Sara must have heard him squelching into the yard, for when he arrived at the back door, looking like a drowned rat, she was waiting. Straight away she lit into him and preached him a fiery sermon that soon dried him out.
‘You latchico! You useless gamall! Walking the roads of Ireland full up o’ drink at all hours when you should be at home in your own house minding your defenceless wife. What kind of a man are you, at all? Or are you a man?’
A lot more was said in that same vein to Larry that night, and he was the quiet boyo that crept into bed just as dawn was breaking, with his solemn oath given to Sara that he would stay off the drink not just for evermore, but for ever and a day.
She kept a watchful eye on him for the next several weeks, and it seemed as if he might actually have learned manners, for not a drop of anything stronger than tea or spring water crossed his lips in all that time.
But sometimes things go wrong in spite of all good intentions. The neighbours in that parish had no consideration for Larry’s problem. They would insist on dying, and at most inappropriate times, too. A short time after his warning from Sara another of them started out on the long road to eternity.
Larry was in a bother. ‘Look here,’ he said to Sara. ‘I’ll have to put in a bit of an appearance at the wake. I’ll be shamed if I don’t turn up. An’ so will you!’
What could she do but agree?
‘All right,’ she said in her quietest, most threatening tones. ‘You can go. But if you turn up like you did the last time, you’ll sleep out with the dog beyond on the flagstone for the next month, hail, rain or moonshine. I’m warning you, stay away from the drink, that’s all.’
‘Have no doubts in your mind about that, a chroí,’ he said. ‘I won’t touch a drop.’
He meant it, too, and moreover he kept his word, because it wasn’t one drop he drank at all on that outing but several. He was ever a truthful man, Larry! But in the middle of all the merriment, in the dark hours of the night, the same thought as before came to him: the vision of Sara waiting for him at home. All the fun left him of a sudden and he struggled for the door. This time he found it himself, staggered to the gate-piers and measured up in his mind which way he should go: by the road or by the fields. Something told him to take the long way round by the road, but the fear in him advised him to go by the short-cut. It was the fear he obeyed, as before – and the same meanderings that held him hour after confused hour in the self-same three fields after that. It was just before dawn when he came, exhausted, to the same stream of water at his own land. The foot-plank was still there, never stirred since his last visit. He hardly noticed it. Or if he did he was damned if he would trust it after the low trick it had played on him that last visit.
He stepped back three paces, straightened up, aimed himself, then ran, intending to leap the water at one go. Mo léir! He came short of being the champion he thought himself, as many a drunken person has. He landed with a splash and a screech in the middle of the pool. But when he tried to drag himself out on the opposite side he found his way blocked by a huge shadow, one that blotted out the very light of the moon. He stopped dead. There was no sound from the creature looming over him. But though he was too frightened to speak he moved quickly enough, against the stream, and tried to clamber out farther up. But again the dark shadow stood before him and there, even in that cold water, he felt a chill of a different kind entirely and the last dregs of his drunkenness drained from him with alarming quickness. He turned back towards the near side of the stream but had moved no more than two steps when a low voice growled from the depths of the tall shadow: ‘Stop, Larry! Don’t stir one other inch, except in this direction. Come here! We have talking to do, the two of us.’
There was nothing for Larry to do except turn and face whatever it was that commanded him so fiercely. He blinked and replied in a faint voice: ‘Who are you, sir, an’ what d’you want with me? I’m only a poor man, if ’tis money you’re after, an’ all I want to do is go home in peace to my bed, ’cos ’tis little peace I’ll have when I get there.’
He was almost crying.
There came what sounded like a guffaw from the dark silhouette – only there was an edge to it that was far from humorous. Then a deep voice rumbled: ‘Larry, do you remember the words you spoke last time you came this way?’
There was silence, as Larry searched in the depths of his memory and then an even more ominous pause as one by one those words of his came back to him. There was no escaping them, try as he might to do so.
‘Do you remember?’ demanded the voice, shocking him from his silent struggle. He replied slowly, reluctantly, and as he did so the full, terrible meaning of what he had promised began to trickle like an icy sweat along his skin. In a flash he knew who it was that was speaking to him, but before he could do more than twitch with fright a strong hand grasped his arm and a voice hissed in his ear: ‘Come on with me now, like a good man, quietly an’ according to your own words, an’ there’ll be no trouble. We have a long journey to travel this night, you an’ me.’
Larry felt hot fingers burning their mark into him and for a certainty he knew who it was that spoke. No use now to be regretting his rash words of that previous journey – ‘the Devil take me if ever I come this way again’. The time was here; the Old One had arrived, and unless Larry could think fast and clearly all was lost. But devil a thought came to him as he was dragged along, further and further, step by step away from his own familiar fields.
For a long while not a word was spoken; the Devil kept his own counsel, and Larry was too busy coming to terms with this new and unwanted development. But at last, in the midst of wild, unfamiliar surroundings and as they approached the dark entrance of what looked like a cave he realised that if he remained silent any longer there would be no coming back. A desperate idea leaped to him, out of he knew not where, the tip of a lifeline of hope, maybe.
‘They tell me, big man, that you’re a powerful lad. Is that true?’
The Devil paused.
‘They, whoever they are, know nothing at all about me. But ’tis true, anyway.’
Modesty about his own achievements was never one of his virtues.
‘Oh, I can well believe it,’ said Larry in a sugary voice, ‘because they told me too that you can do anything you like.’
‘Indeed I can,’ smiled the Devil, and Larry noticed that he showed no inclination to move on into the cave. ‘An’ what else did they tell you about me?’
‘Oh, that you were better than any druid that ever lived at changing your shape when you wanted to.’
The dark man seemed pleased.
‘I don’t know who your friends are, Larry, but I’d like to meet ’em sometime. They know a lot about me. An’ ’tis true. I can change myself, all right. Any time I want.’
‘Oh, would you ever do it for me, please, before you take me into that horrible place there beyond, where there’ll be no light to see you?’
‘Well ... I don’t know have we time for that now ...’
‘Yerra, go on! What’ll it take only a couple o’ minutes? An’ I won’t ask you for anything else ever more.’
The Devil fingered his nose, rubbed his fingers thought-fully, then snapped into a smile.
‘All right, so. Just this once. Tell me, what’ll I change myself into?’
‘Ammm ... could you make yourself ... as big as an oak tree?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ snorted the Devil. ‘Simplicity itself!’ And he began to breathe and breathe in, sucking up huge gusts of air, almost swallowing Larry in the process. He swelled out like a balloon, larger and larger, until finally he was blotting out the light of the moon for the second time that night. Larry clapped his hands to his eyes, pretending fright.
‘Oh, I believe you! I believe you!’ he squealed. ‘Be careful, will you, an’ don’t fall down on me.’
The Devil let out an evil chuckle of triumph and slowly released the air in a long ugly hiss. When he was back to his own size he
reached for Larry’s arm once more.
‘Now,’ he boomed, ‘you have your proof, so we’ll be going. Come with me.’
‘Hold on one second, now,’ cried Larry, pulling his hand away. ‘I’m just after thinking of something.’
‘’Tis a bit late for thinking now, my boy. You’ll have no need of that where I’m taking you.’
‘But ’tis important,’ begged Larry.
‘Make it quick,’ snapped the Devil, ‘because we’re expected down below about now!’
‘Well, ’tis this. Maybe you’re not as powerful as you’d like poor innocent people like myself to believe, hah!’
The Devil glared at him, a poisonous dart.
‘What d’you mean? How dare you – ’
‘Hold you on there, now, my man.’ Larry was fully sober now and going nowhere without a struggle. And he saw that he had rattled the big fellow. ‘Sure, doesn’t everything grow up? What you did there was nothing great at all. Couldn’t I do that myself if I had as much time to practise as you.’
The Devil seemed baffled for an instant.
‘What’re you trying to say?’ he rasped. ‘That I have no power? Is that it?’
‘No! Not at all,’ smiled Larry. ‘I’m only telling you that I’d be more inclined to believe you if you could grow down as well as up. But can you do it? That’s the big question.’
There was triumph in his voice.
‘Grow down, is it? You miserable weed. That’s no problem to someone like me.’
‘You’re all talk, big man, but I don’t see you doing it. Make yourself the size of – ah – a cat.’
The Devil snorted in disdain, blew out a mighty blast of foul air and began to shrink and shrivel before Larry’s eyes.
‘Hmmm! Not bad,’ murmured Larry when the change of size was complete. ‘But you’ll have to do a small bit more before I’ll believe you once an’ for all. Can you make yourself as small as a grasshopper?’
‘Not just as small as one, stupid man. I can turn myself into one. Watch this!’
Larry put on his most impressed look as the Devil did just as he had promised.
‘Well? D’you believe me now?’ came the tiny voice from below.
Larry’s first urge was to stamp on him there and then and be finished with it, but out of respect for grasshoppers he only said, in a mild voice: ‘Kind of. There’s one last thing I’ll have to see you doing before you’ll convert me.’
‘What is it?’
The little voice was ratty now.
‘Could you jump into this?’ – slipping off his old-fashioned purse from round his neck and opening the thong which tied its mouth, all in the one movement. He placed it on the ground inches from where the grasshopper crouched.
‘That wouldn’t be hard,’ sneered the small voice.
‘Do it, so,’ returned Larry. ‘I’ll believe you when I see it.’
Whether the Devil saw the danger or not, his pride was stung and with a single bound he landed in the farthest-back, darkest corner of the purse. But if he did, Larry was on it in a flash. His hands grasped the thong and the mouth of the purse snapped shut, trapping the Devil inside. Larry gleefully wrapped the thong three times round the neck of the pouch, slipped a miraculous medal on to it, tied three tight knots in it and held it up.
‘Aha, boyo! I have you safe now, an’ ’tis there you’ll stay many’s the long day.’
There was a short pause, then the Devil let out a string of the most horrible and vicious curses ever heard in the land of Ireland. Smoke and a smell of brimstone oozed from between Larry’s fingers, but he held on grimly to the purse as he made his way towards home, realising full well that there was nothing but it and the medal between him and a very hot future indeed.
So far so good, but he had no clear notion of what to do with the cursed article now that he had it in his power. Odd thoughts came to him: ‘Why not give it to Sara an’ see whether the Devil can put up with her for long?’ or ‘Maybe I should take it to the church an’ put him swimming in the holy water font an’ see how he likes it.’
It was no such notions that solved his problem, however, but a stranger thing entirely; he was no more than halfway home when he heard the clash of hurleys and the fierce yells of sportsmen in a field nearby. He stood, amazed, for who could be playing a match at that hour of night? Yet the noise continued, coming ever closer, if anything. Still clutching the purse, and for dear life now, he crept forward to where the hedge gave way to a low stone wall. He crouched, peered through the gloom and, sure enough, saw the game in progress no more than a hundred feet away. He watched, hardly daring to breathe, as those two teams of fierce battlers rushed here and there, sweeping the sliotar before them, first to one end of the field, then back to the other. Larry, a great fan of hurling, sank down on to the wall, fascinated by their skill and toughness. He winced as seasoned ash cracked and thudded against heads, shins and ribs, but no matter what injury they received or how heavily those men crashed to the ground they always seemed to leap up as quickly as they had been stretched.
‘Bedad, but aren’t they the hardy lads?’ whispered Larry to himself, the Devil all but forgotten in the excitement of the fray.
Over and back, up and down the play flowed, a score at one end answered a moment later by another at the opposite posts. No mercy was shown, no quarter asked for. It was for all the world, Larry decided, like a meeting of the men of Kilkenny and Tipperary, the best of neighbourly ferocity.
All thoughts of home, the Devil and the world around him vanished as he settled into the swing of the game, perched as comfortably as the stones allowed, and many a time he had to clap his hand to his mouth to stop himself cheering as this or that player struck a shot more skilful than any before.
But then, disaster! One of the biggest men on the field snatched the sliotar out of the air, stampeded up the pitch with it, yelling and brushing men – friend and foe alike – aside like flies. Only once did he pause, just outside the square, and that to take aim. Then, as the goalkeeper cringed in a corner of the net, he released a murderous shot. Larry could hear the whistle of it as it bulleted home. He bit his nails, waited for the goalie’s death-screech, as did every man present. Instead, there came a loud crack as the ball hit the crossbar and glanced over, off into a field a mile away, a field, moreover, which was thickly overgrown with furze and briars. The bar collapsed in two neat halves, and it was this that broke the spell.
From every side they rushed to where the scorer stood and began to glare at him and then abuse him.
‘Didn’t we warn you not to blast the ball like that?’
‘You half-eejit, you! What’re we going to play with now, hah? We have no spare sliotar. Didn’t you know that as well as any of us, you oul’ ape, you?’
A torrent of the most foul abuse cascaded down on the poor man’s head. He cringed and apologised feebly, but the damage was done. The game was finished, ruined, unless the ball could be found, and quickly.
‘Get out there – now! – an’ find it. Don’t come back without it or ... or we’ll finish this match with your head,’ roared the captain of his own team. And he slunk away, the backs of his hands dragging along the ground as he went.
‘That’s all very fine to say,’ growled the opposing leader, ‘but are we going to have to stand here whistling to ourselves for the rest o’ the night while that eejit is tying to find it?!’
‘Don’t mind looking at me, you gamall,’ snarled that worthy. ‘It wasn’t me that did it.’
‘Who d’you think you’re calling a gamall, fathead? Is it a feed o’ teeth you’re looking for?’
Tempers were rising dangerously, and Larry saw by the way the men began to close ranks behind their captains, gripping their hurleys short as they did so, that in no long time a full-scale faction-fight would be in swing.
Without thinking of the possible consequences he rose from his resting-place and shouted: ‘Stop, men! Don’t ruin as fine a game as ever I saw by fighting n
ow. Here, look’ – and he held up the purse – ‘I have a ball here that’ll do ye until the other one is got.’
There was a shocked silence, but before a word could be said he flung in the purse and the nearest man to him caught it, as by second nature.
‘Here, gimme a look at that!’ snapped one of the captains, all the time keeping Larry in his sights.
He squinted closely at it.
‘Bedad, it isn’t the regulation weight, but the size is all right. What d’you think of it?’ he said, tossing it to the other captain for inspection.
‘It’ll do. Elegant. Anything that we wouldn’t have to replay this game.’
‘Throw it in, so, will you, an’ we’ll play on.’
No sooner said than done, and without another glance or word for Larry the teams were at it again, more fiercely than before now that every man had got back his wind. Hither and thither they thundered and the clash of their hurleys rang and rebounded off the surrounding hills. Larry was delighted at this new display, and all the more so when he considered what they must be doing to the Devil inside the purse.
In truth, they beat the living stuffing out of him, and though he yelled for mercy his screams were drowned out by the roars and battle-cries of both teams. What bones were in him were broken, and no one but himself and Larry any the wiser. They might have crippled him entirely, only that well into the second half the large oaf in the field of furze jumped up suddenly, the real sliotar in his paw.
‘I have it at last!’ he yelled and lumbered back to the pitch like a big child with a new toy.
The game shuddered to a halt and one of the captains strode to where Larry sat, the purse a limp, squashed thing in his hand.
‘Stranger,’ he said, ‘here’s your ball back. A bit the worse for wear, I know, but you’ll excuse us for that. We’re thankful to you for saving our game. But go home now, an’ on your life tell no one you saw us here tonight. If you do ...’
He said no more, but the way he glanced at the purse told Larry all he needed to know. He was in no doubt that that was how he too would look if he failed to keep their secret.
The Devil is an Irishman Page 5
