by Bram Stoker
“What is coming?” I asked.
“The shtorm! Don’t ye see the way thim clouds is dhriftin’? Faix, but it’s fine times the ducks’ll be afther havin’ before many minutes is past!”
I did not heed his words much, for my thoughts were intent on the scene. We were rapidly descending the valley, and, as we got lower, the promontory seemed to take bolder shape, and was beginning to stand out as a round- topped hill of somewhat noble proportions. “Tell me, Andy,” I said, “what do they call the hill beyond?”
“The hill beyant there, is it? Well, now, they call the place Shleenanaher.”
“Then that is Shleenanaher Mountain?”
“Begor, it’s not. The mountain is called Knockcalltecrore. It’s Irish.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Faix, I believe it’s a short name for the Hill iv the Lost Goolden Crown.”
“And what is Shleenanaher, Andy?”
“Throth, it’s a bit iv a gap in the rocks beyant that they call Shleenanaher.”
“And what does that mean? It is Irish, I suppose?”
“Thrue for ye! Irish it is, an’ it manes ‘The Shnake’s Pass.’”
“Indeed! And can you tell me why it is so called?” “Begor, there’s a power iv raysons guv for callin’ it that. Wait till we get Jerry Scanlan or Bat Moynahan, beyant in Carnaclif! Sure they knows every laygend and shtory in the bar’ny, an’ll tell them all, av ye like. Whew! Musha, here it comes!”
Surely enough, it did come. The storm seemed to sweep through the valley in a single instant; the stillness changed to a roar, the air became dark with the clouds of drifting rain. It was like the bursting of a water-spout in volume, and came so quickly that I was drenched to the skin before I could throw my mackintosh round me. The mare seemed frightened at first; but Andy held her in with a steady hand and with comforting words, and after the first rush of the tempest she went on as calmly and steadily as hitherto, only shrinking a little at the lightning and the thunder.
The grandeur of that storm was something to remember. The lightning came in brilliant sheets that seemed to cleave the sky, and threw weird lights among the hills, now strange with black, sweeping shadows. The thunder broke with startling violence right over our heads, and flapped and buffeted from hill-side to hill-side, rolling and reverberating away into the distance, its farther voices being lost in the crash of each succeeding peal. On we went, through the driving storm, faster and faster; but the storm abated not a jot. Andy was too much occupied with his work to speak; and as for me, it took all my time to keep on the rocking and swaying car, and to hold my hat and mackintosh so as to shield myself as well as I could from the pelting storm. Andy seemed to be above all considerations of personal comfort. He turned up his coat collar, that was all, and soon he was as shiny as my own water-proof rug. Indeed, altogether, he seemed quite as well off as I was, or even better, for we were both as wet as we could be, and while I was painfully endeavouring to keep off the rain, he was free from all responsibility and anxiety of endeavour whatever. At length, as we entered on a long, straight stretch of level road, he turned to me and said: “Yer ‘an’r, it’s no kind iv use dhrivin’ like this all the way to Carnaclif. This shtorm’ll go on for hours. I know thim well up on these mountains, wid’ a nor’-aist wind blowin’. Wouldn’t it be betther for us to get shelther for a bit?” “Of course it would,” said I. “Try it at once. Where can you go?”
“There’s a place nigh at hand, yer ‘an’r, the Widdy Kelligan’s shebeen, at the cross-roads of Glennashaughlin: it’s quite contagious. Gee-up, ye ould corn-crake! hurry up to Widdy Kelligan’s.” It seemed almost as if the mare understood him and shared his wishes, for she started with increased speed down a lane-way that opened out a little on our left. In a few minutes we reached the cross-roads, and also the shebeen of Widow Kelligan, a low whitewashed thatched house, in a deep hollow between high banks in the south-western corner of the cross. Andy jumped down and hurried to the door.
“Here’s a sthrange gintleman, Widdy. Take care iv him,” he called out, as I entered. Before I had succeeded in closing the door behind me, he was unharnessing the mare, preparatory to placing her in the lean-to stable, built behind the house against the high bank.
Already the storm seemed to have sent quite an assemblage to Mrs. Kelligan’s hospitable shelter. A great fire of turf roared up the chimney, and round it stood, and sat, and lay a steaming mass of nearly a dozen people, men and women. The room was a large one, and the inglenook so roomy that nearly all those present found a place in it. The roof was black, rafters and thatch alike; quite a number of cocks and hens found shelter in the rafters at the end of the room. Over the fire was a large pot suspended on a wire, and there was a savoury and inexpressibly appetising smell of marked volume throughout the room of roasted herrings and whiskey punch.
As I came in all rose up, and I found myself placed in a warm seat close to the fire, while various salutations of welcome buzzed all around me. The warmth was most grateful, and I was trying to convey my thanks for the shelter and the welcome, and feeling very awkward over it, when, with a “God save all here!” Andy entered the room through the back door.
He was evidently a popular favourite, for there was a perfect rain of hearty expressions to him. He, too, was placed close to the fire, and a steaming jorum of punch placed in his hands — a similar one to that which had been already placed in my own. Andy lost no time in sampling that punch. Neither did I; and I can honestly say that if he enjoyed his more than I did mine, he must have had a very happy few minutes. He lost no time in making himself and all the rest comfortable.
“Hurroo!” said he. “Musha! but we’re just in time. Mother, is the herrin’s done? Up with the creel, and turn out the pitaties; they’re done, or me senses desaves me. Yer ‘an’r, we’re in the hoight iv good luck! Herrin’s it is, and it might have been only pitaties an’ point.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Oh, that is whin there is only wan herrin’ among a crowd — too little to give aich a taste, and so they put it in the middle and point the pitaties at it to give them a flaviour.”
All lent a hand with the preparation of supper. A great potato basket, which would hold some two hundred-weight, was turned bottom up, the pot was taken off the fire, and the contents turned out on it in a great steaming mass of potatoes. A handful of coarse salt was taken from a box and put on one side of the basket, and another on the other side. The herrings were cut in pieces, and a piece given to each — the dinner was served. There were no plates, no knives, forks, or spoons — no ceremony — no precedence — nor was there any heartburning, jealousy, or greed. A happier meal I never took a part in, nor did I ever enjoy food more. Such as it was, it was perfect. The potatoes were fine and cooked to perfection; we took them in our fingers, peeled them how we could, dipped them in the salt, and ate till we were satisfied.
During the meal several more strangers dropped in, and all reported the storm as showing no signs of abating. Indeed, little such assurance was wanting, for the fierce lash of the rain, and the howling of the storm as it beat on the face of the house, told the tale well enough for the meanest comprehension.
When dinner was over and the basket removed, we drew around the fire again, pipes were lit, a great steaming jug of punch made its appearance, and conversation became general. Of course, as a stranger, I came in for a good share of attention. Andy helped to make things interesting for me, and his statement, made by my request, that I hoped to be allowed to provide the punch for the evening, even increased his popularity, while it established mine. After calling attention to several matters which evoked local stories and jokes and anecdotes, he remarked: “His ‘an’r was axin’ me just afore the shtorm kem on as to why the Shleenanaher was called so. I tould him that none could tell him like Jerry Scanlan or Bat Moynahan, an’ here is the both of them, sure enough. Now, boys, won’t ye oblige the sthrange gintleman, an’ tell him what yez know iv the sh
tories anent the hill?” “Wid all the plisure in life,” said Jerry Scanlan, a tall man of middle age, with a long thin clean-shaven face, a humorous eye, and a shirt collar whose points in front came up almost to his eyes, while the back part disappeared into the depths of his frieze coat collar behind. “Begor, yer ‘an’r, I’ll tell ye all I iver heerd. Sure there’s a laygend, and there’s a shtory — musha! but there’s a wheen o’ both laygends and shtories — but there’s wan laygend beyant all — here, Mother Kelligan, fill up me glass, fur sorra one o’ me is a good dhry shpaker. Tell me, now, sor, do they allow punch to the Mimbers iv Parlymint whin they’re shpakin’?” I shook my head. “Musha! thin, but it’s meself they’ll niver git as a number till they alther that law! Thank ye, Mrs. Kelligan, this is just my shtyle. But now for the laygend that they tell of Shleenanaher.”
CHAPTER II
“Well, in the ould ancient times, before St. Pathrick banished the shnakes from out iv Ireland, the hill beyant was a mighty important place intirely. For more betoken, none other lived in it than the King iv the Shnakes himself. In thim times there was up at the top iv the hill a wee bit iv a lake wid threes and sedges and the like growin’ round it; and ‘twas there that the King iv the Shnakes made his nist — or whativer it is that shnakes calls their home. Glory be to God! but none us of knows anythin’ of them at all, at all, since Saint Pathrick tuk them in hand.”
Here an old man in the chimney corner struck in: “Thrue for ye, acushla; sure the bit lake is there still, though, more belike it’s dhry now, it is, and the threes is all gone.”
“Well,” went on Jerry, not ill-pleased with this corroboration of his story, “the King iv the Shnakes was mighty important, intirely. He was more nor tin times as big as any shnake as any man’s eyes had iver saw; an’ he had a goolden crown on to the top of his head, wid a big jool in it that tuk the colour iv the light, whether that same was from the sun or the moon; an’ all the shnakes had to take it in turns to bring food, and lave it for him in the cool iv the evenin’, whin he would come out and ate it up and go back to his own place. An’ they do say that whiniver two shnakes had a quarr’ll they had to come to the King, an’ he decided betune them; an’ he tould aich iv them where he was to live, and what he was to do. An’ wanst in ivery year there had to be brought to him a live baby; and they do say that he would wait until the moon was at the full, an’ thin would be heerd one wild wail that made every sowl widin miles shuddher, an’ thin there would be black silence, and clouds would come over the moon, and for three days it would never be seen agin.”
“Oh, glory be to God!” murmured one of the women, “but it was a terrible thing!” and she rocked herself to and fro, moaning, all the motherhood in her awake.
“But did none of the min do nothin’?” said a powerful- looking young fellow in the orange and green jersey of the Gaelic Athletic Club, with his eyes flashing; and he clinched his teeth.
“Musha! how could they? Sure, no man ever seen the King iv the Shnakes!”
“Thin how did they know about him?” he queried, doubtfully.
“Sure, wasn’t one of their childher tuk away iv’ ry year? But, anyhow, it’s all over now! an’ so it was that none iv the min iver wint. They do say that one woman what lost her child, run up to the top of the hill; but what she seen, none could tell, for whin they found her she was a ravin’ lunatic, wid white hair an’ eyes like a corpse — an’ the mornin’ afther they found her dead in her bed wid a black mark round her neck as if she had been choked, an’ the mark was in the shape iv a shnake. Well, there was much sorra and much fear, and whin St. Pathrick tuk the shnakes in hand the bonfires was lit all over the counthry. Never was such a flittin’ seen as whin the shnakes came from all parts wrigglin’ and crawlin’ an’ shkwirmin’.”
Here the narrator dramatically threw himself into an attitude, and with the skill of a true improvisatore, suggested in every pose and with every limb and in every motion the serpentine movements. “They all came away to the west, and seemed to come to this wan mountain. From the north and the south and the east they came be millions an’ thousands an’ hundhreds — for whin St. Pathrick ordhered them out he only tould them to go, but he didn’t name the place — an’ there was he up on top of Brandon Mountain, wid his vistments on to him an’ his crozier in his hand, and the shnakes movin’ below him, all goin’ up north, an’ sez he to himself: “‘I must see about this.’ An’ he got down from aff iv the mountain, and he folly’d the shnakes, and he see them move along to the hill beyant that they call Knockcalltecrore. An’ be this time they wor all come from all over Ireland, and they wor all round the mountain — exceptin’ on the say-side — an’ they all had their heads pointed up the hill, and their tails pointed to the Saint, so that they didn’t see him, an’ they all gave wan great hiss, an’ then another, an’ another, like wan, two, three! An’ at the third hiss the King iv the Shnakes rose up out of the wee fen at the top of the hill, wid his goold crown gleamin’; an’ more betoken it was harvest time, an’ the moon was up, an’ the sun was settin’, so the big jool in the crown had the light of both the sun an’ the moon, an’ it shone so bright that right away in Lensther the people thought the whole counthry was afire. But whin the Saint seen him, his whole forrum seemed to swell out an’ get bigger an’ bigger, an’ he lifted his crozier, an’ he pointed west, an’ sez he, in a voice like a shtorm, ‘To the say, all ye shnakes! At wanst! to the say!’
“An’ in the instant, wid wan movement, an’ wid a hiss that made the air seem full iv watherfalls, the whole iv the shnakes that was round the hill wriggled away into the say as if the fire was at their tails. There was so many iv them that they filled up the say out beyant to Cusheen Island, and them that was behind, had to shlide over their bodies. An’ the say piled up till it sent a wave mountains high rollin’ away across the Atlantic till it sthruck upon the shore iv America — though more betoken it wasn’t America thin, for it wasn’t discovered till long afther. An’ there was so many shnakes that they do say that all the white sand that dhrifts up on the coast from the Blaskets to Achill Head is made from their bones.” Here Andy cut in: “But, Jerry, you haven’t tould us if the King iv the Shnakes wint too.”
“Musha! but it’s in a hurry ye are. How can I tell ye the whole laygend at wanst; an’, moreover, when me mouth is that dhry I can hardly spake at all — an’ me punch is all dhrunk — ”
He turned his glass face down on the table, with an air of comic resignation. Mrs. Kelligan took the hint and refilled his glass while he went on:
“Well! whin the shnakes tuk to say-bathin’ an’ forgot to come in to dhry themselves, the ould King iv thim sunk down agin into the lake, an’ Saint Pathrick rowls his eyes, an’ sez he to himself: “‘Musha! is it dhramin’ I am, or what? or is it laughin’ at me he is? Does he mane to defy me?’ An’ seein’ that no notice was tuk iv him at all, he lifts his crozier, and calls out: “‘Hi! here! you! Come here! I want ye!’ As he spoke, Jerry went through all the pantomime of the occasion, exemplifying by every movement the speech of both the Saint and the Snake. “Well, thin the King iv the Shnakes puts up his head out iv the lake, an’ sez he: “‘Who calls?’ “‘I do,’ says St. Pathrick, an’ he was so much mulvathered at the Shnake presumin’ to sthay, afther he tould thim all to go that for a while he didn’t think it quare that he could sphake at all. “‘Well, what do ye want wid me?’ sez the Shnake. “‘I want to know why you didn’t lave Irish soil wid all th’ other Shnakes,’ sez the Saint. “‘Ye tould the Shnakes to go,’ sez the King, ‘an’ I am their King, so I am; and your wurrds didn’t apply to me!’ an’ with that he dhrops like a flash of lightnin’ into the lake again.
“Well! St. Pathrick was so tuk back wid his impidence that he had to think for a minit, an’ then he calls again: “‘Hi! here! you!’ “‘What do you want now?’ sez the King iv the Shnakes, again poppin’ up his head. “‘I want to know why you didn’t obey me ordhers?’ sez the Saint. An’ the King luked at him an’
laughed; and he looked mighty evil, I can tell ye, for be this time the sun was down and the moon up, an’ the jool in his crown threw out a pale cold light that would make you shuddher to see. ‘An’,’ says he, as slow an’ as hard as an attorney (saving your prisence) when he has a bad case: “‘I didn’t obey,’ sez he, ‘because I thraverse the jurisdiction.’ ‘“How do ye mane?’ asks St. Pathrick. “‘Because,’ sez he, ‘this is my own houldin’,’ sez he, ‘be perscriptive right,’ sez he. I’m the whole govermint here, and I put a nexeat on meself not to lave widout me own permission,’ and he ducks down agin into the pond. “Well, the Saint began to get mighty angry, an’ he raises his crozier, and he calls him agin: “‘Hi! here! you!’ and the Shnake pops up. ‘“Well! Saint, what do you want now? Amn’t I to be quit iv ye at all?’ “‘Are ye goin’, or are ye not?’ sez the Saint. “‘I’m King here, an’ I’m not goin’.’ “‘Thin,’ says the Saint, ‘I depose ye!’ “‘You can’t,’ sez the Shnake, ‘while I have me crown.’
“‘Then I’ll take it from ye,’ sez St. Pathrick. “‘Catch me first!’ sez the Shnake; an’ wid that he pops undher the wather, what began to bubble up and boil. Well, thin, the good Saint stood bewildhered, for as he was lukin’ the wather began to disappear out of the wee lake; and then the ground iv the hill began to be shaken as if the big Shnake was rushin’ round and round it down deep down undher the ground.
“So the Saint stood on the edge of the empty lake an’ held up his crozier, and called on the Shnake to come forth. And when he luked down, lo! an’ behold ye! there lay the King iv the Shnakes coiled round the bottom iv the lake, though how he had got there the Saint could niver tell, for he hadn’t been there when he began to summons him. Then the Shnake raised his head, and, lo! and behold ye! there was no crown onto it.