The Amadan thanked her, parted with her, and traveled away and away before him until he reached the hill which she had told him of. And when he came there, he saw a great cloud that shot out of the sky, descending on the hill, and when it came down on the hill and melted away, there it left the Beggarman of the King of Sweden standing, and between his legs the Amadan saw the whole world and nothing over his head.
And with a roar and a run the beggarman made for the Amadan, and the roar of him rattled the stars in the sky. He asked the Amadan who he was, and what he had done to have the impudence to come there and meet him.
The Amadan said: “They call me the Amadan of the Dough, and I have killed Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks and her four badachs, the Black Bull of the Brown Wood, and the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls, and before night I’ll have killed the Beggarman of the King of Sweden.”
“That you never will, you miserable object,” says the beggarman. “You’re going to die now, and I’ll give you your choice to die either by a hard squeeze of wrestling or a stroke of the sword.”
“Well,” says the Amadan, “if I have to die, I’d sooner die by a stroke of the sword.”
“All right,” says the beggarman, and drew his sword.
But the Amadan drew his sword at the same time, and both went to it. And if his fights before had been hard, this one was harder and greater and more terrible than the others put together. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and, all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight. And at length the fight was putting so hard upon the beggarman, and he was getting so weak, that he whistled, and the mist came around him, and he went up into the sky before the Amadan knew. He remained there until he refreshed himself and then came down again, and at it again he went for the Amadan, and fought harder and harder than before, and again it was putting too hard on him, and he whistled as before for the mist to come down and take him up.
But the Amadan remembered what the red woman had warned him; he gave one leap into the air, and coming down, drove the sword through the beggarman’s heart, and the beggarman fell dead. But before he died he put geasa on the Amadan to meet and fight the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.
The Amadan rubbed his wounds with the iocshlainte, and he was as fresh and hale as when he began the fight; and then he set out, and when night was falling, he reached the hut that had no shelter within or without, only one feather over it, and the rough, red woman was standing in the door.
Right glad she was to see the Amadan coming back alive, and she welcomed him right heartily, and asked him the news.
He told her that he had killed the beggarman, and said he was now under geasa to meet and fight the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.
“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry for you, for no one ever before went to meet the Silver Cat and came back alive. But,” she says, “you’re both tired and hungry; come in and rest and sleep.”
So in the Amadan went, and had a hearty supper and a soft bed; and in the morning she called him up early, and she gave him directions where to meet the cat and how to find it, and she told him there was only one vital spot on that cat, and it was a black speck on the bottom of the cat’s stomach, and unless he could happen to run his sword right through this, the cat would surely kill him. She said:
“My poor Amadan, I’m very much afraid you’ll not come back alive. I cannot go to help you myself or I would; but there is a well in my garden, and by watching that well I will know how the fight goes with you. While there is honey on top of the well, I will know you are getting the better of the cat; but if the blood comes on top, then the cat is getting the better of you; and if the blood stays there, I will know, my poor Amadan, that you are dead.”
The Amadan bade her good-by, and set out to travel to where the Seven Glens met at the sea. Here there was a precipice, and under the precipice a cave. In this cave the Silver Cat lived, and once a day she came out to sun herself on the rocks.
The Amadan let himself down over the precipice by a rope, and he waited until the cat came out to sun herself.
When the cat came out at twelve o’clock and saw the Amadan, she let a roar out of her that drove back the waters of the sea and piled them up a quarter of a mile high, and she asked him who he was and how he had the impudence to come there to meet her.
The Amadan said: “They call me the Amadan of the Dough, and I have killed Slat Mor, Slat Marr, Slat Beag, the Cailliach of the Rocks and her four badachs, the Black Bull of the Brown Woods, the White Wether of the Hill of the Waterfalls, and the Beggarman of the King of Sweden, and before night I will have killed the Silver Cat of the Seven Glens.”
“That you never will,” says she, “for a dead man you will be yourself.” And at him she sprang.
But the Amadan raised his sword and struck at her, and both of them fell to the fight, and a great, great fight they had. They made the hard ground into soft, and the soft into spring wells; they made the rocks into pebbles, and the pebbles into gravel, and the gravel fell over the country like hailstones. All the birds of the air from the lower end of the world to the upper end of the world, and all the wild beasts and tame from the four ends of the earth, came flocking to see the fight; and if the fights that the Amadan had had on the other days were great and terrible, this one was far greater and far more terrible than all the others put together, and the poor Amadan sorely feared that before night fell he would be a dead man.
The red woman was watching at the well in her garden, and she was sorely distressed, for though at one time the honey was uppermost, at another time it was all blood, and again the blood and the honey would be mixed; so she felt bad for the poor Amadan.
At length the blood and the honey got mixed again, and it remained that. way until night; so she cried, for she believed the Amadan himself was dead as well as the Silver Cat.
And so he was. For when the fight had gone on for long and long, the cat, with a great long nail which she had in the end of her tail, tore him open from his mouth to his toes; and as she tore the Amadan open and he was about to fall, she opened her mouth so wide that the Amadan saw down to the very bottom of her stomach, and there he saw the black speck that the red woman had told him of. And just before he dropped he drove his sword through this spot, and the Silver Cat, too, fell over dead.
It was not long now till the red woman arrived at the place and found both the Amadan and the cat lying side by side dead. At this the poor woman was frantic with sorrow, but suddenly she saw by the Amadan’s side the bottle of iocshlainte and the feather. She took them up and rubbed the Amadan with the iocshlainte, and he jumped to his feet alive and well, and fresh as when he began the fight.
He smothered her with kisses and drowned her with tears. He took the red woman with him, and set out on his journey back, and traveled and traveled on and on till he came to the Castle of Fire.
Here he met the three young princes, who were now living happily with no giants to molest them. They had one sister, the most beautiful young maiden that the Amadan had ever beheld. They gave her to the Amadan in marriage, and gave her half of all they owned for fortune.
The marriage lasted nine days and nine nights. There were nine hundred fiddlers, nine hundred fluters, and nine hundred pipers, and the last day and night of the wedding were better than the first.
Conal and Donal and Taig
ONCE there were three brothers named Conal, Donal and Taig, and they fell out regarding which of them owned a field of land. One of them had as good a claim to it as the other, and the claims of all of them were so equal that none of the judges, whomsoever they went before, could decide in favor of one more than the other.
At length they went to one judge who was very wise indee
d and had a great name, and every one of them stated his case to him.
He sat on the bench, and heard Conal’s case and Donal’s case and Taig’s case all through, with very great patience. When the three of them had finished, he said he would take a day and a night to think it all over, and on the day after, When they were all called into court again, the Judge said that he had weighed the evidence on all sides, with all the deliberation it was possible to give it, and he decided that one of them hadn’t the shadow of a shade of a claim more than the others, so that he found himself facing the greatest puzzle he had ever faced in his life.
“But,” says he, “no puzzle puzzles me long. I’ll very soon decide which of you will get the field. You seem to me to be three pretty lazy-looking fellows, and I’ll give the field to whichever of the three of you is the laziest.”
“Well, at that rate,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field, for I’m the laziest man of the lot.”
“How lazy are you?” says the Judge.
“Well,” said Conal, “if I were lying in the middle of the road, and there was a regiment of troopers come galloping down it, I’d sooner let them ride over me than take the bother of getting up and going to the one side.”
“Well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a lazy man surely, and I doubt if Donal or Taig can be as lazy as that.”
“Oh, faith,” says Donal, “I’m just every bit as lazy.”
“Are you ?” says the Judge. “How lazy are you?”
“Well,” said Donal, “if I was sitting right close to a big fire, and you piled on it all the turf in a townland and all the wood in a barony, sooner than have to move I’d sit there till the boiling marrow would run out of my bones.”
“Well,” says the Judge, “you’re a pretty lazy man, Donal, and I doubt if Taig is as lazy as either of you.”
“Indeed, then,” says Taig, “I’m every bit as lazy.”
“How can that be ?” says the Judge.
“Well,” says Taig, “if I was lying on the broad of my back in the middle of the floor and looking up at the rafters, and if soot drops were falling as thick as hailstones from the rafters into my open eyes, I would let them drop there for the length of the lee-long day sooner than take the bother of closing the eyes.”
“Well,” says the Judge, “that’s very wonderful entirely, and” says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as before, for I see you are the three laziest men that ever were known since the world began, and which of you is the laziest it certainly beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, “I’ll give the field to the oldest man of you.”
“Then,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field.”
“How is that ?” says the Judge; “how old are you ?”
“Well, I’m that old,” says Conal, “that when I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of awls and never lost nor broke one of them, and I wore out the last of them yesterday mending my shoes.”
“Well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “you’re surely an old man, and I doubt very much that Donal and Taig can catch up to you.”
“Can’t I?” says Donal; “take care of that.”
“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you ?”
“When I was twenty-one years of age,” says Donal, “I got a shipload of needles, and yesterday I wore out the last of them mending my clothes.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he “you’re two very, very old men, to be sure, and I’m afraid poor Taig is out of his chance anyhow.”
“Take care of that,” says Taig.
“Why,” said the Judge, “how old are you, Taig ?”
Says Taig, “When I was twenty-one years of age I got a shipload of razors, and yesterday I had the last of them worn to a stump shaving myself.”
“Well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ve often heard tell of old men,” he says, “but anything as old as what you three are never was known since Methusalem’s cat died. The like of your ages,” he says, “I never heard tell of, and which of you is the oldest, that surely beats me to decide, and I’m in a quandary again. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says the Judge, says he, “I’ll give the field to whichever of you minds [remembers] the longest.”
“Well, if that’s it,” says Conal, “it’s me gets the field, for I mind the time when if a man tramped on a cat he usen’t to give it a kick to console it.”
“Well, well, well,”says the Judge, “that must be a long mind entirely; and I’m afraid, Conal, you have the field.”
“Not so quick,” says Donal, says he, “for I mind the time when a woman wouldn’t speak an ill word of her best friend.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, “your memory, Donal, must certainly be a very wonderful one, if you can mind that time. Taig,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m afraid your memory can’t compare with Conal’s and Donal’s.”
“Can’t it,” says Taig, says he. “Take care of that, for I mind the time when you wouldn’t find nine liars in a crowd of ten men.”
“Oh, Oh, Oh!” says theJudge, says he, “that memory of yours, Taig, must be a wonderful one.” Says he “Such memories as you three men have were never known before, and which of you has the greatest memory it beats me to say. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do now,” says he; “I’ll give the field to whichever of you has the keenest sight.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “it’s me gets the field; because,” says he, “if there was a fly perched on the top of yon mountain, ten miles away, I could tell you every time he blinked.”
“You have wonderful sight, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “and I’m afraid you’ve got the field.”
“Take care,” says Donal, says he, “but I’ve got as good. For I could tell you whether it was a mote in his eye that made him blink or not.”
“Ah, ha, ha!” says the Judge, says he, “this is wonderful sight surely. Taig,” says he, “I pity you, for you have no chance for the field now.”
“Have I not?” says Taig. “I could tell you from here whether that fly was in good health or not by counting his heart beats.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “I’m in as great a quandary as ever. You are three of the most wonderful men that ever I met, and no mistake. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” says he; “I’ll give the field to the supplest man of you.”
“Thank you,” says Conal. “Then the field is mine.”
“Why so?” says the Judge.
“Because,” says Conal, says he, “if you filled that field with hares, and put a dog in the middle of them, and then tied one of my legs up my back, I would not let one of the hares get out.”
“Then, Conal,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the field is yours.”
“By the leave of your judgeship, not yet,” says Donal.
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are not as supple as that?”
“Am I not ?” says Donal. “Do you see that old castle over there without door, or window, or roof in it, and the wind blowing in and out through it like an iron gate ?”
“I do,” says the Judge. “What about that?”
“Well,” says Donal, says he, “if on the stormiest day of the year you had that castle filled with feathers, I would not let a feather be lost, or go ten yards from the castle until I had caught and put it in again.”
“Well, surely,” says the Judge, says he, “you are a supple man, Donal, and no mistake. Taig,” says he, “there’s no chance for you now.”
“Don’t be too sure,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, “you couldn’t surely do anything to equal these things, Taig?”
Says Taig, says he: “I can shoe the swiftest race-horse in the land when he is galloping at his topmost speed, by driving a nail every time he lifts his foot.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “surely you are the three most wonderful men that ever I did meet. The l
ikes of you never was known before, and I suppose the likes of you will never be on the earth again. There is only one other trial,” says he, “and if this doesn’t decide, I’ll have to give it up. I’ll give the field,” says he, “to the cleverest man amongst you.”
“Then,” says Conal, says he, “you may as well give it to me at once.”
“Why? Are you that clever, Conal?” says the Judge, says he.
“I am that clever,” says Conal, “I am that clever, that I would make a skin-fit suit of clothes for a man without any more measurement than to tell me the color of his hair.”
“Then, boys,” says the Judge, says he, “I think the case is decided.”
“Not so quick, my friend,” says Donal, “not so quick.”
“Why, Donal,” says the Judge, says he, “you are surely not cleverer than that?”
“Am I not?” says Donal.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “what can you do, Donal?”
“Why,” says Donal, says he, “I would make a skin-fit suit for a man and give me no more measurement than let me hear him cough.”
“Well, well, well,” says the Judge, says he, “the cleverness of you two boys beats all I ever heard of. Taig,” says he, “poor Taig, whatever chance either of these two may have for the field, I’m very, very sorry for you, for you have no chance.”
“Don’t be so very sure of that,” says Taig, says he.
“Why,” says the Judge, says he, “surely, Taig, you can’t be as clever as either of them. How clever are you, Taig?”
“Well,” says Taig, says he, “if I was a judge, and too stupid to decide a case that came up before me, I’d be that clever that I’d look wise and give some decision.”
Donegal Fairy Tales Page 3