by W. B. Yeats
“Good people all, a warning take by me;” but when he had finished the line, “My parents reared me tenderly,” he unexpectedly added –
“By yarrow and rue,
And my red cap too,
Hie over to England.”
The disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim.
There was once a lady, and she had two sons whose names were Louras (Lawrence) and Carrol. From the day that Lawrence was born nothing ever made him afraid, but Carrol would never go outside the door from the time the darkness of the night began.
It was the custom at that time when a person died for people to watch the dead person’s grave in turn, one after another; for there used to be destroyers going about stealing the corpses.
When the mother of Carrol and Lawrence died, Carrol said to Lawrence –
“You say that nothing ever made you afraid yet, but I’ll make a bet with you that you haven’t courage to watch your mother’s tomb tonight.”
“I’ll make a bet with you that I have,” said Lawrence.
When the darkness of the night was coming, Lawrence put on his sword and went to the burying ground. He sat down on a tombstone near his mother’s grave till it was far in the night and sleep was coming upon him. Then he saw a big black thing coming to him, and when it came near him he saw that it was a head without a body that was in it. He drew the sword to give it a blow if it should come any nearer, but it didn’t come. Lawrence remained looking at it until the light of the day was coming, then the head-without-body went, and Lawrence came home.
Carrol asked him, did he see anything in the graveyard.
“I did,” said Lawrence, “and my mother’s body would be gone, but that I was guarding it.”
“Was it dead or alive, the person you saw?” said Carrol.
“I don’t know was it dead or alive,” said Lawrence; “there was nothing in it but a head without a body.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” says Carrol.
“Indeed I wasn’t,” said Lawrence; “don’t you know that nothing in the world ever put fear on me.”
“I’ll bet again with you that you haven’t the courage to watch tonight again,” says Carrol.
“I would make that bet with you,” said Lawrence, “but that there is a night’s sleep wanting to me. Go yourself tonight.”
“I wouldn’t go to the graveyard tonight if I were to get the riches of the world,” says Carrol.
“Unless you go your mother’s body will be gone in the morning,” says Lawrence.
“If only you watch tonight and tomorrow night, I never will ask of you to do a turn of work as long as you will be alive,” said Carrol, “but I think there is fear on you.”
“To show you that there’s no fear on me,” said Lawrence, “I will watch.”
He went to sleep, and when the evening came he rose up, put on his sword, and went to the graveyard. He sat on a tombstone near his mother’s grave. About the middle of the night he heard a great sound coming. A big black thing came as far as the grave and began rooting up the clay. Lawrence drew back his sword, and with one blow he made two halves of the big black thing, and with the second blow he made two halves of each half, and he saw it no more.
Lawrence went home in the morning, and Carrol asked him did he see anything.
“I did,” said Lawrence, “and only that I was there my mother’s body would be gone.”
“Is it the head-without-body that came again?” said Carrol.
“It was not, but a big black thing, and it was digging up my mother’s grave until I made two halves of it.”
Lawrence slept that day, and when the evening came he rose up, and put on his sword, and went to the churchyard. He sat down on a tombstone until it was the middle of the night. Then he saw a thing as white as snow and as hateful as sin; it had a man’s head on it, and teeth as long as a flax-carder. Lawrence drew back the sword and was going to deal it a blow, when it said:
“Hold your hand; you have saved your mother’s body, and there is not a man in Ireland as brave as you. There is great riches waiting for you if you go looking for it.”
Lawrence went home, and Carrol asked him did he see anything.
“I did,” said Lawrence, “and but that I was there my mother’s body would be gone, but there’s no fear of it now.”
In the morning, the day on the morrow, Lawrence said to Carrol –
“Give me my share of money, and I’ll go on a journey, until I have a look round the country.”
Carrol gave him the money, and he went walking. He went on until he came to a large town. He went into the house of a baker to get bread. The baker began talking to him, and asked him how far he was going.
“I am going looking for something that will put fear on me,” said Lawrence.
“Have you much money?” said the baker.
“I have a half-hundred pounds,” said Lawrence.
“I’ll bet another half-hundred with you that there will be fear on you if you go to the place that I’ll bid you,” says the baker.
“I’ll take your bet,” said Lawrence, “if only the place is not too far away from me.”
“It’s not a mile from the place where you’re standing,” said the baker. “Wait here till the night comes, and then go to the graveyard, and as a sign that you were in it, bring me the goblet that is upon the altar of the old church that is in the graveyard.”
When the baker made the bet he was certain that he would win, for there was a ghost in the churchyard, and nobody went into it for forty years before that whom he did not kill.
When the darkness of the night came, Lawrence put on his sword and went to the burying ground. He came to the door of the churchyard and struck it with his sword. The door opened, and there came out a great black ram, and two horns on him as long as flails. Lawrence gave him a blow, and he went out of sight, leaving him up to the ankles in blood. Lawrence went into the old church, got the goblet, came back to the baker’s house, gave him the goblet, and got the bet. Then the baker asked him did he see anything in the churchyard.
“I saw a big black ram with long horns on him,” said Lawrence, “and I gave him a blow which drew as much blood out of him as would swim a boat; sure he must be dead by this time.”
In the morning, the day on the morrow, the baker and a lot of people went to the graveyard and they saw the blood of the black ram at the door. They went to the priest and told him that the black ram was banished out of the churchyard. The priest did not believe them, because the churchyard was shut up forty years before that on account of the ghost that was in it, and neither priest nor friar could banish him. The priest came with them to the door of the churchyard, and when he saw the blood he took courage and sent for Lawrence, and heard the story from his own mouth. Then he sent for his blessing materials, and desired the people to come in till he read mass for them. The priest went in, and Lawrence and the people after him, and he read mass without the big black ram coming as he used to do. The priest was greatly rejoiced, and gave Lawrence another fifty pounds.
On the morning of the next day Lawrence went on his way. He travelled the whole day without seeing a house. About the hour of midnight he came to a great lonely valley, and he saw a large gathering of people looking at two men hurling. Lawrence stood looking at them, as there was a bright light from the moon. It was the good people that were in it, and it was not long until one of them struck a blow on the ball and sent it into Lawrence’s breast. He put his hand in after the ball to draw it out, and what was there in it but the head of a man. When Lawrence got hold of it, it began screeching, and at last it asked Lawrence –
“Are you not afraid?”
“Indeed I am not,” said Lawrence, and no sooner was the word spoken than both head and people disappeared, and he was left in the glen alone by himself.
He journeyed until he came to another town, and when he ate and drank enough, he went out on
the road, and was walking until he came to a great house on the side of the road. As the night was closing in, he went in to try if he could get lodging. There was a young man at the door who said to him –
“How far are you going, or what are you in search of?”
“I do not know how far I am going, but I am in search of something that will put fear on me,” said Lawrence.
“You have not far to go, then,” said the young man; “if you stop in that big house on the other side of the road there will be fear put on you before morning, and I’ll give you twenty pounds into the bargain.”
“I’ll stop in it,” said Lawrence.
The young man went with him, opened the door, and brought him into a large room in the bottom of the house, and said to him, “Put down fire for yourself and I’ll send you plenty to eat and drink.” He put down a fire for himself, and there came a girl to him and brought him everything that he wanted.
He went on very well, until the hour of midnight came, and then he heard a great sound over his head, and it was not long until a stallion and a bull came in and commenced to fight. Lawrence never put to them nor from them, and when they were tired fighting they went out. Lawrence went to sleep, and he never awoke until the young man came in in the morning, and he was surprised when he saw Lawrence alive. He asked him had he seen anything.
“I saw a stallion and a bull fighting hard for about two hours,” said Lawrence.
“And weren’t you afraid?” said the young man.
“I was not,” says Lawrence.
“If you wait tonight again, I’ll give you another twenty pounds,” says the young man.
“I’ll wait, and welcome,” says Lawrence.
The second night, about ten o’clock, Lawrence was going to sleep, when two black rams came in and began fighting hard. Lawrence neither put to them nor from them, and when twelve o’clock struck they went out. The young man came in the morning and asked him did he see anything last night.
“I saw two black rams fighting,” said Lawrence.
“Were you afraid at all?” said the young man.
“I was not,” said Lawrence.
“Wait tonight, and I’ll give you another twenty pounds,” says the young man.
“All right,” says Lawrence.
The third night he was falling asleep, when there came in a grey old man and said to him –
“You are the best hero in Ireland; I died twenty years ago, and all that time I have been in search of a man like you. Come with me now till I show you your riches; I told you when you were watching your mother’s grave that there was great riches waiting for you.”
He took Lawrence to a chamber underground, and showed him a large pot filled with gold, and said to him –
“You will have all that if you give twenty pounds to Mary Kerrigan the widow and get her forgiveness for me for a wrong I did her. Then buy this house, marry my daughter, and you will be happy and rich as long as you live.”
The next morning the young man came to Lawrence and asked him did he see anything last night.
“I did,” said Lawrence, “and it’s certain that there will be a ghost always in it, but nothing in the world would frighten me; I’ll buy the house and the land round it, if you like.”
“I’ll ask no price for the house, but I won’t part with the land under a thousand pounds, and I’m sure you haven’t that much.”
“I have more than would buy all the land and all the herds you have,” said Lawrence.
When the young man heard that Lawrence was so rich, he invited him to come to dinner. Lawrence went with him, and when the dead man’s daughter saw him she fell in love with him.
Lawrence went to the house of Mary Kerrigan and gave her twenty pounds, and got her forgiveness for the dead man. Then he married the young man’s sister and spent a happy life. He died as he lived, without there being fear on him.
A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called – “Open! open!”
“Who is there?” said the woman of the house.
“I am the Witch of the one Horn,” was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: “Where are the women? they delay too long.”
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, “Open! open!”
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
“Give me place,” she said, “I am the Witch of the two Horns,” and she began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire – the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said –
“Rise, woman, and make us a cake.” Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.
And they said to her, “Take a sieve and bring water in it.”
And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then a voice came by her and said, “Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.”
This she did, and the sieve held water for the cake; and the voice said again –
“Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, ‘The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.’”
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon,4 where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of witches if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited.
Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.
“Open, open!” they screamed, “open, feet-water!”
“I cannot,” said the feet-water, “I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.”
“Open, open, wood and trees and beam!” they cried to the door.
“I cannot,” said the door, “for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I have no power to move.”
“Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!” they cried again.
“I cannot,” said the
cake, “for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.”
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night’s awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than having slept under the walls of the Pooka’s tower.
I knew the man well. He lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time he told me the story, with grey hair and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June 1813 that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.
“I am often axed to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is not the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little, to be sure, and, maybe, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end; and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in a year; but now it’s another thing. No matter for that, sir, for I’d better be telling you my story.
