Well, at all events, there was Darby, his head bint, plodding along through the storm, an' a fiercer storm than the wind or rain ever med kept ragin' in his heart.
Only that through the storm in his mind there flared now an' thin quivers of fear an' turpitation that sometimes hastened his steps an' thin again falthered thim. Howsumever, taking it all in all, he was making good progress, an' had got to the bunch of willows at the near side of the mill whin one particular raymembrance of Sheelah Maguire and of the banshee's comb halted the lad in the middle of the road an' sint him fumblin' with narvous hands in his weskit pocket. There, sure enough, was the piece of the banshee's comb. The broken bit had lain forgotten in the lad's pocket since Halloween; an' now, as he felt it there next his thumping heart an' buried undher pipefuls of tobaccys the rayalisation almost floored him with consthernaytion. All rushed over his sowl like a flood.
Who else could it be but the banshee that guv Sheelah Maguire that turrible batin' mintioned by the tinker? An' what was that bating for, unless the banshee a-ccused Sheelah of stealing the ind of the comb? An', mother of Moses! 'Twas sarchin' for that same bit of comb it was that brought the ghosts up from Croaghmah an' med the whole townland ha'nted.
Was ever such a dangerous purdicament! Here he was, with ghosts in the threes above him an' in the hedges, an' maybe lookin' over his chowlder, an' all of them sarchin' for the bit of enchanted comb that was in his own pocket. If they should find out where it lay what awful things they would do to him. Sure, they might call up the Costa Bower an' fling him into it, an' that 'ud be the last ever heard of Darby O'Gill in the land of the livin'.
With thim wild thoughts jumpin' up an' down in his mind he stood in the dark an' in the rain, gawmin' vacant over toward the shadowy ruin. An' he bein' much agitayted, the lad, without thinkin', did the foolishest thing a man in his sitiwaytion could well a-complish—he took out of his pocket the enchanted sliver of goold an' hildt it to his two eyes for a look.
The consequences came suddin', for as he stuck it back into the tobaccy there burst from the darkness of the willows the hallowest, most blood-curdlin' laugh that ever fell on mortial ears. "Ho! ho! ho!" it laughed.
The knowledgeable man's hair lifted the hat from his head.
An' as if the laugh wasn't enough to scatther the wits of anyone, at the same instant it sounded, an' quick as a flash, every windy in the ould mill blazed with a fierce blue light. Every batthered crack an' crevice seemed bursting with the glare for maybe the space of ten seconds, an' then, oh, Millia Murther! there broke from the upper floor three of the bitterest shrieks of pain an' terror ever heard in this worruld; an', with the last cry, the mill quinched itself into darkness agin an' stood lonely an' gloomy an' silent as before. The rain patthered down on the road an' the wind swished mournful in the threes, but there was no other sound.
The knowledgeable man turned to creep away very soft an' quiet; but as he did a monsthrous black thing that looked like a dog without a head crawled slowly out from the willows where the turrible laugh had come from, an' it crept into the gloom of the opposite hedge an' there it stood, waitin' for Darby to dhraw near.
But the knowledgeable man gave a leap backwards, an' as he did from the darkness just behindt him swelled a deep sigh that was almost a groan. From the hedge to his right came another sigh, only deeper than the first, and from the blackness on his left rose another moan, an' then a groaning, moaning chorus rose all round him, an' lost itself in the wailing of the wind. He was surrounded—the ghosts had captured Darby.
The lad never rayalised before that minute what a precious thing is daylight. If there would only come a flash of lightening to show him the faces of the surrounding spirrits, horrible though they might be, he'd bid it welcome. But though the rain drizzled an' the tunder rumpled, not a flare lit up the sky.
One swift, dusperate hope at the last minute saved the boy from sheer dispair; an' that same hope was that maybe some of the Good People might be flyin' about an' would hear him. Liftin' up his face to the sky an' crying out to the passin' wind, he says:
"Boys," he says, agonised, "lads," says he, "if there be any of yez to listen," he cried, "I'll take it as a great favour an' I'll thank ye kindly to tell King Brian Connors that his friend an' comerade, Darby O'Gill, is in deep throuble and wants to see him imaget," says he.
"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed the turrible thing in the hedge.
In spite of the laugh he was almost sure that off in the distance a cry answered him.
To make sure he called again, but this time, though he sthrained his ears till their drums ached, he caught no rayply.
And now, out of the murkiness in the road ahead of him, something began to grow slowly into a tall, slender, white figure. Motionless it stood, tightly wrapped in a winding sheet. In its presence a new an' awful fear pressed down the heart of Darby. He felt, too, that another shade had taken its place behindt him, an' he didn't want to look, an' sthrove against lookin', but something forced the lad to turn his head. There, sure enough, not foive feet away, stood still an' silent the tall, dark figure of a man in a topcoat.
Thin came from every direction low, hissing whuspers that the lad couldn't undherstand. Somethin' turrible would happen in a minute—he knew that well.
There's just so much fear in every man, just exactly as there is a certain amount of courage, an' whin the fear is all spilt a man aither fights or dies. So Darby had always said.
He raymembered there was a gap in the hedge nearly opposite the clump of willows, so he med up his mind that, come what might, he'd make a gran' charge for it, an' so into the upland meadow beyant. He waited an instant to get some strength back intil his knees, an' then he gave a spring. But that one spring was all he med—in that direction, at laste.
For, as he neared the ditch, a dozen white, ghostly hands raiched out eager for him. With a gasp he whirled in his thracks an' rushed mad to the willows opposite, but there a hundhred gashly fingers were stretched out to meet the poor lad; an' as he staggered back into the middle of the road agin, the hayro couldn't, to save his sowl, keep back a long cry of terror and disthress.
Imaget, from undher the willows and from the ditch near the hedge an' in the air above his head, from countless dead lips aychoed that triumphing, onairthly laugh, Ho! ho! ho!
'Twas then Darby just nearly guve up for lost. He felt his eyes growing dim an' his limbs numb. There was no air comin' into his lungs, for whin he thried to breathe he only gaped, so that he knew the black spell was on him, an' that all that was left for him to do was to sink down in the road an' thin to die.
But at that minute there floated from a great way off the faint cry of a woice the dispairing man knew well.
"Keep up your heart, Darby O'Gill," cried Brian Connors; "we're coming to resky you," an' from over the fields a wild cheer follyed thim worruds.
"Faugh-a-balla—clear the way!" sprang the shrill war-cry of a thousand of the Good People.
At the first sound of the King's worruds there rose about Darby the mighty flurrying an' rushing of wings in the darkness, as if thraymendous birds were rising sudden an' flying away, an' the air emptied itself of a smothering heaviness.
So fast came the King's fairy army that the great cheer was still aychoing among the threes when the goold crown of Brian Connors sparkled up from beside the knowledgeable man's knees. At that the parsecuted man, sobbin' with joy, knelt down in the muddy road to shake hands with his friend, the masther of the Good People.
Brian Connors was not alone, for there crowded about Darby, sympathisin' with him, little Phelim Beg, an' Nial the fiddler, an' Shaun Rhue the smith, an' Phadrig Oge. Also every instant, flitthering out of the sky into the road, came be the score green-cloaked and red-hooded men, follying the King an' ready for throuble.
"If ever a man needed a dhrop of good whusky, you're the hayro, an' this is the time an' place for it," says the King, handin' up a silver-topped noggin.
"Dhrink i
t all," he says, "an' then we'll escorch ye home. Come on," says he.
The masther of the night-time turned an' shouted to his subjects. "Boys," he cried, "we'll go wisible, the betther for company sake. An' do you make the 'luminaytion so Darby can see yez with him!"
At that the lovely rosy light which, as you may raymember, our hayro first saw in the fairy's home at Sleive-na-mon, lighted up the roadway, an' undher the leafy arches, bobbin' along like a ridgement of sojers, all in their green cloaks an' red caps, marched at laste a thousand of the Little People, with Phadrig Oge at their head actin' as gineral.
As they passed the mill foive dayfiant pipers med the batthered ould windys rattle with "Garry Owen."
-
Chapter IV
The Costa Bower
I
So the green-dhressed little army, all in the sweet, rosy light they made, wint marchin', to the merry music of the pipes, over the tree-bowered roadway, past the ha'nted brakes up the shivering hills, an' down into the waiting dales, making the grim night maylodious.
For a long space not a worrud, good, bad, or indifferent, said Darby.
But a sparrow woke her dhrowsy childher to look at the beautiful purcession, an' a robin called excited to her sleepy neighbours, the linnets an' the rabbits an' the hares, an' hundhreds like them crowded daylighted through the bushes, an' stood peerin' through the glistening leaves as their well-known champyions wint by. A dozen wentursome young owls flew from bough to bough, follying along, crackin' good-natured but friendly jokes at their friends, the fairies. Thin other birds came flying from miles around, twitthering jubilaytion.
But the stern-jawed, frowny-eyed Little People for once answered back never a worrud, but marched stiff an' silent, as sojers should. You'd swear 'twas the Enniskillins or 'twas the Eighteenth Hussars that 'twas in it.
"Isn't that Gineral Julius Sayser at the head?" says one brown owl, napping an owdacious wing at Phadrig Oge.
"No!" cries his brother, another young villian. " 'Tis only the Jook of Willington. But look at the bothered face on Darby O'Gill! Musha, are the Good People goin' to hang Darby?"
And faix, thin, sure enough, there was mighty little elaytion on the faytures of our hayro. For, as he came marchin' along, silent an' moody, beside the King, what to do with the banshee's comb was botherin' the heart out of him. If he had only trun it to the ghosts whin he was there at the mill! But that turrible laugh had crunched all sense an' rayson out of him, so that he forgot to do that very wise thing. Ochone, now the ghosts knew he had it; so, to trow it away'd do no good, onless they'd find it afther. One thing was sartin—he must some way get it back to the banshee, or else be ha'nted all the rest of his days.
He was sore-hearted, too, at the King, an' a bit crass-timpered bekase the little man had stayed away so long frum wisitin' with him.
But at last the knowledgeable man found his tongue. "Be me faix, King," he complained, " 'tis a cure for sore eyes to see ye. I might have been dead an' buried an' you none the wiser," says he, sulky.
"Sure, I've been out of the counthry a fortnit," says the King. "And I've only rayturned within the hour," he says. "I wint on a suddin call to purvent a turrible war betwixt the Frinch fairies and the German fairies. I've been for two weeks on an island in the River Ryan, betwixt France an' Germany. The river is called afther an Irishman be the name of Ryan."
"At laste ye might have sint me wurrud," says Darby.
"I didn't think I'd be so long gone," says the fairy; "but the disputaytion was thraymendous," he says.
The little man dhrew himself up dignayfied an' scowled solemn up at Darby. "They left it for me to daycide," he says, "an' this was the contintion:
"Fufty years ago a swan belongin' to the Frinch fairies laid a settin' of eggs on that same island, an' thin comes along a German swan, an' what does the impident craythure do but set herself down on the eggs laid be the Frinch swan an' hatched thim. Afther the hatchin' the German min claimed the young ones, but the Frinchmen pray-imp-thurribly daymanded thim back, d'ye mind. An' the German min dayfied thim, d'ye see. So, of course, the trouble started. For fufty years it has been growin', an' before fightin', as a last raysort, they sint for me.
"Well, I saw at once that at the bottom of all was the ould, ould question, which has been disthurbin' the worruld an' dhrivin' people crazy for three thousand years."
"I know," says Darby, scornful, " 'twas whither the hin that laid the egg or the hin that hatched the egg is the mother of the young chicken."
"An' nothin' else but that!" cried the King, surprised. "Now, what d'ye think I daycided?" he says.
Now, yer honour, I'll always blame Darby for not listening to the King's daycision, bekase 'tis a matther I've studied meself considherable, an' never could rightly conclude; but Darby at the time was so bothered that he only said, in rayply to the King:
"Sure, it's little I know, an' sorra little I care," he says, sulky. "I've something more important than hin's eggs throubling me mind, an' maybe ye can help me," he says, anxious.
"Arrah, out with it, man," says the King. "We'll find a way, avourneen," he says, cheerful.
With that Darby up an' toult everything that had happened Halloween night an' since, an', indeed, be sayin': "Now, here's that broken piece of comb in me pocket, an' what to do with it I don't know. Will ye take it to the banshee, King?" he says.
The King turned grave as a goat. "I wouldn't touch that thing in yer pocket, good friends as we are, to save yer life—not for a hundhred pounds. It might give them power over me. Yours is the only mortial hand that ever touched the banshee's comb, an' yours is the hand that should raystore it."
"Oh, my, look at that, now," says Darby, in despair, nodding his head very solemn.
"Besides," says the King, without noticin' him, "there's only one ghost in Croaghmah I 'ssociate with—an' that's Shaun. They are mostly oncultavayted, an' I almost said raydundant. Although I'd hate to call anyone raydundant onless I had to," says the just-minded ould man.
"I'll trow it here in the road an' let some of them find it," says Darby, dusperate. "I'll take the chanst," says he.
The King was shocked, an', trowing up a warnin' hand, he says:
"Be no manner of manes," the fairy says, "you forget that thim ghosts were once min an' women like yerself, so whin goold's consarned they're not to be thrusted. If one should find the comb he mightn't give it to the banshee at all—he might turn 'bezzler an' 'buzzle it. No, no, you must give it to herself pursnal, or else you an' Bridget an' the childher'll be ha'nted all yer days. An' there's no time to lose, ayther," says he.
"But Bridget an' the childher's waitin' for me this minute," wailed Darby. "An' the pony, what's become of her? An' me supper?" he cried.
A little lad who was marchin' just ahead turned an' spoke up.
"The pony's tied in the stable, an' Bothered Bill has gone sneakin' off to McCloskey's," the little man says. "I saw thim as I flew past."
"Phadrig!" shouted the King. "Donnell! Conn! Nial! Phelim!" he called.
With that the little min named rose from the ranks, their cloaks spread, an' come flyin' back like big green buttherflies, an' they sthopped huvering in the air above Darby an' the King.
"What's wanted?" axed Phelim.
"Does any of yez know where the banshee's due at this hour?" the King rayplied.
"She's due in County Roscommon at Castle O'Flinn, if I don't misraymimber," spoke up the little fiddler. "But I'm thinking that since Halloween she ain't worrukin' much, an' purhaps she won't lave Croaghmah."
"Well, has any one of yez seen Shaun the night, I dunno?" axed the master.
"Sorra one of me knows," says Phadrig. "Nor I," "Nor I," "Nor I," cried one afther the other.
"Well, find where the banshee's stayin'," says King Brian. "An' some of yez, exceptin' Phadrig, go look for Shaun, an' tell him I want to see him purtic'lar," says the King.
The foive huvering little lads wanishe
d like a candle that's blown out.
"As for you, Phadrig," wint on the masther fairy, "tell the ridgiment they're to guard this townland the night, an' keep the ghosts out of it. Begin at once!" he commanded.
The worruds wern't well said till the whole ridgiment had blown itself out, an' agin the night closed in as black as yer hat. But as it did Darby caught a glimpse from afar of the goolden light of his own open door, an' he thought he could see on the thrashol the shadow of Bridget, with one of the childher clinging to her skirt, an' herself watchin' with a hand shading her eyes.
"Do you go home to yer supper, me poor man," says the King, "an' meantime I'll engage Shaun to guide us to the banshee. He's a great comerade of hers, an' he'll paycificate her if anyone can."
Darby O'Gill and the Good People Page 16
