“That’s not an old man,” said the second old man, “he’s only a hundred.”
“Well,” said Art, “I’d like to know where the heavenly music is coming from and he said you might be able to help me.”
“Well,” said the second old man, “that I can’t help you. But my father that lives further up might be able to. Come in anyway and I’ll feed you for the night and you can get up in the morning and go up and ask my father.”
So Art went in and the old, old man gave him a great meal. They had bowls of stirabout, followed by huge plates of the best Limerick ham with spring cabbage and lovely potatoes, that were like balls of flour melting in your mouth, and with all this they drank three pints each of the freshest buttermilk Art had ever tasted. I can tell you he slept soundly that night.
And the next morning he got up and after saying goodbye to the old, old man, he walked for another whole day along the tunnel until he came to another light and there was an old, old, old man. So Art said to him: “Are you the father of the old, old man back there along the tunnel?”
“Well, I am,” said the old, old, old man, “but that fellow’s not as old as he makes out; he’s only a hundred and fifty and he eats all them newfangled foods, as you probably found out.”
“Well,” said Art, “he did me very well. But what I wanted to know was if you can tell me where the heavenly music comes from?”
“Well, now,” said the old, old, old man, “we’ll talk about that in the morning. Come on in now and have a bit to eat and rest yourself. You must be famished after that day’s walking.”
So in Art went and the old, old, old man got some food ready. They started off with two great bowls of yellow buck porridge each and after that, they had four crubeens apiece with fresh soda bread and homemade butter and they had three pints of the creamiest porter Art had ever drunk to go with it all.
The next morning, he got up and he said to the old man: “Now can you tell me where the heavenly music is coming from?”
“Well, no,” said the old, old, old man, “but I know that there’s nobody else living at the end of this tunnel except a terrible fierce man, a giant, and,” he said, “I wouldn’t go near him if I were you. But if you do decide to go up to him, he lives a terrible far distance away at the very end. You’ll find, however,” he said, “a little stallion when you go a couple of miles up the road there and, if you get up on him, he’ll carry you to where the heavenly music comes from. But,” he said, “you’ll want to be very wary of that giant.”
Art went along and he came up to where, sure enough, there was a stallion and there was light with more light further on. So the stallion said to him: “Do you want a lift?”
“I do,” said Art, “but I’m going up to where the heavenly music is.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said the stallion, “no offense given and no offense taken. Jump up there on me back and I’ll take you.”
So up on the stallion’s back he jumped and the stallion galloped away for nearly a whole day, until he came to one of the most beautiful gardens Art had ever seen. “This,” said the stallion, “is the nearest I can take you to where the heavenly music comes from.”
Art went up through the garden, wondering at every more marvelous thing that he saw. Nearer and nearer came the heavenly music and at last Art came to a house and the music was coming from there. Into the house Art went and there was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. And she was singing and making the heavenly music.
“Good morning,” said Art and then he said quickly, “don’t let me interrupt your song which is the loveliest I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh!” she answered him, “I’m glad you’ve interrupted it. I have to make music here for an old giant that captured me. I’m the King of Greece’s daughter,” she said, “and I’ve been here for a year and a day and I can’t get away from this old fellow until someone comes to rescue me. But,” she said, “I’d sooner you went away for he’s a very big man and very very fierce.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” said Art, “what can he do?”
“Well,” she said, “he’ll ask you a number of riddles. He has to hide for three nights and you have to hide for three nights …”
Before she could finish, or before Art could say whether he was going to stay or go, he heard a deep voice saying: “Who is this I see in here?” In comes this huge giant and caught poor Art by the throat. “What are you doing here?” he roared.
“I came to find the heavenly music,” said Art.
“Well, now you’ve found it,” said the giant, “and much good may it do you. And I’ll tell you something,” he said, “I’m going to hide for three days and, if you don’t find me before the three days are up, I’ll cut your head off, skin you, cook you and eat you. And after that,” he roared, “if you have found me, you’ll hide for three days and if I find you, I’ll still kill, skin, cook and eat you.”
So poor Art didn’t know what to say but, “Well, I’d like to go back and see to my little stallion.”
“Right,” said the giant, “but we’ll start in the morning.”
“This is an awful thing,” said Art to the stallion when he got back, “what am I going to do—how do I know where he’s going to hide?”
“That’s all right,” said the stallion, “it’s getting late at night so we’ll want to eat something for, honest to God, my belly thinks my throat is cut. Sit down there now,” said the stallion, “and put your left hand into my right ear and you’ll find a tablecloth. Spread out the tablecloth,” he said, and Art did as he was told. “Now,” said the stallion, “put your right hand into my left ear and take out what you’ll find there.” Art did that and took out the best of fine food and the finest of old drink. “Now,” said the stallion, “you take that for yourself and stick your right hand into my left ear again.” So Art did that and pulled out a bucket of water and a truss of hay. And Art ate the best of fine food and the finest of old drink and the stallion had the hay and the water. “Now,” said the stallion when they were finshed, “spread yourself out under my legs and we’ll go to sleep for the night.” So they went to sleep for the night.
The next morning when they woke up, they could hear the giant shouting: “Now come and find me if you can.”
“I can tell you where he is,” the little stallion said to Art, “he’s at the top of the tree.” So Art climbed to the top of the tree and there, right enough, was the giant who comes down very highly annoyed. “Aah!” he roared, “you found me today, but you won’t find me tomorrow.”
After this, Art had great confidence in the stallion; and that night, he again had a feed of the best of fine food and the finest of old drink, and the stallion had a truss of hay and a bucket of clear water, and they carried on a learned discussion until it was time to go to bed.
Next morning when they got up, the stallion said: “Now go on in through the house and out into the back garden and there you’ll see a football. Give the football a good kick.”
“All right,” said Art and off he went and, in the back garden, he gave the football a terrific kick and out spun the giant.
“Well,” said the giant very nastily, “you got me this time, but you won’t get me tomorrow for I’ve got a trick up my sleeve yet.”
Art went back to the stallion and told him what had happened and said: “What will we do now?”
“Well,” said the stallion, “first of all, we’ll have a feed.” They ate again all kinds of lovely foods and talked until it was time to go to sleep.
In the morning, Art said: “What will I do now? Where is he hiding?”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” said the stallion. “When you go inside, ask the girl where he is. But,” he said, “without the giant understanding you. Just signal to her, where is he?”
So Art goes and sees the daughter of the King of Greece and she is singing away there and he makes signs to ask where is the giant. The girl pointed to a ring on her finger and, at first, Art did
n’t understand. But she motioned him to take the ring off, which he did. He looked at it and made signs to show that he didn’t believe that the giant could fit in such a small ring. But the girl kept singing away and pointed to him to throw it in the fire. So he did that and there was an enormous screech: “Oh! I’m burnt! I’m burnt!” and out jumped the giant. “Now,” he roared, “you caught me the three times, but now it’s your turn.”
“All right,” said Art, “I’ll hide tomorrow.”
“Well, now,” said Art to the stallion when he went back, “we’re in a right fix now. Where am I going to hide? Sure I’m a stranger here and don’t know the place at all.”
“That’s all right,” said the stallion, “I’ll tell you in the morning. In the meantime, put your hands into my two ears and take out the grub.” So they had a feed and then Art got under the stallion’s legs and slept there for the night.
When he woke up: “Now,” said the stallion, “the first thing you do is to take a hair out of my tail and, the hole it leaves, get up into that.” So Art took the hair out of the stallion’s tail, got up into the hole and stopped there. And the giant searched all round and couldn’t find Art all day and nearly went tearing mad. Art came out that night and the giant said: “I didn’t find you today but I’ll find you tomorrow and eat you.”
So that night Art said to the stallion: “Where am I going to hide tomorrow?”
“That’s all right,” said the stallion, “put your hands into my two ears and take out the food and we’ll have a feed first. Then you can stretch out under my legs and have a sleep and we’ll talk about the matter in the morning.”
In the morning Art said: “Now, where am I going to hide?”
“Take a nail out of my hoof,” said the stallion, “get up into the hole and draw the nail up after you.” So Art did that and stayed there all day, while the giant went round roaring and swearing.
At night, the giant went back to his house and Art came out of the hole and said: “So you didn’t find me.”
“No,” said the giant, “but I will tomorrow and then I’ll kill, skin, cook, and eat you.”
Then Art said to the stallion: “Where will I hide tomorrow?” and the stallion said: “One thing at a time. Get out the grub there and we’ll have a feed and we’ll see about the other matter in the morning.”
“Now,” said the stallion in the morning, when they woke up fresh and early, “pull out one of my teeth, get up into the hole and draw the tooth up after you.” The giant came rampaging around the place and couldn’t find Art and, to cut a long story short, he nearly went demented.
In the evening, Art came out and went into the house and there was the King of Greece’s daughter. The music was stopped but she looked happier than ever and she said: “You have broken the spell. I had to wait for a stranger to come and beat the giant six times.”
“We’ve done that,” said Art, “now I’ll take you away from here.”
“All right,” she said, “although I’m the daughter of the King of Greece.”
“Well,” said Art, “that’s nothing. I’m the King of Ireland’s son.” So she jumped up on the back of the stallion behind Art and they rode out of the tunnel and back to his father’s palace. The King of Greece’s daughter then sang some of the heavenly music for the King of Ireland and the King gave Art half his kingdom. The two brothers were banished and Art and the King of Greece’s daughter got married and they had a wedding and everybody ate and drank, and wasn’t I at the wedding as well as everybody else and I got a present of a pair of paper boots and a pair of stockings made of buttermilk; and that’s the end of my story and all I’m going to tell you.
HUDDON AND DUDDON AND DONALD O’LEARY
HUGH NOLAN FERMANAGH
HENRY GLASSIE 1972
Huddon and Duddon and Donald O’Leary was three neighbors that lived in this country a long time ago, when the people wasn’t very well off, and they had different little ways of making their living.
So these three men, what they made their living by was: each man had a bullock. And in the part of the country where they lived, hauling and drawing, what would be done in other parts by horses, was done be bullocks.
So anyway, one man would be trying to get all of the work that he could to knock the other man out, and that was the way they carried on. But they were still getting a little that was keeping them going.
But Donald O’Leary was the favorite of the people of the locality. He was a pleasant sort of a man, and he wasn’t too hard to pay, and he was very obliging. And the other two men was different from him in many ways.
So anyway, the way it was with the people of the locality, if two or three wanted him on the one day, well, some two would wait till next day before they’d employ either of the other two men.
So that left the other two that they got very jealous with Donald. And they came to the conclusion that the proper way of dealing with him was to kill his bullock. And he wouldn’t be able to get another.
So anyway, there was one morning Donald got up very early; he had a big day’s work. And when he went out to the field, his bullock was dead.
So he came back to the house and there was no one there, only the mother, and he came back with the sad news. And it wasn’t very long till the report went out all over the locality about Donald O’Leary getting his bull dead that morning. Everybody was very sorry for him. So there gathered a great crowd of men to his place. And in them days anything in the line of a beast that died, they were skinned and then buried in the field where they died.
So. These men joined to work and they skinned his bullock, and there was another few men started and they dug a grave for him. The bullock was skinned and he was lowered into the grave; the grave was covered up.
So there was a couple of men prepared for to roll up the skin, and as a general rule when a skin used to be a-rolling up, the fleshy part was kept to the inside. But when these men started, Donald told them for to keep the hairy side in, and keep the fleshy side out before they’d tie it on the rope.
So these men done as Donald told them, and when all was finished up, they all went away home, and Donald went in and got some refreshment and started away to the skin store that was a good many miles from where he lived.
So he trudged on anyway and there came a terrible heavy steep rain. And Donald paid no attention to it. He wasn’t much uneasy about what kind the weather was; it was his future he was thinking of, the loss he had come to, and all to this.
So before this rain was over didn’t there light a magpie on the bundle that he had on his back and started to pick at a little flesh that was left.
So he put up his hand very cautiously and he got ahold of the magpie. And he had an overcoat on him, and he opened the overcoat and he put the magpie in between the overcoat and his tag coat and buttoned the coat again. Trudged on.
Finally he landed at this town where the skins used to be sold and went into the skin store, sold the skin, and all it brought was ten shillings.
So anyway he come out anyway. He hadn’t much inclination for remaining any longer in the town and he just considered that the proper thing for him to do was to go into the public house and take a half-one of whiskey and head back for home.
So he went into this particular pub and there was a young lady at the bar. So he was a very nice class of a fellow. He could talk to girls very nicely; he had a great flow of speech. He had a gift in that line.
So anyway, he hold her that he wanted a half-one of good whiskey.
So she had been instructed by her employer that when a stranger came in that she didn’t know, or that wasn’t in the habit of calling, for to not be exact about the kind of whiskey that she give him. The second class would do him all right.
So of course, she was doing as she was told by the boss.
And she was putting up her hand for to take down the bottle.
And he put his hand inside of the coat and he gave the magpie a nip.
And t
he magpie gave a screech.
So the girl jumped; she says, “What’s that?”
“Oh,” he says, “miss,” he says, “it’s a bird that I do carry along with me. And it’s able for to tell everything that’s going to happen.
“And it’s after telling me that you’re going to give me bad whiskey.”
So, damn it, she nearly dropped.
And she pushed back the bottle that she was taking down, and she pushed it back onto the shelf again, and she went away and, oh, she gave him a powerful fine half-one: the best of whiskey.
So anyway, when he was drinking it, she says to him, “Would you sell that bird?”
“Oh,” he says, “I wouldn’t like to do that. I have this bird a long time,” he says, “and it has been very useful to me, traveling. And I don’t know,” he says, “whether I’d sell him or not.”
“Well,” she says, “if you got a good price for it now, would you not sell it?”
“Well now, of course,” he says, “there’s a lot in that question. It would want to be good before I’d part with it.”
“Well, we’ll say,” she says, “that you got forty pound for it: would you not part with it?”
So he considered for a while, you know, either way.
“Och,” he says, “if ye fancy it,” he says, “I’ll take your bid,” he says.
So anyway, she went away and she counted the forty pound.
So he took the magpie from under the coat.
And she put him into a box in under the counter.
And he started off with his forty pound.
So, oh now, he went home in better humor than he came.
Anyway, when he got the length of his own locality, Huddon and Duddon was waiting to see how did he do with the skin.
“Och,” he says, “I think we have been fools,” he says, “to be killing ourselves, before day and after night, hauling and dragging and pulling.
“Look,” he says, “what I got for the skin. And when would we make that?” he says. “Not till the day of our death, struggling with bullocks.”
Irish Folk Tales Page 35
