Irish Fairy and Folk Tales

by Edited

  “Sarah,” said he, at length, “I have long admonished you to repent of your evil ways, but you were deaf to my entreaties; and now, wretched woman, you are surprised in the midst of your crimes.”

  “Oh, father, father,” shouted the unfortunate woman, “can you do nothing to save me? I am lost; hell is open for me, and legions of devils surround me this moment, waiting to carry my soul to perdition.”

  The priest had not power to reply; the old wretch’s pains increased; her body swelled to an immense size; her eyes flashed as if on fire, her face was black as night, her entire form writhed in a thousand different contortions; her outcries were appalling, her face sunk, her eyes closed, and in a few minutes she expired in the most exquisite tortures.

  The priest departed homeward, and called at the next cabin to give notice of the strange circumstances. The remains of Sarah Kennedy were removed to her cabin, situated at the edge of a small wood at a little distance. She had long been a resident in that neighborhood, but still she was a stranger, and came there no one knew from whence. She had no relation in that country but one daughter, now advanced in years, who resided with her. She kept one cow, but sold more butter, it was said, than any farmer in the parish, and it was generally suspected that she acquired it by devilish agency, as she never made a secret of being intimately acquainted with sorcery and fairyism. She professed the Roman Catholic religion, but never complied with the practices enjoined by that church, and her remains were denied Christian sepulture, and were buried in a sand-pit near her own cabin.

  On the evening of her burial, the villagers assembled and burned her cabin to the earth. Her daughter made her escape, and never after returned.

  THE WITCH HARE

  MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL

  I was out thracking hares meeself, and I seen a fine puss of a thing hopping, hopping in the moonlight, and whacking her ears about, now up, now down, and winking her great eyes, and—“Here goes,” says I, and the thing was so close to me that she turned round and looked at me, and then bounced back, as well as to say, do your worst! So I had the least grain in life of blessed powder left, and I put it in the gun—and bang at her! My jewel, the scritch she gave would frighten a rigment, and a mist, like, came betwixt me and her, and I seen her no more; but when the mist wint off I saw blood on the spot where she had been, and I followed its track, and at last it led me—whist, whisper—right up to Katey MacShane’s door; and when I was at the thrashold, I heerd a murnin’ within, a great murnin’, and a groanin’, and I opened the door, and there she was herself, sittin’ quite content in the shape of a woman, and the black cat that was sittin’ by her rose up its back and spit at me; but I went on never heedin’, and asked the ould —– how she was and what ailed her.

  “Nothing,” sis she.

  “What’s that on the floor?” sis I.

  “Oh,” she says, “I was cuttin’ a billet of wood,” she says, “wid the reaping hook,” she says, “an’ I’ve wounded meself in the leg,” she says, “and that’s drops of my precious blood,” she says.

  BEWITCHED BUTTER (QUEEN’S COUNTY)*

  About the commencement of the last century there lived in the vicinity of the once famous village of Aghavoe† a wealthy farmer, named Bryan Costigan. This man kept an extensive dairy and a great many milch cows, and every year made considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter. The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighborhood has always been proverbial; and, consequently, Bryan’s cows were the finest and most productive in the country, and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and brought the highest price at every market at which he offered these articles for sale.

  Things continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan Costigan, when, one season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance, and his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this change to the weather, or some such cause, but soon found or fancied reasons to assign it to a far different source. The cows, without any visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to crawl about on their pasture; many of them, instead of milk, gave nothing but blood; and the scanty quantity of milk which some of them continued to supply was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink it; while the butter which it produced was of such a bad quality, and stunk so horribly, that the very dogs would not eat it. Bryan applied for remedies to all the quacks and “fairy-women” in the country—but in vain. Many of the imposters declared that the mysterious malady in his cattle went beyond their skill; while others, although they found no difficulty in tracing it to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in the matter, as the charm under the influence of which his property was made away with, was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special interposition of Divine Providence. The poor farmer became almost distracted; he saw ruin staring him in the face; yet what was he to do? Sell his cattle and purchase others! No; that was out of the question, as they looked so miserable and emaciated that no one would even take them as a present, while it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the flesh of one which he killed for his own family was as black as a coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.

  The unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what to do; he became moody and stupid; his sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered about the fields, among his “fairy-stricken” cattle like a maniac.

  Affairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry evening in the latter days of July, Bryan Costigan’s wife was sitting at her own door, spinning at her wheel, in a very gloomy and agitated state of mind. Happening to look down the narrow green lane which led from the high road to her cabin, she espied a little old woman barefoot, and enveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly, with the aid of a crutch which she carried in one hand, and a cane or walking-stick in the other. The farmer’s wife felt glad at seeing the odd-looking stranger; she smiled, and yet she knew not why, as she neared the house. A vague and indefinable feeling of pleasure crowded on her imagination; and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade her “welcome” with a warmth which plainly told that her lips gave utterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart.

  “God bless this good house and all belonging to it,” said the stranger as she entered.

  “God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever you are,” replied Mrs. Costigan.

  “Hem, I thought so,” said the old woman with a significant grin. “I thought so, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”

  The farmer’s wife ran, and placed a chair near the fire for the stranger, but she refused, and sat on the ground near where Mrs. C. had been spinning. Mrs. Costigan had now time to survey the old hag’s person minutely. She appeared of great age; her countenance was extremely ugly and repulsive; her skin was rough and deeply embrowned as if from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate; her forehead was low, narrow, and indented with a thousand wrinkles; her long gray hair fell in matted elf-locks from beneath a white linen skull cap; her eyes were bleared, blood-sotten, and obliquely set in their sockets, and her voice was croaking, tremulous, and, at times, partially inarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked round the house with an inquisitive gaze; she peered pryingly from corner to corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she had the faculty, like the Argonaut of old, to see through the very depths of the earth, while Mrs. C. kept watching her motions with mingled feelings of curiosity, awe, and pleasure.

  “Mrs.,” said the old woman, at length breaking silence, “I am dry with the heat of the day: can you give me a drink?”

  “Alas!” replied the farmer’s wife, “I have no drink to offer you except water, else you would have no occasion to ask me for it.”

  “Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder?” said the old hag, with a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly indicated her foreknowledge of the fact.

  Mrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly related to her every circumstance connected with
the affair, while the old woman still remained silent, but shook her gray head repeatedly; and still continued gazing round the house with an air of importance and self-sufficiency.

  When Mrs. C. had ended, the old hag remained a while as if in a deep reverie; at length she said:

  “Have you any of the milk in the house?”

  “I have,” replied the other.

  “Show me some of it.”

  She filled a jug from a vessel and handed it to the old sybil, who smelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she had taken on the floor.

  “Where is your husband?” she asked.

  “Out in the fields,” was the reply.

  “I must see him.”

  A messenger was despatched for Bryan, who shortly after made his appearance.

  “Neighbor,” said the stranger, “your wife informs me that your cattle are going against you this season.”

  “She informs you right,” said Bryan.

  “And why have you not sought a cure?”

  “A cure!” re-echoed the man; “why, woman, I have sought cures until I was heart-broken, and all in vain; they get worse every day.”

  “What will you give me if I cure them for you?”

  “Anything in our power,” replied Bryan and his wife, both speaking joyfully, and with a breath.

  “All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that you will do everything which I will bid you,” said she.

  The farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the moderation of her demand. They offered her a large sum of money.

  “No,” said she, “I don’t want your money; I am no cheat, and I would not even take sixpence, but that I can do nothing till I handle some of your silver.”

  The sixpence was immediately given her, and the most implicit obedience promised to her injunctions by both Bryan and his wife, who already began to regard the old beldame as their tutelary angel.

  The hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or filet which encircled her head inside her cap, and gave it to Bryan, saying:

  “Go, now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon, turn her into the yard, but be sure don’t touch the second, nor speak a word until you return; be also careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground, for, if you do, all is over.”

  Bryan took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned, driving a red cow before him.

  The old hag went out, and, approaching the cow, commenced pulling hairs out of her tail, at the same time singing some verse in the Irish language, in a low, wild, and unconnected strain. The cow appeared restive and uneasy, but the old witch still continued her mysterious chant until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered the cow to be drove back to her pasture, and again entered the house.

  “Go, now,” said she to the woman, “and bring me some milk from every cow in your possession.”

  She went, and soon returned with a large pail filled with a frightful-looking mixture of milk, blood, and corrupt matter. The old woman got it into the churn, and made preparations for churning.

  “Now,” she said, “you both must churn, make fast the door and windows, and let there be no light but from the fire; do not open your lips until I desire you, and by observing my directions, I make no doubt but, ere the sun goes down, we will find out the infernal villain who is robbing you.”

  Bryan secured the doors and windows, and commenced churning. The old sorceress sat down by a blazing fire which had been specially lighted for the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she had sung at the pulling of the cow hairs, and after a little time she cast one of the nine hairs into the fire, still singing her mysterious strain, and watching, with intense interest, the witching process.

  A loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard approaching the house; the old witch discontinued her incantations, and listened attentively. The crying voice approached the door.

  “Open the door quickly,” shouted the charmer.

  Bryan unbarred the door, and all three rushed out in the yard, when they heard the same cry down the boreheen, but could see nothing.

  “It is all over,” shouted the old witch; “something has gone amiss, and our charm for the present is ineffectual.”

  They now turned back quite crestfallen, when, as they were entering the door, the sybil cast her eyes downward, and perceiving a piece of horseshoe nailed on the threshold,* she vociferated:

  “Here I have it; no wonder our charm was abortive. The person that was crying abroad is the villain who has your cattle bewitched; I brought her to the house, but she was not able to come to the door on account of that horseshoe. Remove it instantly, and we will try our luck again.”

  Bryan removed the horseshoe from the doorway, and by the hag’s directions placed it on the floor under the churn, having previously reddened it in the fire.

  They again resumed their manual operations. Bryan and his wife began to churn, and the witch again to sing her strange verses, and casting her cow-hairs into the fire until she had them all nearly exhausted. Her countenance now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and disappointment. She got quite pale, her teeth gnashed, her hand trembled, and as she cast the ninth and last hair into the fire, her person exhibited more the appearance of a female demon than of a human being.

  Once more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired woman* was seen approaching the house quickly.

  “Ho, ho!” roared the sorceress, “I knew it would be so; my charm has succeeded; my expectations are realized, and here she comes, the villain who has destroyed you.”

  “What are we to do now?” asked Bryan.

  “Say nothing to her,” said the hag; “give her whatever she demands, and leave the rest to me.”

  The woman advanced screeching vehemently, and Bryan went out to meet her. She was a neighbor, and she said that one of her best cows was drowning in a pool of water—that there was no one at home but herself, and she implored Bryan to go rescue the cow from destruction.

  Bryan accompanied her without hesitation; and having rescued the cow from her perilous situation, was back again in a quarter of an hour.

  It was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing supper.

  During supper they reverted to the singular transactions of the day. The old witch uttered many a fiendish laugh at the success of her incantations, and inquired who was the woman whom they had so curiously discovered.

  Bryan satisfied her in every particular. She was the wife of a neighboring farmer; her name was Rachel Higgins; and she had been long suspected to be on familiar terms with the spirit of darkness. She had five or six cows; but it was observed by her sapient neighbors that she sold more butter every year than other farmers’ wives who had twenty. Bryan had, from the commencement of the decline in his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor, but as he had no proof, he held his peace.

  “Well,” said the old beldame, with a grim smile, “it is not enough that we have merely discovered the robber; all is in vain, if we do not take steps to punish her for the past, as well as to prevent her inroads for the future.”

  “And how will that be done?” said Bryan.

  “I will tell you; as soon as the hour of twelve o’clock arrives to-night, do you go to the pasture, and take a couple of swift-running dogs with you; conceal yourself in some place convenient to the cattle; watch them carefully; and if you see anything, whether man or beast, approach the cows, set on the dogs, and if possible make them draw the blood of the intruder; then all will be accomplished. If nothing approaches before sunrise, you may return, and we will try something else.”

  Convenient there lived the cowherd of a neighboring squire. He was a hardy, courageous young man, and always kept a pair of very ferocious bulldogs. To him Bryan applied for assistance, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and, moreover, proposed to fetch a couple of his master’s best grayhounds, as his own dogs, although extremely fierce and bloodthirsty, could not be relied on for swiftness. He promised Bryan to be wit
h him before twelve o’clock, and they parted.

  Bryan did not seek sleep that night; he sat up anxiously awaiting the midnight hour. It arrived at last, and his friend, the herdsman, true to his promise, came at the time appointed. After some further admonitions from the Collough, they departed. Having arrived at the field, they consulted as to the best position they could choose for concealment. At last they pitched on a small brake of fern, situated at the extremity of the field, adjacent to the boundary ditch, which was thickly studded with large, old white-thorn bushes. Here they crouched themselves, and made the dogs, four in number, lie down beside them, eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown and mysterious visitor.

  Here Bryan and his comrade continued a considerable time in nervous anxiety, still nothing approached, and it became manifest that morning was at hand; they were beginning to grow impatient, and were talking of returning home, when on a sudden they heard a rushing sound behind them, as if proceeding from something endeavoring to force a passage through the thick hedge in their rear. They looked in that direction, and judge of their astonishment, when they perceived a large hare in the act of springing from the ditch, and leaping on the ground quite near them. They were now convinced that this was the object which they had so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to watch her motions narrowly.