Irish Gothic Fairy Stories

by Steve Lally

  In other words, Meg’s mother, without meaning to, encouraged her to behave badly. The neighbours said, ‘It’s a disgrace what thon wean puts her mother through, and her such a nice, gentle woman.’

  One day Meg’s mother decided to take Meg next door to the neighbouring farm to borrow a bowl of sugar. When the farmer’s wife saw them coming she let out a cry that could have been heard over the whole of Ireland. ‘Bless us! Here comes Meg. Quick, hide the new butter crock in the loft, put the best platter under the bed. Tie the pig in the byre, hide the hens’ eggs in the churn and pray to the Holy Virgin we survive with nothing broken.’

  Meg came into the house and looked around. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘do you see auld granny sitting in the corner there. She looks greyer than ever. I’ll bet she’s not long for this world. She’ll soon be pushing up the daisies. Just look at thon boil she has on her eyelid! Have you ever seen anything so ugly? And do you see they’ve still got that old faded rug on her knee – they mustn’t be doing too well or they’d get her a nice new one.’

  Meg ran around the kitchen like a wild thing. When a hen walked in through the open door, she kicked it and the poor thing squawked and rushed back outside. Old Jack, the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh, lay asleep in the street outside. Meg kicked him awake. Jack groaned, stood up and wagged his tail. Meg pulled his whiskers. Then she began to tease him by holding a bar of chocolate out and jerking it away as he went to eat it. Eventually Jack accidentally bit her and she went off like a siren before running back into the house screaming, ‘Old Jack bit me! Old Jack bit me! He should be shot, so he should. He’s a dangerous dog.’ She climbed on to her mother’s knee and sobbed.

  ‘There, there,’ comforted her mother. ‘Let me kiss you better. My poor wee darling! Did that nasty dog hurt you? You’re right, he should be shot for biting my wee sweetheart.’

  The farmer was attracted by the commotion and came into the kitchen. ‘That child should be shot, not Jack,’ he said firmly. ‘Jack’s the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh, if not in the whole of Ireland. That child’s a cruel wee brat. If Jack bit her she deserved it.’

  Meg peeped through her fingers. The farmer looked very angry. He scowled at her. Would he really shoot her, she wondered? She felt uneasy and sat quietly on her mother’s knee, then, when nobody was looking, she slithered down and sneaked out through the open door. ‘That nasty old farmer’ll never catch me!’ she chortled as she struggled through a hole in the hedge and into the field. She ran and ran, aiming to get as far away from the house as possible. Eventually, after running through several fields, she saw men making hay. She watched for a few minutes before going to hide behind a haystack. She found their food in a pail covered with a dish in the shade there. She felt hungry and devoured everything she fancied. She threw the rest of the food on the ground before stopping and thinking, ‘Maybe the men’ll be angry when they see I’ve eaten their lunch. Perhaps they’ll help the farmer catch and shoot me. Maybe I’d better hide.’ She went into another field, found another haystack and sat down behind it. The sun was very warm, Meg had had a lot of exercise. The drowsy sound of bees humming as they collected honey made her feel sleepy. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber. The men finished their work, went home to milk their cows, the sun set, bats flitted against the moon and Meg woke up with a start. She heard tinkling voices and felt confused. Who was there? Where was she? What had happened to her? She peeped round in the direction of the voices and saw a troop of fairies dressed in green jackets and red hats and dragging small rakes. A small voice complained, ‘That terrible child’s a blithering nuisance scattering hay like this. We’ll never get the place ready in time to have a decent dance before dawn.’

  ‘Somebody should teach her a few manners,’ scolded another. ‘Yes, and to be more thoughtful. I hate the way she wastes food and do you see how she destroys clothes. She has her poor mother worn to the bone what with cleaning and washing and ironing and mending. It’s a crying shame. I hope we catch her some night and have a chance to knock some sense into her. Ye’ll see! We’ll teach her a lesson she won’t forget!’

  Any other child would have been frightened to hear such a conversation, but not Meg. She was used to having her own way and getting into the middle of everything. ‘What can those silly wee fairy men do?’ she thought. ‘They’re old and feeble. I’m bigger and stronger than they are. I’ll teach them a lesson. I’ll knock them down like ninepins before I go home,’ and with that she jumped out from behind the haystack. ‘Come on!’ she shouted. ‘Who’s going to teach me a lesson? You and what army?’ She ran around knocking the melt out of the fairies and laughing her head off.

  The night suddenly became very silent. The wee men didn’t say a word. They just looked solemnly and quietly at Meg. Then one shouted, ‘Make the fairy ring! Make the fairy ring! Fairies dance and fairies sing!’ The wee men quickly formed a ring round Meg and began to dance, their tiny feet weaving complicated patterns on the green, green grass. Meg felt confused. The fairies moved so quickly they appeared like a blur. She couldn’t see one to catch. They raised their small voices in song. It was a lovely tune but somehow threatening.

  Ring, ring in a Fairy Ring, Fairies dance and Fairies sing.

  Round, round on soft green ground, never a sound, never a sound.

  Sway, sway as the grasses sway, down by the lough at the dawn of day.

  Circle about as we leap and spring, Fairy men in a Fairy Ring.

  Light on your toe, light on your heel, one by one in a merry, merry reel.

  Fingers touching, fingers so round and round and round we go!

  When the song was finished the wee men clapped their hands, kicked their heels and spun round like a hundred green spinning tops. Then they shouted, ‘Move hand or foot if ye can wee Meg Barnileg.’ Meg found she couldn’t move a muscle. ‘Open your mouth and come out with some of those fine statements you’re famous for making,’ jeered the fairies. Meg opened her mouth to scream and found her tongue was stuck against the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t even squeak! ‘Now have a look at your substitute,’ the fairies laughed. ‘He’ll make a fine changeling.’ With that the fairies went and brought out the ugliest wee man you could imagine. Meg was horrified. She’d heard of changelings but hadn’t believed such things existed. She felt sick as she watched the fairies weave a spell. In the wink of an eye the ugly wee man grew and grew until he was the spitting image of Meg: face, hair, dress, boots, the lot. He stretched out in the hollow where Meg had been lying and was fast asleep before you could say ‘Jack Robinson!’

  ‘Now,’ shouted the wee men, ‘it’s time to take you below.’ A hundred pairs of fairy hands grabbed her, carried her over to a fairy thorn and threw her up in the air. Suddenly she was falling, falling, falling, down, down, down through a dark hole until she tumbled at the bottom onto a pile of soft leaves. She looked around and found she was at the heart of a fairy mound or fort. A soft light shone from what looked like thousands of glow worms hanging from the walls and ceiling. The place was beautiful but the floor was filthy, covered in scraps of food.

  ‘You dirty clarts,’ shouted Meg. ‘If you’d any sense you’d keep this place clean and tidy the way my mother does at home!’ The fairies laughed heartily. ‘Meg,’ said their leader, ‘that’s all the food you’ve wasted in your life. Here’s a rake. Brush it up. Eat it when you’re hungry.’

  ‘No! No! No!’ yelled Meg, stamping her foot in rage. ‘I’ll never eat that rubbish. I’m hungry. I want a drink of milk and a piece of currant cake.’

  ‘Tough luck,’ said the fairy leader firmly. ‘You can’t have anything fresh while all that wasted food lies uneaten. The quicker you eat it the quicker you’ll have something fresh. It’s up to you. You may starve if you choose. Here’s the rake. Tidy the floor. Come on, get moving! We can’t dance on it the way it is.’

  So Meg found herself with a rake in her hands. The floor was covered as far as the eye could see with cold spuds,
bits of wheaten bread, lumps of stir-a-bout, soda farls, potato bread, crumbs of cake, half-eaten apples and whatnot. She raked the largest pieces into a corner and swept the smallest into tidy piles. She worked and worked until she was exhausted. Every joint in her body ached and she grew hungrier and hungrier. ‘My belly thinks my throat’s cut,’ she yelled. ‘If you’re going to force me to work like a slave for ye, ye could at least have the manners to bring me something to eat.’ The fairies laughed. ‘You’ve wasted all that good food and we’ve told you that we’ll not give you a morsel until you use what you’ve wasted.’ In the end Meg was forced, by hunger, to eat her own leavings. At last, weeks later, she’d finished her task and was given a piece of fresh bread and a drink of milk. It tasted wonderful and she vowed she’d never waste food again!

  ‘Now, we’ve another wee job for you,’ said a fairy as he led her into another wide, open underground space. It was cluttered with dirty, torn dresses, every stitch she’d ever worn since she could first crawl around the floor. Meg looked about her, kicked one of her dresses and snarled, ‘What do you want me to do with this lot?’

  ‘Wash, iron and mend your clothes. You had your poor mother worn to a frazzle running around after you.’

  ‘I won’t!’ yelled Meg. ‘I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!’ She stamped her feet and stuck her tongue out as far as if would go.

  ‘Meg,’ said the wee man quietly. ‘It’s up to you. We can wait a thousand years for you to make amends.’ And with that he disappeared. Meg walked around in a temper, kicking clothes, banging walls with her fists and saying bad words. She threw herself on the ground and had a temper tantrum. Nobody came near her and she began to feel foolish. She picked herself up and thought, ‘Maybe I should start washing, ironing and mending. At least it’d be something to do.’

  The minute that thought crossed her mind an old fairy woman appeared, took her over to a wash tub and showed her how to wash clothes. Meg began to scrub her dirty dresses. Her hands became red and sore as she washed and scrubbed. Then she had to starch and iron them. The iron was heavy and very hot and she burnt herself several times. She hated mending. It was a boring job and the task seemed unending. The fairies were not sympathetic. ‘Think of the trouble you gave your poor mother,’ they said. ‘Now that you’re here she has peace and quiet to rest and the neighbours are enjoying life for the first time in years!’

  At last Meg finished the task and the fairies took her into a large space filled with the ugliest plants she’d ever seen. They looked like nettles with the thorns of a thistle. Every now and then there was a pretty flower. ‘What’s all that about?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Those weeds are all the nasty words you have ever spoken. You must pull them out and put them over there on the compost heap.’

  ‘I won’t!’ yelled Meg. ‘I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!’ Immediately three large ugly plants appeared at her feet.

  ‘You were shouting,’ said a fairy. ‘You must learn to guard your tongue or you’ll never finish this task.’ Meg looked around her. Had she really been that nasty? ‘What are those pretty flowers?’ she asked. The fairy smiled. ‘Sometimes you made a mistake and said something pleasant like telling your mother you loved her. They’re all the nice words you have ever spoken.’ Meg felt ashamed for the first time in her life. Had she really said so few nice things and been so nasty? She got down on her knees and began weeding. It was a terrible job. The stings caused her hands to become swollen, her knees felt like two red lumps of burning turf, her back ached, her joints became sore and she learnt to control her tongue. Every time she said something nasty another ugly weed appeared. She began playing games with the space. When a fairy appeared, she said something pleasant and watched as pretty flowers grew. At last she was finished. She looked around her and for the first time since she’d gone to live with the fairies she felt happy. The room looked really pretty with all those beautiful flowers. She lifted her skirts and began to dance with joy. fairies love dancing and when they saw Meg bending and swaying like a flower and pointing her toes so nicely they clapped their hands and cheered.

  ‘Meg,’ they asked, ‘would you like to come above ground tonight and dance with us by the light of the silver moon?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Meg. That night, for the first time in a year, Meg smelt new-cut hay and fragrant roses blooming round cottage doors. She felt a soft balmy breeze caressing her cheek and saw the green grass under her feet. It was wonderful. Then she remembered her mother had once said, ‘Anyone taken by the fairies can escape by finding a four-leafed clover and wishing to go home.’ Meg lifted her skirt and began to dance, taking every chance possible to bend low and look for a four-leafed clover, but to no avail. She became very homesick and her heart was in despair as the moon sank behind the mountains, then she saw it outlined against her shiny, black patent shoe. A lucky-four leafed clover!

  ‘Look!’ she shouted in delight, as she held it up. ‘Look what I’ve found! I can have a wish! I wish I was at home!’ With that she woke up in her own wee bed with her mother sitting beside her.

  ‘Mother,’ cried Meg, ‘I hope they didn’t shoot the dog. He’d never have bitten me if I hadn’t tortured the life out of him.’

  Her mother looked at her in astonishment. ‘Meg,’ she said, ‘you don’t sound like yourself. What happened to you? We found you fast asleep behind a haystack in Nobel’s field. That was a year ago today.’ Meg explained how she had been captured by the fairies and how they had taught her to behave herself.

  From that day until the day she died Meg was a changed person. She was thoughtful, kind and gentle. She helped her mother tidy up, kept a civil tongue in her head and ate everything put before her. When she grew up she got married and had seventeen children. Today, if you walk along the banks of Lough Erne and see a well-behaved child, the neighbours will probably tell you, ‘That child is the great-great-great grandchild of wee Meg Barnileg.’

  Co. Monaghan: From the Irish Mhuineacháin, meaning ‘Hilly Land’ or ‘Place of Little Hills’. Co. Monaghan is a county full of stories and folklore. It is home to the ‘Graveyard Bride’ who lurks in the cemetery of Errigal Truagh, looking for a groom to take to her grave. There is a banshee that still haunts the ruins of Rossmore Castle’ Énrí Ó Muirgheasa (Henry Morris) (1874–1945), the writer and folklorist, was born in Castle East, Donaghmoyne. The Giant’s Grave in Corlealackagh is an ancient cairn, which is also a beautiful example of a fairy fort. This county is also the home of one of Ireland’s greatest poets, Patrick Kavanagh (1904–1967), who was a master at turning the mundane and ordinary into the mythical and extraordinary.

  JOHNNY MCKENNA AND THE KING OF THE FAIRIES (CO. MONAGHAN)

  Whilst travelling around Co. Monaghan I met many people and these people told me all sorts of wonderful stories about the fairy folk and what they get up to. I am delighted to tell you this one, the bare bones of which I got from an anonymous writer for the 2005 Tydavenet Journal. This story can also be found in Monaghan Folk Tales by Steve Lally.

  Tydavnet, Co. Monaghan, was always well known for its ‘Dealin’ Men’ or ‘Wide Boys’; in other words men that knew how to buy and sell everything and anything, and always get a good price.

  Now Johnny McKenna was one of these Dealin’ Men and he was one of the best and he claimed to only ever work with the best of stock and breed. But he was also known to dabble with lesser stock to cater for the less affluent clients, for a sale was a sale after all and Johnny would travel to all the Fairs and Marts in Monaghan and the surrounding counties to get what he was looking for.

  Well it so happened that the Parish Priest was looking for a new pony (as this was a long time ago before we had motor cars or buses and maybe even trains). So when Johnny heard about this he wasted no time at all – he set out on foot for the Fair of Fintona in Co. Tyrone.

  When the bold Johnny got to the Fair in Fintona, all the good stock had gone and there was nothing that caught his eye so he decided to cut his losses and hea
d for home again. On the way back he met a wee man who told him of a great shortcut over the mountain. Now anyone who knows anything about wee men and shortcuts will tell you to avoid such advice and stick to the road that they know themselves.

  The wee man told him if he took this shortcut it would save him 8 or 9 miles on his journey. Now anyone who knows anything about walking long distances will agree that this is a massive saving indeed. Well, Johnny decided to take the shortcut and it was not long before he found himself lost; there he was, gone astray over the mountain not knowing if he was coming or going.

  Well now poor Johnny must have been wandering about the lonely, dark and winding mountain roads for over half the night, when all of a sudden he saw a light in the distance. Now he was relieved to see this beacon of hope and he wasted no time making his way towards it.

  As he got closer to the light he soon realised that it was coming from a wee cottage, thatched with heather and no more than about 4 feet high. It was a strange-looking little building but Johnny was glad to be outside of it and not wandering aimlessly around the mountain. Johnny knocked on the wee half-door and an old woman answered by opening the door and poking her withered face out at him.

  ‘Who are ye?’ asked the old woman in a shrill voice.

  Johnny answered by stating, ‘I am a poor man who is off his pad.’

  ‘Come in,’ says the auld one.

  Well, Johnny stooped down and nearly had to crawl into the house. Well, he got the fright of his life for right before him lying on the floor of the old shack were dead sheep. Now Johnny gasped and let out a bit of a shout.

  ‘Hould your whist and speak easy!’ growled the old woman, and went on to explain her anxiety. ‘I am afraid that the men will hear and they might come in. They are a bad lot and the work they do – I don’t like it one bit, they are stealing sheep and killing them!’ She then pointed towards the back of the house and said, ‘Now go down to the room there, there’s a bed there where you can rest yourself.’