Irish Gothic Fairy Stories

by Steve Lally

  As the wee girl rode past, Michael jumped up and grabbed her. He faltered for just a second but his father grabbed his legs and together they pulled the child from the horse. One of the riders stopped and gave Michael a fearsome look. He was about to dismount and attack the boy when Michael’s father told him to take out the knife. Michael took the black-handled blade from his belt and thrust it into the rider’s stomach. A gush of green blood spewed from the wound and the rider let out a terrible scream and both he and his horse disappeared before their eyes.

  Michael was still holding on to his sister and he was relieved to see that she was unharmed. His father told him that he was very proud of him and that they should take the child inside and put her to bed. They all watched over her that night.

  After that the wee girl never went to the bog on her own again and Michael’s father let him keep the knife and told him he had earned it for he was a man now.

  Co. Derry: From the Irish Daire (modern Irish Doire), meaning ‘Oak Grove’ or ‘Oak Wood’. The world-renowned poet Seamus Heaney (1939–2013) from Bellaghy, Co. Derry was a champion of folklore, folk tradition and mythology; he translated the Anglo-Saxon saga Beowulf. Tirkane Sweat House stands beside a hill called Sidhe Fionn, which means ‘The Fairy Mound of Fionn’. Co. Derry is also the home of Abhartach or Abhartaigh (from Abhac, the Irish for dwarf), an ancient Celtic demon dwarf who played a harp to seduce his victims (women) and then drink their blood. This story is believed to have inspired Bram Stoker’s 1897 gothic novel Dracula. Some say the dwarf was killed by Fionn Mac Cumhaill, other sources say it was a Chieftain called Cathrain who pierced him through the heart with a sword made from Yew wood. He was buried upside down (so his evil seductive music could no longer be heard) beneath Slaghtaverty Dolmen, outside Garvagh, Co. Derry. The Dolmen is better known as Leacht Abhartaigh, meaning ‘Abhartaigh’s Stone’. His tomb lies in the shadow of a fairy tree.

  THE DERRY POOKA (CO. DERRY)

  We had heard of the Kildare Pooka – of Wicklow and Galway too. There may be a pooka story from every county but one of the best stories we have heard is from Co. Derry.

  We borrowed books from many friends for this project and one book was called The Middle Kingdom, which was given to us by Eamon Keenen, a storyteller from Belfast. The book, written by Dermot MacManus, is all about the fairy world of Ireland and we learned a lot about fairy lore, including fairy trees and pookas and even magic cures. Dermot had an aunt called Lottie and she was a friend of Douglas Hyde. He would spend a lot of time with him and he also knew William Butler Yeats in his later life. Hyde and Yeats had great respect for fairy stories and collected many, and as a result of their work those stories remain alive today. Dermot admitted that without the influence of both those men he would not have written this book. In his preface he says that, ‘I have written all these stories with entire sincerity, and I am satisfied that they have been given to me in full sincerity. I feel sure they will be read with equal sincerity.’

  We feel the same about the stories within this book.

  This story came from a friend of Dermot McManus. His name was Mr Martin, a prominent Civil Servant in the east of Ireland until he retired at the general handover after the war. But the experience we are referring to happened when he was a young man. At the time, Mr Martin was in his final year of university at Trinity College Dublin, 1928, and he was at home visiting his father in Derry. It was Easter time and he didn’t have long to go before he completed his degree.

  There was a river near his father’s house and, due to the dry weather, the water was low. The river was known for its trout and so on one of the warm sunny days over Easter he headed off down to try his luck. He liked the idea of relaxing by the water and not having to worry about exams – for the time being anyway. As he was standing on the gravel next to the river he was taking in all the sounds and smells and really was in a peaceful state of mind when something compelled him to look to his right. He could see something black in the distance and when it came nearer he saw that it was some sort of animal. The animal was paddling slowly along in the shallow river. He squinted to make out what it was but wasn’t sure – all he knew is that it wasn’t small. Was it a large dog, or a panther, maybe? Whatever it was he didn’t like the look of it, later describing it as ‘intensely menacing’. He started to become fearful and so he dropped his rod right where he was standing and ran to the nearest tree and began to climb up as high as he could. He could get a good view of the animal from way up high and as it passed him by it looked up at him. The animal didn’t get any faster or slower, it just maintained a steady pace, looking up at Mr Martin in the tree. The beast looked at him with almost human intelligence. It bared its teeth with a mixture of a snarl and a jeering grin, its eyes a fearsome, blazing red. The animal was savage and dangerous and Mr Martin was frightened and felt unsafe. He hoped the animal wouldn’t attack him but knew if it really wanted to it was well fit to run up that tree and drag him down. He wondered if the animal had escaped from a circus.

  A while later, when he felt it safe to climb back down, he did so and collected his rod and ran like the clappers home to his father’s house. His father wasn’t home so he grabbed his shotgun, loaded it up and went in search of the animal. He knew the community was in danger with that thing on the loose. He asked everyone he met if they had seen the wild beast but they replied no, and soon enough he started to think he had imagined it. When his father returned home later that evening they had a good chat about the animal and neither of them could imagine what it could have been.

  The next morning Mr Martin was due back at university and so off he went. He finished his studies a few months later and returned home for the summer. He had forgotten about the wild animal for a few months but when he was back in the countryside he began to wonder whatever came of it. Mr Martin was a smoker and one day as he opened up a new packet of cigarettes he took out a card that came with the pack and couldn’t believe what he saw. Right there on the card was the very same animal that he had seen in the river back at Easter time. Underneath the picture were the words ‘The Pooka – the great black fairy dog’.

  When Dermot MacManus first heard this story, he went in search of a card just like the one Mr Martin found in his cigarette packet many years before. When Dermot finally found one he went back to Mr Martin and showed him the card and asked him: was it the same animal?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is just what I saw, except that it does not show the red eyes or the wicked teeth. It was as tall as a mantelpiece. That picture is so true you’d think it was drawn from life.’

  Until Mr Martin returned home that summer and saw the pooka on the card he had no clue what he had encountered. It was a mystery. So he was curious and went about talking to locals and trying to see if anyone else had a similar experience. To his surprise the pooka was quite well known in the area and had been sighted over the years. It was always seen in the glooming, in or by the river. He was told that it was over fifty years since anyone had seen it in daylight. He had no idea whether this was a good thing or not. He left the story behind in Co. Derry because he soon moved abroad to take up a new post. He may have left the story behind but we are sure he thought about it quite a few times over the course of his lifetime.

  Co. Donegal: From the Irish Dún na nGall, meaning ‘Fort of the Foreigners’. It was at one time known as Co. Tyrconnell, from the Irish Tír Chonaill, meaning ‘Land of Conall’. Co. Donegal is rich in folklore and stories of the Sidhe, from ‘Jamie Friel’ to ‘Balor of the Baleful Eye’. It was in Glencolmcille that St Colmcille held a race to see who would become the ‘King of all Birds’ after the Dodo had died. The little Wren won by hiding under the Eagle’s wing and flying out once the Eagle had exhausted itself, hence becoming the ‘King of all Birds’. Tory Island (from the Irish Tóraidhe, meaning outlaw or pursuer), off the coast of Donegal, was believed to be the last outpost of the ancient demonic race known as the Formorians. Seumas MacManus (1867–1960), the great Irish
folklorist, hailed from Mountcharles. Also the ‘Navvy Poet’ Patrick MacGill (1889–1963) came from Glenties. He was a great writer and poet and he penned some of the finest Fairy Poetry of the twentieth century. William Allingham (1824–1889), Ireland’s most famous ‘Fairy Poet’, was from Ballyshannon, Co.Donegal.

  THE FIDDLER AND THE FEY (CO. DONEGAL)

  This story was originally told by the legendary Donegal fiddler Mickey Doherty (1894–1970) and was passed on to us by another great Donegal fiddler, Domhnall McGinley, from the Irish punk/traditional band The Pox Men.

  This was our first introduction to the music and stories of Mickey Doherty. Doherty was a fiddler from a well-known family of Irish Travellers from Donegal. They were also well-respected musicians; his older brother John Doherty (1900–1980) was a renowned fiddler too. Mickey was a true believer in the fairy folk and told stories about how they would give us mortals tunes to play. Some of these tunes are still in existence.

  This is a story he told about a man who had an encounter with one of the good folk.

  A man lived in Glen Finn and his name was Fearon and he only had one tune. In that time fiddlers were very scarce. If a man back then could play a tune he was appreciated and even idolised. People would look at musicians in amazement.

  There was a wedding in the locality and this fiddler was asked to attend and play a few tunes. He was delighted to be asked but sadly he only had one tune and there was no way he would be able to learn something new before the big day.

  He sat and pondered over his predicament for a few days, tossed and turned in bed at night, but he knew he would have to decide as to what he would do. The wedding day was approaching and all the neighbours would be there and so he picked up the fiddle and began to play it, but still only the one tune came out. He tried to play others he heard over the years but what he had in his head just wouldn’t come out on the fiddle. He was upset and ashamed and thought he would have to tell the wedding party he was ill.

  The wedding day came and for some reason he awoke with some courage in his heart. He took a drop of whisky and made off with his fiddle, hoping the mixture of courage and alcohol would see him through the day.

  He was walking along the road and as he drew nearer to the house where the wedding was taking place he started to feel his stomach jump a little, as if he’d swallowed a box of tiny frogs. He thought about something nice to take his mind off the task in hand. He was walking down a lonely part of the road – ‘a gentle place’, he thought. To the old folk a gentle place was one that was ‘full of fairies’. His head was bent and he was kicking stones and whistling the only tune he knew. He was a kind old man and he didn’t want to refuse the neighbours, so he kept on walking and there in the distance was the house and he could see that people were beginning to gather around the gable. Just as he was about to take a step out popped a wee red-haired man who saluted him. ‘Well my young man, are you heading out for a journey?’

  ‘I am,’ said the old man. ‘I am going to a wedding.’

  ‘I see you play the fiddle – I love that instrument.’

  ‘Aw I play the fiddle in a way,’ said the man. ‘Aw and I don’t play it in another way.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean sir?’ said the wee man.

  ‘Well I was asked to play at a neighbours’ wedding over beyond that tree and as I walk my courage is failing, for I only know one tune.’

  ‘Show me your fiddle,’ said the wee man and he took the fiddle and he tried it out. He didn’t play a fancy tune but instead he just ran his fingers over the strings three times, almost like he was checking to see if it worked. He handed the fiddle back with a cheeky grin and a glint in his eye and said, ‘Now man you go ahead to that wedding and enjoy yourself. I promise you there will be no one there tonight that can play a fiddle like you.’ The old man was a bit wary but thanked the stranger and off he headed.

  He arrived to a crowded house and the celebrations were under way and sure he took out his fiddle and to be honest the crowd were as nervous for both him and themselves because they knew as well as he did that he only knew one tune. Settling into their seats the crowd made themselves comfortable and ready to hear the same tune they had heard from him for many years. ‘Ah here we go again,’ they thought and sure you couldn’t offend such a kind-hearted man so they smiled and give him their support.

  But when he picked up that fiddle to play his fingers worked a kind of magic we don’t see every day. The crowd and the old man himself were beyond shocked because he was the best fiddle player they had ever heard. They must have been thinking he had practised since the last time he played for them. He played over a hundred tunes, never getting tired or bored in himself. He was loving the music and the crowd were shouting for more. The roof nearly came off the house.

  After the wedding he walked home along the same road, looking out for the wee man to thank him, for whatever he did to that fiddle it sure made him the best fiddler in all the land and not to mention the most popular man for miles around. The whole place far and wide were talking about him.

  Years had passed and he spent many happy times playing for pleasure and for friends. But one day he took sick and was confined to bed, and the old fiddle was hung on the wall above him. The day came when he passed on and the moment he died the family heard a crack on the wall and the fiddle smashed into a hundred bits.

  It’s believed the fairies did that – they didn’t want anyone else to get their hands on that fiddle. The red-haired man he met on the way to the wedding many years before enchanted him and gave him the gift of playing the fiddle. Before the wee man left him on that magical day he whispered in his ear, ‘You will be the best fiddle player in this land.’ He was right. The man was never forgotten.

  Co. Down: From the Irish An Dún, meaning ‘The Fort’. Down is a mysterious county full of wild beauty, legend and folklore. Ireland’s patron saint, St Patrick, is buried in Downpatrick. This county has a great number of ancient dolmens (megalithic tombs). Outside Finnis is the Legananny Dolmen, one of the finest in Ulster; the area that surrounds it is scattered with magnificent fairy forts and fairy trees. The ghost of the diabolical Squire Hawkins still haunts the grounds of Drumballyroney church, where Patrick Brontë (father of the Brontë sisters) once taught. On the old road from Rathfriland to Poyntzpass stands Bonnety’s Bridge, which is guarded by a fairy called Bonnety, who wore a huge bonnet on her head. The great folklorist Dr Francis McPolin (1897–1974) hailed from Hilltown in Co. Down; he dedicated many years of his life collecting and archiving folk and fairy stories from his native Hilltown and other parts of the county.

  BILLY AND THE CHANGELING OF GLASCAR (CO. DOWN)

  Come away, O human child!

  To the waters and the wild

  With a faery, hand in hand.

  For the world’s more full of weeping,

  Than you can understand.

  (From ‘The Stolen Child’ by William Butler Yeats, 1889)

  This beautiful and melancholic tale was first recorded by the Revd J.B. Lusk of Glascar, Co. Down, in 1925. This story features in Steve’s collection Down Folk Tales, which is also published by The History Press Ireland. Steve had the privilege of finding this story deep in the archives of Co. Down’s rich folk history.

  Over 200 years ago the desire for news, gossip and stories was as strong as it is today, but for the majority of the people living in and around Glascar in Co. Down, there were neither newspapers nor novels available. Even if they did obtain such items, the ability to read evaded most of the population. So how did they gain knowledge of the world around them? It is hard to imagine in today’s culture but information and news was supplied by the beggars who travelled the country roads. Beggars were a common sight, even before the Famine, as ordinary folk were dependent for their food supply from their own harvests; in bad seasons many were driven by the fear of starvation to beg for a living. Few who took to the roads returned to the humdrum ways of hard, loveless labour. What they at first looked o
n as a curse they came to regard it as a blessing in disguise. At every home, with few exceptions, beggars received a handful of oatmeal or a few spuds. They carried only their beds with them, consisting of a pair of blankets and a quilt.

  These beggars were made welcome to a night’s lodging in any of the more modest, less affluent homes. They paid for their accommodation by the news they related, news they had gathered on their wide travels, the songs and ballads they collected and, of course, wondrous stories. Indeed, their arrival was looked forward to by young and old. Some of the beggars saw themselves as entertainers, some even as celebrities, and felt that houses and homes had been honoured by their company.

  According to Revd Lusk, by the end of the eighteenth century the recognised chief celebrity of this ragged fraternity was Billy the Beggar-man. Billy occasionally visited the Glasgar neighbourhood and Lusk states that his visits were like a royal progress, in which he received the homage of his subjects and the offerings of his admirers. His sophistication and elegance were the wonder and envy of many and, like today’s pop culture where young people try to emulate their favourite rock star or actor, the younger generation at the time wished to imitate him.

  According to this illustrious vagabond, there were few countries in the world where he had not fought and fewer still that he had not visited. When asked how foreigners spoke, which was always a great subject of curiosity, he would reply, ‘Some make a kind of rumblin’ noise and others make a sound like cats spittin.’ And not to mention the wild beasts, strange creatures and terrible monsters he encountered – and he had scars to prove it. He had a grand, majestic manner about him, like some hobo monarch, but was described as being a big, affable, kind, jolly, hairy-faced man with a powerful voice and grand company to be in.