp of Dunleary, if there ain't me two ould friends, Darby O'Gill and Bothered Bill Donohue, the tinker. The top of the avenin' to ye, bhoys! What are ye doin' here?" The tone of the voice was friendly, but when they raised their eyes to see who it was, there in the moonlight stood a terrible figure.
"Darby," gasped Bill, "don't ye know who it is? It's Black Mulligan, the gamekeeper." Black Mulligan stood not ten feet away, his gun at his shouder, the threatening blue barrel pointed at Darby's head.
"Stand aside. Get out of the way, bhoys, or I'll have to shoot through yez," he commanded. "William Fagin, the poacher, is hidin' there behind yez, an' it's him I'm afther. Stand aside or I'll—"
Darby bit his tongue just in time to check the "God save us" that was on his lips, and at the same time, he swung Donohue between himself and the point of the leveled gun barrel. As he did that, there came a quick flash, an awful shriek, and with it, the crashing report of a gun. Our two adventurers dropped to the ground on their faces. Some glint of courage from the fairy's charm must have lingered with them still, for, after a moment or two of stifling silence, Darby had spirit enough left to raise his head and exclaim, "Are ye alive, Bill?"
"How could I be alive?" moaned the tinker. "Isn't this the second time I'm kilt tonight?"
"Then up wid ye, man; it'll be cockcrow before we know it." They went at the digging again, and Bill had not given five good strokes till his pick struck iron.
"The crocks o' goold!" shouted Darby, and the strength returned to their backs, and the power to their arms. No two badgers ever flung dirt with greater speed than did our heroes. Presently the cover of a great black pot began to show itself in the bottom of the hole. "My fortune is made," grunted th
e tinker. And then Bill's pick, glancing to one side, was answered by another metallic ring which told where a second crock was hidden. At the same moment, Darby exclaimed, "I think there's wan over here undher me feet, Bill, an' the duckens take the bit of me if it isn't filled to the top. Oh, blur-an-ages, look who's comin' at us now."
From the farthest black corner of the cloister walls, up almost to the edge of the protecting holly wreath, stretched a broad path of shimmering green light. Down this mysterious gleaming road stalked a gigantic man, tall as a tree and breathing fire as he came. He was dressed in slithery black from head to foot, his raven hair stood straight on end, his long face was waxen white, and the eyes in his head, large as saucepans, glowed like living coals. There could be no doubt at all but what Satan himself had come visiting. On he strode to within a hand's breadth of the holly wreath, and then he halted with folded arms. All the seething hate and poisonous malice of the world was crowded into his look.
Darby considered, "I have nothing rale personal agin him, and maybe it's just as well to be civil." The lad pulled off his hat and made a scrape of a bow, but he was too flusthered to think of much to say. "The t-t-top of the a-avenin' to yer honor. Isn't it a-a-foine night? I, I niver saw yer lordship lookin' so well. I hear," he quavered, nervously twisting his hat, "that yer honor is havin' gr-reat times wid the Garmin pillosophers, these days. At laste Father Cassidy was sayin' so at chapel only last Sunday."
That proved an aggravating remark. Indeed, at the sound of Father Cassidy's name, a spasm of raging agony convulsed the face of Satan. Sparks of fire spurted from his nostrils, and his checks glowed like red-hot iron. "Don't mention that name," he roared. "He's the worst enemy I have in Ireland ground."
"Why—why don't ye say somethin', Bill?" urged Darby from behind his hat. "The juntleman is lookin' at you. I—I think it's you he's afther."
"I—I—I'm glad to see ye," put in the tinker, his teeth chattering. "N-n-o—I mane, wor ye havin' much rain this sayson down in, in—"
"Have done!" roared Satan, and the walls of the abbey shook. "Out of this place before I wither you up like a blasted tree. What fool's work brought you here?"
"I'm sure yer honor don't begrudge us the few dirthy handsful of goold in the crocks below," said Darby.
"Always the gold," answered Satan. "What good does it bring you, you poor insects of the earth? You snails! You worms! You scurrying gnats!"
As all the world knows, from the time a Tipperary lad is the height of your knee, he is a poor hand at taking an insult. So now Darby's quick temper got the better of his fears, and he warned hotly, "Kape a civil tongue in yer head, Mr. Beelzebub, whativer ye do! I niver done an-nything agin you or yours, did I? I'll make a child's bargain wid ye: D'you lave me alone, an' I'll lave you alone."
"You rubbish!" roared Satan. "You trembling weeds! You little heaps of dust! You bipeds!"
The last epithet proved too much for the prudence of the knowledgeable man. "Biped yerself!" he retorted. "Ye long-legged, goat-futted, chimblypot of a thransgressor! I dare ye to put yer ugly hoof over that holly."
But Darby got no further, for at these words, Satan's rage got something fearful to behold. A moment he beat his breast with his hands, and it clanked like iron, then flung his arms wide apart. At this last gesture, the moon winked out and the night became black as your hat. A mighty wind arose and tore through the old abbey, lashing the yew tree to and fro over their heads. The owls darted this way and that in the sweeping gale, hooting in dismal chorus. In the midst of this whirling confusion exploded the most astonishing wonder of all. The earth cracked open in one wide circle around the now thoroughly subdued men. From this circling crevice, an awful crackling sheet of devouring crimson flame shot up into the sky. Satan, serene and triumphant, stood framed in the center of the blazing cataract.
There is no telling what the end would have been had the tinker kept steadily in his mind the important condition that a person must not utter so much as one pious word while searching for the crocks of gold. It is likely that in ten seconds more, Darby O'Gill with Bothered Bill Donohue, as well as their descendants to come for generations, would have rolled in riches. But the endurance was pretty well shaken out of Bill by this time. He could only throw up his hands and exclaim, "God help us!"
Those were the fateful words. That prayer settled the business of the crocks of gold. Immediately a crash of thunder split the whole world. The sky must have fallen; the two men went down into the hole like a couple of rocks; the earth heaved and swayed like a billowy sea, and after that, there crashed a deathly silence. Then, clear through the distance from Hooligan's farm, shrilled the warning sound of a crowing cock.
It seemed a full minute before either of our stricken and stunned adventurers got control of himself. Darby was the first to open his eyes and look about. He hadn't heard the cockcrow. "The runneygade is gone! Quick, Bill, the crocks o' goold. Huroo, we're not bate yet!" No wonder Ballinderg is proud of the O'Gills.
But Bill was already on his feet, gazing bewildered at the spot where the wide hole had been. Lo and behold, not only had the crocks vanished, but the hole itself was gone; the place was filled to the top. And this was not all: the buttercups and daisies, without so much as a broken stem, danced nodding and bobbing in the first morning breeze above the spot.
Half an hour after, our two heroic but unfortunate treasure-hunters, loaded to the chin with bedraggled bundles, hesitated, anxious-faced on the threshold of the O'Gill cottage. Bridget, already astir, was busying herself above the hearth. She half-turned from the steaming breakfast to transfix them with a scornful glare. "What kep' yez?" she flung at her husband. Then, from the doorsill where they stood uneasily shuffling, the tired wanderers poured forth together an eloquent account of that night's wonderful adventures. From the beginning to the end of the tangled narrative, Bridget never uttered a single word, but waited with tilted chin motionless on the hearthstone, her hands on her hips.
When the two finished their story, Bridget never moved a muscle of her face, but stood with tightly drawn lips, her eye still fixed on them in a wide, unsympathetic stare. At last she spoke, and at the sudden question she asked them, Darby and Bill took a half-step back from the door:
"How much whiskey have yez left in that jug, Misther O'Gill?"
"I—I—believe it's purty near half-empty," answered Darby, looking accusingly at Bill.
"I didn't," blustered Bill. "Yer husband fell down an' spilled the jug whin he was runnin' from Nial, the fairy, Misthress O'Gill ma-am; an' he busted a lot of the lovely eggs, too, maam. He hut me with one foine egg and spiled a goose."
Bridget didn't say much then. So withering a look settled on her face that one would think that, instead of innocent stirabout that was bubbling in the pot, it was hot, boiling scorn she was turning into the breakfast bowls.
Bridget was a lady of few words, but many a word concerning that night she afterwards with rare judgment managed to scatter through the remaining days of Darby's life.
How Satan Cheated Sarah Muldowney
WHETHER it was the onraysonable unscrutableness of Pether Muldowney that first riled up the temper of Sarah Muldowney or whether it was the high-handed obthrusiveness of Sarah Muldowney that started the acraymonious ambayguity in Pether Muldowney, the sorrow one of me knows. Only this is sartin: that same provoking question tossed from family to family from day to day at some time or other, started botheratious disputations under every thatched roof in Ballinthubber.
Now, isn't it a worruld's wondher how the example of the quarrels and contintions of one family will creep sly and unrecognized intil the neighbors' houses, lighting up dissinsions when laste expected? Ould Nick himself from their first falling out med a tool and a torch out of the squabbles of the Muldowneys.
Look how clever Sattin conthrived the McCarthys intil their first blazing althercation! It was one winther's evenin' afther supper when Faylix McCarthy, a proud although at the same time a s
insible, quiet man, contented with the worruld and filled to the chin with peaceable intentions and butthermilk and oatmale stirabout, sat readying his pipe before the sparkling fire. His wife, Julia, brushed around busy washing up the pots and pans and clacking out a bit of a song the while.
"Isn't it a pity," says Faylix, offhanded, "isn't it a shame the way Sarah Muldowney harries and haggles the life out of her husband, Pether?"
Why Julia took offense at thim worruds she never afther could explain.
"Isn't it a shame," says Julia, a bit sharp over her shoulder, "isn't it a pity the way she's druve to it? And isn't it a misfortune," she flashed back at him, "that men are the same the worruld over?"
Up to that minute, yer honor, there wasn't a ha'porth of hard feelings betwixt them. But pushing Faylix down that way into the same place and pit with Pether Muldowney was like touching a sudden red coal to the back of his neck. So he gives his head a sudden jerk up, and then he says, and his hand thrimbled as he put the light into his pipe while he was talking, "I saw Dominic Flaherty this morning and he dhriving his two pigs with a rope on their legs, and the three of them on their way to the butchers at Fethard. The bastes wor pulling, one ayst and the other west, and dodging up every lane and crossroad and into every hole in the hedge. And I says to Dominic, says I, ' 'Tis yerself, Dominic, has as tayjus a job as if ye wor striving to manage a headstrong woman.' "
The Ashes of Old Wishes Page 16
