The Devil is an Irishman

by Eddie Lenihan

  Jack sighed.

  ‘You’re a hard one to teach sense to, an’ no two ways about it. But it can be done. An’ it will. Be sure o’ that.’

  He swung the bag onto his back again and walked until he came to a quarry. He could hear the noise of the stone-crushing machine a half-mile away and he smiled, but when he came in sight of the busy scene he almost laughed aloud. For his mind was working on a new trial for the prisoner in his sack.

  At the quarry-face he saw up to fifty men sweating, hacking at the rock with sledgehammers and pickaxes, while others carted away the fallen stone in barrows and dumped it onto a clattering, swaying conveyor-belt which carried it to the terrible crusher where it was reduced to manageable size for road-fill or building or whatever.

  Without delay Jack’s keen eye picked out the man he was looking for, the only one standing up without an implement in his hands – the foreman, surely. He inched his way carefully towards him, making a great deal of the sack on his back, as if it were sorely pressing him down.

  ‘Sir!’ He tapped the foreman’s shoulder.

  ‘Well?’ said he, impatient. ‘Who are you? What d’you want?’

  ‘Just a small thing only, sir.’

  He laid down the bag.

  ‘I’m putting a few stones in front o’ the house at home, but they’re too big an’ people’ll be tripping over ’em. Any chance I could grind ’em up here? It’d save me the bother o’ having to break ’em with a hammer. I have a bad back, you see.’

  The foreman examined him up and down, then noted the bag. Was this another of those scattered fellows who were more and more infesting the roads since that cursed Poor Law was changed, he wondered. But all his doubts were silenced when Jack passed him a half-crown – a goodly sum in those days – with, ‘but I wouldn’t want to be putting your valuable time astray, so here’s a little something for yourself.’

  The foreman’s whole attitude changed. He winked and tipped his finger to his cap.

  ‘You’re more than welcome. Throw it up there on the belt. ’Tis no trouble at all.’

  Jack did so, and followed at his leisure as the bag bumped along. Naturally enough, when the Devil, in the darkness of the sack, heard the clattering growing louder his ears pricked up. He could make neither head nor tail of it, though his alarm increased as the noise grew louder.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t change what’s left o’ your mind?’ asked Jack one last time, three feet from the machine.

  No reply.

  With a sigh he watched the bag topple into the iron mouth of the crusher and even he flinched as he watched the huge jagged teeth do their work.

  There was only a single squawk out of the Devil, and that sliced off suddenly. Then silence.

  Jack waited by the second belt at the back of the machine, but what he saw, far from giving him pleasure, almost made him sympathise with the Devil. Anyone so stupid, so proud, was under a severe disability, indeed. For though the bag was still mostly intact, through several holes he could make out various bits and pieces of crushed and broken limbs, skin and hair at impossible angles and dark blood beginning to soak through the fabric.

  He picked up the tattered thing cautiously, excitement beginning to get the better of his disgust.

  ‘Are you ready to talk to me now? Or will I put you through it again?’

  Only a long, pitiful groan from the bag.

  ‘That isn’t an answer. Are you saying “yes” or “no” to me?’

  ‘The only reply you’ll get from me is the one you got already. I was alive before you were ever thought of, an’ I’ll still be there, even if I’m crippled, when you’re fried into a bit o’ blackened meat on the hobs o’ Hell.’

  Jack would have put the bag through the crusher again, and again if necessary, but just then a long succession of rocks began to arrive down the belt. The foreman arrived also.

  ‘All right, now. Move back there. No more time for small jobs. The job we’re at must go on,’ and he shoved Jack away.

  He had no choice but to take to the road again, tiresome though it might be.

  ‘Maybe I’m as well off,’ he consoled himself. ‘If that machine didn’t work on him the first time there’s little chance of it doing the job a second or third time around.’

  So he toiled on, for what seemed like several miles, until he came to a forge. No ordinary forge, either, for in the yard were four huge apprentice smiths, fine muscular fellows, flattening a massive sheet of iron on the ground – making a yard-gate for some landlord or other, it could be – one of them after the other landing his crashing mighty blow in a heavy solid rhythm.

  Jack watched this display of co-operation and strength for several minutes, mesmerised. Then one of them noticed him and stopped. The rhythm was broken and with it the spell that had kept them apart, in their separate worlds.

  ‘God bless the work, men,’ Jack got in hurriedly. ‘I was watching ye there an’ I couldn’t but admire the strength o’ ye.’

  They were all staring at him by now, sweat gathering in pools around them, glad enough of the rest, maybe, though none of them said so.

  Jack, seeing that he had their attention, hurried on.

  ‘An’ maybe strong men like ye might be able to do a tiny little bit of a job for me.’

  ‘What is it?’ the broadest of them asked.

  ‘I have a small piece o’ scrap metal here in my bag an’ ’tis sticking into me an’ cutting the back off o’ me. Any chance ye’d flatten it out for me an’ make my walking o’ the roads a bit more comfortable?’

  ‘Anything to oblige a traveller,’ they murmured, sympathetic. ‘Throw it down there, an’ we’ll see what we can do.’

  This time the Devil was asked no question, only dumped onto the sheet of iron, and at once the smiths began to rain blows down on the bag, every one heavier and more accurate than the one before. But only five or six had connected when they noticed that the bag was moving, that something seemed to be squirming inside it. Jack saw them hesitate and moved quickly.

  ‘Begod, lads, ye’ll have to do a bit better than this. All ye’re doing is moving it around.’

  ‘’Tisn’t us that’s doing that at all. But something is moving it!’

  ‘Yerra, that’s only the oul’ iron vibrating. What else could it be? Hit it again an’ ye’ll see.’

  One of them put his boot to the bag and tapped it.

  ‘There’s no sound o’ metal out o’ this.’

  ‘How could there be? ’Tis nearly all lead that’s in it,’ Jack countered, his mind racing. ‘But if big men the like o’ ye aren’t able to flatten a bit o’ lead ’tis a poor kind of a story. I’ll call into the next school I meet an’ maybe the young scholars might do it for me instead.’

  He made to pick up the bag, but the man nearest him kicked his hand away.

  ‘Keep back out o’ that,’ he snarled, ‘an’ let me get a right welt at it. I’ll flatten it out myself.’

  ‘After I’m finished, maybe,’ interrupted his companion.

  ‘You won’t finish anything until I have first crack at it,’ snorted the third.

  ‘Ye’re full o’ talk, but that’s all,’ said the fourth, raising his hammer. ‘I’m the only one here fit to do this. An’ I will!’

  There was a dull thud as the four hammers met, paused in mid-air, then with a mighty whoosh all came down together. This time there was no mistake. They landed, each of them, squarely on the Devil, but if they did he shrieked – ‘Aiiyee!’ – and leaped four feet into the air. The smiths leaped, too, ten feet backwards, shocked.

  ‘Damn it,’ gasped one of them, ‘that thing must be be-witched. The Devil himself must be in it.’

  ‘Yerra, indeed he isn’t, or in it,’ Jack mocked. ‘Will ye go on an’ hit it again – or is it so ye’re afraid?’

  Before they could reply the master smith, the owner of the forge, stuck his head round the jamb of the forge door, and froze when he saw his men standing idle, gaping at a bag. He
strode forward.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ he barked. ‘Why aren’t ye at work?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  They all pointed at Jack.

  ‘Who are you, stranger?’ he thundered. ‘An’ what’re you doing here, distracting my men?’ and when Jack had no immediate reply to this, he added: ‘Short o’ words, are you? Well, I hope you’re not short o’ money. ’Cos you’re the one that’s going to pay for this. You know the oul’ saying “time is money”, so cough up.’

  Jack laughed to his face.

  ‘You can scratch your backside. These men here were only doing me a good turn. I’ll pay you nothing.’

  ‘What’s that you’re after saying?’ The smith was obviously not used to being answered so. ‘Repeat it – if you want to die a sudden death.’

  ‘I will. I said you could scratch your backside. But you can scratch any other part o’ yourself if it suits you better.’

  The smith stood, looking about him wildly, clenching and unclenching his fingers, like a man fit to be tied. Then he turned, dashed into the forge and reappeared in seconds with a red-hot poker clutched trembling before him.

  ‘Now we’ll see whether you’ll pay or not,’ he hissed, lunging at Jack, who raised the bag – the first thing he could think of – to protect himself. The Devil’s luck was out that day, and his left eye also now, for the poker and bag collided at one of the holes from which he was now peeping out, terrified.

  All previous screams were as whispers of joy compared to the bellow of agony and horror that now echoed through that yard. It froze the very marrow of the five swarthy men; even Jack, though he was nearly accustomed to this kind of thing now, felt a tremor. But that did not prevent him from getting himself away fast – as fast as he had ever moved – excusing himself weakly over his shoulder as he went, and snatching up a fine two-pound hammer lying there, to defend himself with if necessary.

  From the gateway he struggled, without looking behind to see if he was followed. But there was no fear of that. It would be at least an hour before any of the smiths were in a way to stir, never mind try to pursue him. In fact, none of them was the better of their experience for well over a year after, and the smith’s wife even had to take up the trade while her husband confined himself to making the tea, so shaky had his hands become.

  Jack never stopped until the forge was well and truly out of sight, and then only after he had looked cautiously all about. He sat on the road-wall and laid the bag gently at his feet.

  ‘Well, my man, are you still refusing to make a new bargain with me? Or will I have to take you to meet more o’ my friends?’

  The answer was instant, pleading and heart-rending.

  ‘Please, let me out o’ this cursed bag. Please! My eye is out, I can only see with one half o’ me, an’ every bone that’s in me is broke.’

  Jack shook his head vehemently.

  ‘No! An’ d’you know something else? The next place I’m taking you is three times worse than any o’ the ones you were in already. So talk fast, ’cos once I start walking I won’t stop.’

  ‘You have it! Anything you’ll ask. Only let me out.’

  ‘That’s the kind o’ talk I like to hear,’ smiled Jack, ‘but tell it to me again – slowly.’

  ‘I’ll go away, an’ I’ll never bother yourself or your wife again. Now, open this ******* thing!’

  Jack crossed himself, but there was nothing to be gained by holding out for too much. He slowly undid the knotted top of the bag and shook out the contents. What fell to the road was not a pleasant or presentable sight. It looked, for all the world, like an animal that had been gone over by a week’s traffic on a busy highway, tattered, flattened and broken. To tell hands from heels was no easy task.

  Jack stared at it, pop-eyed. But for a moment only. No sooner did the bloody mass touch the ground than a cloud of steam and smoke combined gushed up with a mighty hiss, and when it cleared enough to allow a view, Jack found only a hole before him. He approached the edge cautiously, and peered down into it. But there was no seeing to the depths of it.

  ‘By the Lord, but wasn’t he in a big hurry home,? was the only comment he could think of. And there was little more to be said, for that was exactly what had happened: the Old One, what remained of him, had lost all interest in the doings of this world and taken the shortest route to the Place Beneath.

  There was nothing further to hold Jack there. He folded the bag and with a little skip set off for home. Máire was waiting anxiously at the gate. When she saw who was there she ran to meet him and, for the first and last time ever in public, threw her arms around him and hugged him.

  ‘I don’t know how you did it, or even what you did, but welcome home anyway.’

  The temptation to build a tale of noble and valiant deeds fluttered for an instant before Jack, but he knew that Máire would not be easily fooled, so he contented himself for the moment with a more or less accurate account of what had happened. She was no less impressed and pleased by that, for she listened intently to every word and at the end of the tale she climbed to her feet and cried, ‘We’ll have to have a celebration, an’ what better than a céilí?’

  And so it was: invitations were scattered throughout the parish, food and drink delivered, and musicians hired.

  That night, one of the greatest crowds ever seen in Cratloe assembled at the McCarthy house. An open house it was, too, with no shortage of anything that could help make the céilí stick in the memory. Jack was the centre of attention, everyone wanting to talk with him, drink his health or dance with him – even the men.

  But it was this last that brought about the tragedy for which that same céilí was ever afterwards remembered. For after dancing six sets in a row he staggered, clapped his hands to his chest, let out a gurgle and fell, dead, of a heart-attack.

  And so the night’s entertainment was ruined. And so also Jack went to his hereafter. But no ordinary hereafter, for when he found his otherworldly feet and when the dust had settled he noted that there were two stairways near him, one up and one down. Not for a minute did he hesitate, only dusted himself off and began to climb upward. And no easy climb it was, either. But at last he saw a door above, though hardly welcoming, for it was studded with black iron knobs and there was no handle or latch of any sort.

  For a few moments he stood panting, then, when there was no sign of life, rapped on it with his fist.

  No reply.

  He tried again, harder this time, but succeeded only in bloodying his knuckles.

  ‘Blast this, anyway,’ he growled, annoyed. ‘Is there anyone at all in the cursed place?’

  He was just about to plant a kick on the timber-work when a slight movement stopped him, then another. In a moment the door had been jerked inward and there, staring at him, stood a thick-set, bearded man dressed in a sweet-smelling robe. Jack, though startled, jumped to an immediate conclusion: ‘Would you be St Peter by any chance?’

  ‘I would. An’ you’d be Jack Murt from Cratloe, by the look o’ you.’

  ‘The very man. But here, we can talk about all that an-other time. Why don’t you be a bit neighbourly an’ leave me in out o’ the cold while we’re getting to know each other?

  ‘There’ll be no in here for you, wherever else you’ll go,’ rasped Peter, holding up his crozier threateningly.

  Jack’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘Amn’t I as entitled as the next Christian to see Heaven?’

  Peter let out a scairt of laughter, but there was no mirth in it.

  ‘You! Is it you? A villain that did nothing except consort with the Old Lad while you were in the world, an’ you expect to be let in up here? Go on out o’ this at once, before I lose my temper an’ do something with this crozier that ’twas never intended for. Go down that other stairs as far as it’ll take you. Your room is booked an’ waiting for you in the Dark Haunt, an’ the heating is turned up full – or so I’m told.’

  A
nd so saying he turned on his heel, slammed the door and Jack was left by himself to consider what best to do.

  He shrugged, sighed, then did the only thing left: trudged down, down, down the stairway of shadows to the nether place. It was not pleasant. Hotter and hotter it grew until he could hardly breathe. But still more steps stretched down, though increasingly flecked with crimson. His feet began to sweat, then to hurt. He tried to walk on the edges of his shoes, concentrating only on the next step until at last he was teetering in a sort of corridor. Before him was a door and outside that door were scattered bones, rags and hair. And when his fuddled gaze fixed itself on the metalwork itself – no timber would survive long here – it stuck there, for on it were spread no less than four bodies, crucified. And worse, they were still alive, slobbering, weeping and leaking onto the red-hot flagstones, sending spurts of steam towards the ugly ceiling. Jack groaned, shivered, then shook himself. His Clareness began to resurface.

  ‘What the hell am I thinking of?’ he gritted. ‘Isn’t the Fair of Spancilhill thirteen times worse than anything that’s here? Any man that faced that could face this, too, surely.’

  He threw up his eyes, hopped the last few steps to the door and tapped, grimacing at the wretches hanging there, trying not to meet their pleading eyes.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, louder. Still no answer.

  ‘Only one way to get this crowd’s attention,’ he snarled, snatching from his belt the two-pound hammer that he had picked up at the forge. He landed one blow, then another and another on the dark metal, and kept up the racket until a little window overhead – more a porthole than a window – snapped open. A head was thrust out and an angry, but young voice shouted down.

  ‘Who are you, what’re you doin’ here, and why’re you kickin’ our door?’

  It was one of the Devil’s younger sons, on sentry-duty, no doubt.

  ‘I have an appointment with your father, boyeen. Go in an’ tell him Jack Murt from Cratloe is here. An’ be quick about it!’

  The little devil puckered up his brow, unsure what to do in face of such effrontery – or was it confidence? He scowled, just as he had seen his parent do so often at this very place, but Jack raised the hammer and shook it.