They saw a rabbit sitting up on the height overhead and it seemed to them it was very bold. My grandfather drew in his paddles and began to beat them against the edge of the curragh, but not a hair did they move of the rabbit which did not stir from where it sat. The curragh was out on the water by then and both men began to shout and roar, but it seems there was no hunting it away.
“Donnchadh, that is no natural rabbit!” said the man in the stern of the curragh to my grandfather.
With that they saw a great wave coming upon them.
“God save us!” they cried. The wave swept the curragh halfway over its crest. With that they saw another wave much worse than the first one. It struck the curragh amidship and capsized it, and before they had time to offer their souls to God and Mary another wave of the same kind broke over them, but they did not let go their hold of the curragh. My grandfather shouted to the other man to keep a good grip, and he himself began to swim and draw the curragh after him with one hand. He was not able to bring the curragh to land where he was, and he had to draw the curragh and the man hanging on it a long way.
Well and good. He struggled on until he got the curragh in beside a flat rock and succeeded in landing his comrade. When they had come to themselves a little they turned the curragh but the two paddles were still afloat. Donnchadh went out swimming again and brought in the paddles. They both went out then and rescued the line-frames and other gear they had lost. They returned to Port an Dúin sodden wet, bruised, and exhausted.
As long as they lived both men held, and I heard my grandfather speak of it a score of times, that it was a fairy rabbit they had seen on the height above them and that it was trying to drown them. They had a grain of the earth of Tory in the curragh, and that surely is why it did not succeed.
THE CATS’ JUDGMENT
AN OLD MAN GALWAY
ROBERT GIBBINGS 1945
My father was herdsman to the manor house, and one of his jobs was to boil up a good pot of mangolds and turnips every evening for the cattle. He was a very particular kind of man, and so that the roots should brew thoroughly he not only put the iron lid on the pot, but put a stone on the top of the lid to keep it firm. But night after night, to his surprise in the morning, the stone was knocked off the pot and the lid lifted.
One night he said to himself, “I’ll watch,” he said; and he sat up watching the pot, and the lamp had gone down and the room was dark only for the firelight. And what did he see but a big cat come in and push away the stone and lift the lid off the pot, and dip his paw into the mash just as if it was cream.
No sooner did he see the cat than he hits it a welt of a stick, and as it leaps through the door he puts his two dogs after it. But the dogs were back in no time, and they shivering, as if with the fright. So he shuts the door and goes to bed.
Well, he is hardly under the sheets when the door opens and in comes the cat that he was after hitting. And following her, in come a dozen others, one after the other.
And they all sat down in a circle and they began to talk in the cat language.
And my father in the bed was frightened out of his life to say a word for fear the cats would go for him.
And they all sat there mumbling and talking to each other, when in comes the king of the cats, a great big tomcat, he was. He walks right in, and he sits down in the middle of them all.
Then the cat that had been at the mash limps up to him, for he was lame with the welt he was after getting, and you’d think he was a lawyer in court the way he spoke to the king and the others.
And my father was near dead with the fright.
And the king of the cats considered for a long while, as if he was thinking over the evidence, and then he rose up and tapping the one that got the welt as much as to say “Not guilty, come on,” he went out of the door.
And they all followed him, and when they’d all gone out, the door closed after them.
NEVER ASK A CAT A QUESTION
MALACHI HORAN DUBLIN
GEORGE A. LITTLE 1943
Aye, it’s nature breaks through the eyes of a cat, sure enough. Someways they would put a dread on you. What company do they keep? When the moon is riding high and the wind tearing the trees, and the shadows black with cold, who is it calls them from the hearth? Tell me that? And obey they must, and obey they do.
Some do be saying that it’s a meeting they do hold, and at it choose their king; and there is reason in that.
Phil Tierney was a Cavan man who owned the farm that is now Boothman’s. He gave me a black cat—the largest buck-cat ever seen in this country. Quiet he was, but he had the dark evil in his eyes. Troth, you would think he knew all the Devil’s work in the world and was glad to sit thinking of it.
One evening and I sitting here, it was mortal cold, and the cat was curled sleeping and he on the fireflag. The wind was tearing at the thatch, and never a sound was in it if it was not the cry of the wild geese and them crossing the moon. Of a sudden he was on his feet, every hair on him standing stiff as a hackle, his back arched, his tail like a jug-handle. He stood listening. Then, with a hiss and a snarl, he was out of the door like running water. The wind died on the moment, and not one thing stirred, bar the clock—the ticks of it would deafen you, like as if you had your ear to an anvil. Then the wind blew again, and a turf-sod shifted in the fire.
The next morning, with me mother and father—may God save them!—in the cart, I was driving to Mass, for it was a Sunday. We got as far as Spooner’s below, when I seen something on the road that stopped me. The whole place was one living mass of cats. In the middle was a great buck-cat, lying with his paws drawn up under him, and him looking straight in front as if there was not a living thing near him. Around him stood others and they never lifting an eye off of him. Some on the fence, and in the ditch lay more, but they were looking away from him. Here and there a small one sneaked from one lot to another, as if they were servants and they looking for orders.
“Go on,” says my father, “or we will be late for Mass. They are only choosing their king.” I had to drive in the ditchside to pass. The buck-cat never moved. I was glad when I passed. I was glad to turn the corner and lose the sight of them.
And we coming back from Mass the cats were still there, but they had taken to the ditches. I saw no sign of the head buck-cat.
But that night they came back. Red Jack had the drink on him. He drove his cart through them. What he saw I never heard; or what he felt and him with them blazing eyes glaring hate at him, he never told. Or what he thought, with the whole night of them screaming and they near in the cart, no man knows. But this I know, that there were four wheelbarrows and them loaded with dead cats taken off Killenarden Road that Monday after.
Red Jack slept in a loft; leastways he did sleep, but never a wink he got for weeks from that Sunday. Wherever he turned there were cats. In his bed, on his table, under the chair, they would be watching, watching. He knew they waited for him to sleep; then they would be at his throat. All through the hours of dark he could see nothing but their watching eyes.
At last Red Jack could stand it no longer. He took what he had in the toe of the stocking, and with it bought a brace of terriers. Troth, then was the ructions. It was like devils coursing demons. But at the heel of the hunt there was not a cat to be found in the country.
Aye, cats is queer. Did you ever hear tell that cats that have killed more than their share of rats get sick of them and will hunt no more? When this happens, the rats grow that strong that they laugh in the face of their enemies. The cats then waste and die. No cat can own a master; they must have their self-respect.
And remember this: never ask a cat a question. She might answer back. And, troth, if she did, it is seven years of cruel luck you will have brought on your shoulders. Aye, indeed.
CATS ARE QUEER ARTICLES
MR. BUCKLEY, THE TAILOR CORK
ERIC CROSS 1942
I tell you, cats are the queer articles. You never know where you are with them.
They seem to be different to every other class of animals. In the old days there were some foreign peoples who worshipped them, and it is not to be greatly wondered at, when you think of the intelligence of cats.
I had a strange thing happened to myself years ago with cats. It was many, many years ago now. I had a calf to sell, and it was the time of the November fair in Macroom. I’d borrowed the loan of a crib and horse from a neighbor, and was ready to set off for the fair about one o’clock in the morning.
Well, it came to one o’clock and I got up. I opened the door, and the night was so black that you would scarcely know which foot you were putting before you. I stirred up the fire and put some sticks under the kettle to make a cup of tea, and while it was boiling I went out to tackle up the horse. There was a mist coming down, so that I was wet enough already by the time that I had that job done.
I made the tea, and while I was drinking it I thought what a foolish thing it was for me to be getting out of a warm bed and going into the cold, wet night and traveling for twenty-four miles through the night. But it had to be done, so I buttoned up a grand frieze coat I had, and off we set. The horse was as unwilling as myself for the road, and the two of us were ashamed to look each other in the face, knowing the class of fools we were. We traveled for hours and hours, and not much of the first hour had gone before I was wet through and through.
As we drew nearer to the town I could see the lights in the farms by the roadside, where the people were getting up for the fair who had not to lose a night’s sleep to get there. There was a regular procession now on the road of calves and cattle being driven into the fair, but it was still dark and the daylight was only just coming.
Well, I took my place in the fair, and no one came to me and made me an offer for a long time. I thought that things were not going too well with me. Then a few asked me, but were offering only a poor price. I saw other cattle being driven away, and men I knew told me to sell, for it was a bad fair and prices were low. So at last I did sell, for the heart had gone out of me with the loss of sleep, and the long journey and the cold and the long waiting.
I tell you that I was a miserable man, standing there with ne’er a bite to eat and wet to the skin, and with the prospect of the long journey home again, and the poor pay I had for my suffering. When I got the money I had something to eat and made a few purchases, and then I thought that if any man ever earned a drink it was me. So I met some friends and we had a few drinks together, and then parted and went our different ways.
I let the horse go on at her own pace, with the reins hanging loose. The rain came down again, and the power of the drink soon wore off, and I wrapped myself up in my misery. With the sound and the swing of the crib and the creaking of the wheels and the darkness coming down again I fell asleep, as many a man does on the long way home from a winter’s fair.
Now and again someone passed me on the road, but I scarcely heard them at all. For miles and miles I went; now asleep, now awake, with all manner of queer notions running in my head, as does happen to a man when he is exhausted.
As I was passing the graveyard of Inchigeela a cat put his head through the railings and said to me, “Tell Balgeary that Balgury is dead.” I paid little heed to that, for my head was full of strange notions. I continued on my way. At last I reached home again, and untackled the horse and watered it and fed it, and then went into the house to change out of my wet clothes.
Herself started on me straightaway. ’Tis wonderful the energy that does be in a woman’s tongue and the blindness that can be in her eyes, for I was in no mood for talk.
“Well,” she said, “what sort of a fair was it?”
“Ah! the same as all fairs,” said I.
“Did you get a good price?”
“I did not,” said I.
“Were there many at the fair?” she asked then.
“The usual number, I suppose. Did you expect me to count them?”
“Did ye hear any news while ye were in the town?”
There was no end to her questions.
“Hold your tongue,” I said, “and give me the tea.”
I drank the tea and had a bite to eat and began to feel better. Still she kept on asking me questions.
“Glory me! Fancy going in all that way and hearing nothing at all,” she said, when I had no news for her. “You might as well have stayed at home for all the good that you get out of a fair.”
I got up from the table and sat by the fire and lit my pipe, but still she plagued me and pestered me with her questions. Had I seen this one? Was I speaking with that one? Was there any news of the other one?
I suppose that the tea and the fire and the tobacco softened me. News and gossip are almost life to a woman, and she bore the hardness of our life as well, and I had brought her nothing home. Then I remembered the cat.
“The only thing that happened to me today,” I said, “that has not happened on all fair days, was that when I was passing the graveyard of Inchigeela a cat stuck his head out of the railings.”
“Wisha! there is nothing strange in that,” she took me up.
“As I passed it called up to me, ‘Tell Balgeary that Balgury is dead.’ ”
At that, the cat, sitting before the fire, whipped round on me. “The Devil fire you!” said he, “why didn’t you tell me before? I’ll be late for the funeral.” And with that and no more, he leapt over the half-door, and was gone like the wind, and from that day to this we have seen no sign of him.
TOM MOORE AND THE SEAL WOMAN
KERRY
JEREMIAH CURTIN 1892
In the village of Kilshanig, two miles northeast of Castlegregory, there lived at one time a fine, brave young man named Tom Moore, a good dancer and singer. ’Tis often he was heard singing among the cliffs and in the fields of a night.
Tom’s father and mother died and he was alone in the house and in need of a wife. One morning early, when he was at work near the strand, he saw the finest woman ever seen in that part of the kingdom, sitting on a rock, fast asleep. The tide was gone from the rocks then, and Tom was curious to know who was she or what brought her, so he walked toward the rock.
“Wake up!” cried Tom to the woman. “If the tide comes ’twill drown you.”
She raised her head and only laughed. Tom left her there, but as he was going he turned every minute to look at the woman. When he came back he caught the spade, but couldn’t work. He had to look at the beautiful woman on the rock. At last the tide swept over the rock. He threw the spade down and away to the strand with him, but she slipped into the sea and he saw no more of her that time.
Tom spent the day cursing himself for not taking the woman from the rock when it was God that sent her to him. He couldn’t work out the day. He went home.
Tom could not sleep a wink all that night. He was up early next morning and went to the rock. The woman was there. He called to her.
No answer. He went up to the rock. “You may as well come home with me now,” said Tom. Not a word from the woman. Tom took the hood from her head and said: “I’ll have this!”
The moment he did that she cried: “Give back my hood, Tom Moore!”
“Indeed I will not, for ’twas God sent you to me, and now that you have speech I’m well satisfied.” And taking her by the arm he led her to the house. The woman cooked breakfast, and they sat down together to eat it.
“Now,” said Tom, “in the name of God you and I’ll go to the priest and get married, for the neighbors around here are very watchful. They’d be talking.” So after breakfast they went to the priest, and Tom asked him to marry them.
“Where did you get the wife?” asked the priest.
Tom told the whole story. When the priest saw Tom was so anxious to marry he charged five pounds, and Tom paid the money. He took the wife home with him, and she was good a woman as ever went into a man’s house. She lived with Tom seven years, and had three sons and two daughters.
One day Tom was plowing, and some part of the pl
ow rigging broke. He thought there were bolts on the loft at home, so he climbed up to get them. He threw down bags and ropes while he was looking for the bolts, and what should he throw down but the hood which he took from the wife seven years before. She saw it the moment it fell, picked it up, and hid it. At that time people heard a great seal roaring out in the sea.
“Ah,” said Tom’s wife, “that’s my brother looking for me.”
Some men who were hunting killed three seals that day. All the women of the village ran down to the strand to look at the seals, and Tom’s wife with others. She began to moan, and going up to the dead seals she spoke some words to each and then cried out: “Oh, the murder!”
When they saw her crying the men said: “We’ll have nothing more to do with these seals.” So they dug a great hole, and the three seals were put into it and covered. But some thought in the night: “ ’Tis a great shame to bury those seals, after all the trouble in taking them.” Those men went with shovels and dug up the earth, but found no trace of the seals.
All this time the big seal in the sea was roaring. Next day when Tom was at work his wife swept the house, put everything in order, washed the children and combed their hair. Then, taking them one by one, she kissed each. She went next to the rock, and, putting the hood on her head, gave a plunge. That moment the big seal rose and roared so that people ten miles away could hear him.
Tom’s wife went away with the seal swimming in the sea. All the five children that she left had webs between their fingers and toes, halfway to the tips.
The descendants of Tom Moore and the seal woman are living near Castlegregory to this day, and the webs are not gone yet from between their fingers and toes, though decreasing with each generation.
Irish Folk Tales Page 22
