“You took the Sword of Light and the Black Book, and your two sisters are married. Oh, then, bad luck to you. I will put my curse on you wherever you go. You have all my children killed, and I a poor, feeble, old woman.”
“Bad luck to yourself,” said Smallhead. “I am not afraid of a curse from the like of you. If you had lived an honest life you wouldn’t be as you are today.”
“Now, Smallhead,” said the old hag, “you have me robbed of everything, and my children destroyed. Your two sisters are well married. Your fortune began with my ruin. Come, now, and take care of me in my old age. I’ll take my curse from you, and you will have good luck. I bind myself never to harm a hair of your head.”
Smallhead thought awhile, promised to do this, and said: “If you harm me, or try to harm me, it will be the worse for yourself.”
The old hag was satisfied and went home. Smallhead went to the castle and was received with great joy. Next morning she found the King’s son in the garden, and said: “If you marry my sister tomorrow, you will have the Black Book.”
“I will marry her gladly,” said the King’s son.
Next day the marriage was celebrated and the King’s son got the book. Smallhead remained in the castle about a week, then she left good health with her sisters and went to the hag’s house. The old woman was glad to see her and showed the girl her work. All Smallhead had to do was to wait on the hag and feed a large pig that she had.
“I am fatting that pig,” said the hag; “he is seven years old now, and the longer you keep a pig the harder his meat is: we’ll keep this pig a while longer, and then we’ll kill and eat him.”
Smallhead did her work; the old hag taught her some things, and Smallhead learned herself far more than the hag dreamt of. The girl fed the pig three times a day, never thinking that he could be anything but a pig. The hag had sent word to a sister that she had in the Eastern World, bidding her come and they would kill the pig and have a great feast. The sister came, and one day when the hag was going to walk with her sister she said to Smallhead:
“Give the pig plenty of meal today; this is the last food he’ll have; give him his fill.”
The pig had his own mind and knew what was coming. He put his nose under the pot and threw it on Smallhead’s toes, and she barefoot. With that she ran into the house for a stick, and seeing a rod on the edge of the loft, snatched it and hit the pig.
That moment the pig was a splendid young man.
Smallhead was amazed.
“Never fear,” said the young man, “I am the son of a King that the old hag hated, the King of Munster. She stole me from my father seven years ago and enchanted me – made a pig of me.”
Smallhead told the King’s son, then, how the hag had treated her. “I must make a pig of you again,” said she, “for the hag is coming. Be patient and I’ll save you, if you promise to marry me.”
“I promise you,” said the King’s son.
With that she struck him, and he was a pig again. She put the switch in its place and was at her work when the two sisters came. The pig ate his meal now with a good heart, for he felt sure of rescue.
“Who is that girl you have in the house, and where did you find her?” asked the sister.
“All my children died of the plague, and I took this girl to help me. She is a very good servant.”
At night the hag slept in one room, her sister in another, and Smallhead in a third. When the two sisters were sleeping soundly Smallhead rose, stole the hag’s magic book, and then took the rod. She went next to where the pig was, and with one blow of the rod made a man of him.
With the help of the magic book Smallhead made two doves of herself and the King’s son, and they took flight through the air and flew on without stopping. Next morning the hag called Smallhead, but she did not come. She hurried out to see the pig. The pig was gone. She ran to her book. Not a sign of it.
“Oh!” cried she, “that villain of a Smallhead has robbed me. She has stolen my book, made a man of the pig, and taken him away with her.”
What could she do but tell her whole story to the sister. “Go you,” said she, “and follow them. You have more enchantment than Smallhead has.”
“How am I to know them?” asked the sister.
“Bring the first two strange things that you find; they will turn themselves into something wonderful.”
The sister then made a hawk of herself and flew away as swiftly as any March wind.
“Look behind,” said Smallhead to the King’s son some hours later; “see what is coming.”
“I see nothing,” said he, “but a hawk coming swiftly.”
“That is the hag’s sister. She has three times more enchantment than the hag herself. But fly down on the ditch and be picking yourself as doves do in rainy weather, and maybe she’ll pass without seeing us.”
The hawk saw the doves, but thinking them nothing wonderful, flew on till evening, and then went back to her sister.
“Did you see anything wonderful?”
“I did not; I saw only two doves, and they picking themselves.”
“You fool, those doves were Smallhead and the King’s son. Off with you in the morning and don’t let me see you again without the two with you.”
Away went the hawk a second time, and swiftly as Smallhead and the King’s son flew, the hawk was gaining on them. Seeing this Smallhead and the King’s son dropped down into a large village, and, it being market-day, they made two heather brooms of themselves. The two brooms began to sweep the road without any one holding them, and swept toward each other. This was a great wonder. Crowds gathered at once around the two brooms.
The old hag flying over in the form of a hawk saw this and thinking that it must be Smallhead and the King’s son were in it, came down, turned into a woman, and said to herself:
“I’ll have those two brooms.”
She pushed forward so quickly through the crowd that she came near knocking down a man standing before her. The man was vexed.
“You cursed old hag!” cried he, “do you want to knock us down?” With that he gave her a blow and drove her against another man, that man gave her a push that sent her spinning against a third man, and so on till between them all they came near putting the life out of her, and pushed her away from the brooms. A woman in the crowd called out then:
“It would be nothing but right to knock the head off that old hag, and she trying to push us away from the mercy of God, for it was God who sent the brooms to sweep the road for us.”
“True for you,” said another woman. With that the people were as angry as angry could be, and were ready to kill the hag. They were going to take the head off the hag when she made a hawk of herself and flew away, vowing never to do another stroke of work for her sister. She might do her own work or let it alone.
When the hawk disappeared the two heather brooms rose and turned into doves. The people felt sure when they saw the doves that the brooms were a blessing from heaven, and it was the old hag that drove them away.
On the following day Smallhead and the King’s son saw his father’s castle, and the two came down not too far from it in their own forms. Smallhead was a very beautiful woman now, and why not? She had the magic and didn’t spare it. She made herself as beautiful as ever she could: the like of her was not to be seen in that kingdom or the next one.
The King’s son was in love with her that minute, and did not wish to part with her, but she would not go with him.
“When you are at your father’s castle,” said Smallhead, “all will be overjoyed to see you, and the king will give a great feast in your honour. If you kiss any one or let any living thing kiss you, you’ll forget me for ever.”
“I will not let even my own mother kiss me,” said he.
The King’s son went to the castle. All were overjoyed; they had thought him dead, had not seen h
im for seven years. He would let no one come near to kiss him. “I am bound by oath to kiss no one,” said he to his mother. At that moment an old grey hound came in, and with one spring was on his shoulder licking his face: all that the King’s son had gone through in seven years was forgotten in one moment.
Smallhead went toward a forge near the castle. The smith had a wife far younger than himself, and a stepdaughter. They were no beauties. In the rear of the forge was a well and a tree growing over it. “I will go up in that tree,” thought Smallhead, “and spend the night in it.” She went up and sat just over the well. She was not long in the tree when the moon came out high above the hill tops and shone on the well. The blacksmith’s stepdaughter, coming for water, looked down in the well, saw the face of the woman above in the tree, thought it her own face, and cried:
“Oh, then, to have me bringing water to a smith, and I such a beauty. I’ll never bring another drop to him.” With that she cast the pail in the ditch and ran off to find a king’s son to marry.
When she was not coming with the water, and the blacksmith waiting to wash after his day’s work in the forge, he sent the mother. The mother had nothing but a pot to get the water in, so off she went with that, and coming to the well saw the beautiful face in the water.
“Oh, you black, swarthy villain of a smith,” cried she, “bad luck to the hour that I met you, and I such a beauty. I’ll never draw another drop of water for the life of you!”
She threw the pot down, broke it, and hurried away to find some king’s son.
When neither mother nor daughter came back with water the smith himself went to see what was keeping them. He saw the pail in the ditch, and, catching it, went to the well; looking down, he saw the beautiful face of a woman in the water. Being a man, he knew that it was not his own face that was in it, so he looked up, and there in the tree saw a woman. He spoke to her and said:
“I know now why my wife and her daughter did not bring water. They saw your face in the well, and, thinking themselves too good for me, ran away. You must come now and keep the house till I find them.”
“I will help you,” said Smallhead. She came down, went to the smith’s house, and showed the road that the women took. The smith hurried after them, and found the two in a village ten miles away. He explained their own folly to them, and they came home.
The mother and daughter washed fine linen for the castle. Smallhead saw them ironing one day, and said:
“Sit down: I will iron for you.”
She caught the iron, and in an hour had the work of the day done.
The women were delighted. In the evening the daughter took the linen to the housekeeper at the castle.
“Who ironed this linen?” asked the housekeeper.
“My mother and I.”
“Indeed, then, you did not. You can’t do the like of that work, and tell me who did it.”
The girl was in dread now and answered:
“It is a woman who is stopping with us who did the ironing.”
The housekeeper went to the Queen and showed her the linen.
“Send that woman to the castle,” said the Queen.
Smallhead went: the Queen welcomed her, wondered at her beauty; put her over all the maids in the castle. Smallhead could do anything; everybody was fond of her. The King’s son never knew that he had seen her before, and she lived in the castle a year; what the Queen told her she did.
The King had made a match for his son with the daughter of the King of Ulster. There was a great feast in the castle in honour of the young couple, the marriage, was to be a week later. The bride’s father brought many of his people who were versed in all kinds of tricks and enchantment.
The King knew that Smallhead could do many things, for neither the Queen nor himself had asked her to do a thing that she did not do in a twinkle.
“Now,” said the King to the Queen, “I think she can do something that his people cannot do.” He summoned Smallhead and asked:
“Can you amuse the strangers?”
“I can if you wish me to do so.”
When the time came and the Ulster men had shown their best tricks, Smallhead came forward and raised the window, which was forty feet from the ground. She had a small ball of thread in her hand; she tied one end of the thread to the window, threw the ball out and over a wall near the castle; then she passed out the window, walked on the thread and kept time to music from players that no man could see. She came in; all cheered her and were greatly delighted.
“I can do that,” said the King of Ulster’s daughter, and sprang out on the string; but if she did she fell and broke her neck on the stones below. There were cries, there was lamentation, and, in place of a marriage, a funeral.
The King’s son was angry and grieved and wanted to drive Smallhead from the castle in some way.
“She is not to blame,” said the King of Munster, who did nothing but praise her.
Another year passed: the King got the daughter of the King of Connacht for his son. There was a great feast before the wedding day, and as the Connacht people are full of enchantment and witchcraft, the King of Munster called Smallhead and said:
“Now show the best trick of any.”
“I will,” said Smallhead.
When the feast was over and the Connacht men had shown their tricks the King of Munster called Smallhead.
She stood before the company, threw two grains of wheat on the floor, and spoke some magic words. There was a hen and a cock there before her of beautiful plumage; she threw a grain of wheat between them; the hen sprang to eat the wheat, the cock gave her a blow of his bill, the hen drew back, looked at him, and said:
“Bad luck to you, you wouldn’t do the like of that when I was serving the old hag and you her pig, and I made a man of you and gave you back your own form.”
The King’s son looked at her and thought, “There must be something in this.”
Smallhead threw a second grain. The cock pecked the hen again. “Oh,” said the hen, “you would not do that the day the hag’s sister was hunting us, and we two doves.”
The King’s son was still more astonished.
She threw a third grain. The cock struck the hen, and she said, “You would not do that to me the day I made two heather brooms out of you and myself.” She threw a fourth grain. The cock pecked the hen a fourth time. “You would not do that the day you promised not to let any living thing kiss you or kiss any one yourself but me – you let the hound kiss you and you forgot me.”
The King’s son made one bound forward, embraced and kissed Smallhead, and told the King his whole story from beginning to end.
“This is my wife,” said he; “I’ll marry no other woman.”
“Whose wife will my daughter be?” asked the King of Connacht.
“Oh, she will be the wife of the man who will marry her,” said the King of Munster, “my son gave his word to this woman before he saw your daughter, and he must keep it.”
So Smallhead married the King of Munster’s son.
The Wisdom of the King
W.B. Yeats
The High-Queen of the Island of Woods had died in childbirth, and her child was put to nurse with a woman who lived in a hut of mud and wicker, within the border of the wood. One night the woman sat rocking the cradle, and pondering over the beauty of the child, and praying that the gods might grant him wisdom equal to his beauty. There came a knock at the door, and she got up, not a little wondering, for the nearest neighbours were in the dun of the High-King a mile away; and the night was now late. “Who is knocking?” she cried, and a thin voice answered, “Open! for I am a crone of the grey hawk, and I come from the darkness of the great wood.” In terror she drew back the bolt, and a grey-clad woman, of a great age, and of a height more than human, came in and stood by the head of the cradle. The nurse shrank back against the wall, unable t
o take her eyes from the woman, for she saw by the gleaming of the firelight that the feathers of the grey hawk were upon her head instead of hair. But the child slept, and the fire danced, for the one was too ignorant and the other too full of gaiety to know what a dreadful being stood there. “Open!” cried another voice, “for I am a crone of the grey hawk, and I watch over his nest in the darkness of the great wood.” The nurse opened the door again, though her fingers could scarce hold the bolts for trembling, and another grey woman, not less old than the other, and with like feathers instead of hair, came in and stood by the first. In a little, came a third grey woman, and after her a fourth, and then another and another and another, until the hut was full of their immense bodies. They stood a long time in perfect silence and stillness, for they were of those whom the dropping of the sand has never troubled, but at last one muttered in a low thin voice: “Sisters, I knew him far away by the redness of his heart under his silver skin”; and then another spoke: “Sisters, I knew him because his heart fluttered like a bird under a net of silver cords “; and then another took up the word: “Sisters, I knew him because his heart sang like a bird that is happy in a silver cage.” And after that they sang together, those who were nearest rocking the cradle with long wrinkled fingers; and their voices were now tender and caressing, now like the wind blowing in the great wood, and this was their song:
“Out of sight is out of mind:
Long have man and woman-kind,
Heavy of will and light of mood,
Taken away our wheaten food,
Taken away our Altar stone;
Hail and rain and thunder alone,
And red hearts we turn to grey,
Are true till Time gutter away.”
When the song had died out, the crone who had first spoken, said: “We have nothing more to do but to mix a drop of our blood into his blood.” And she scratched her arm with the sharp point of a spindle, which she had made the nurse bring to her, and let a drop of blood, grey as the mist, fall upon the lips of the child; and passed out into the darkness. Then the others passed out in silence one by one; and all the while the child had not opened his pink eyelids or the fire ceased to dance, for the one was too ignorant and the other too full of gaiety to know what great beings had bent over the cradle.
Celtic Myths Page 50