“I did,” he said, “but you’ll have to go back.”
The curate and the servant boy walked nine or ten more steps, anyway. And the curate made a hoop of his hand, with his fingers on his hip, and he said to the servant boy, “Look out there and you won’t be long going back.”
The servant boy looked out through the hoop of the curate’s hand and saw the five-acre field nearest ’em was full o’ the finest people he ever seen in his life!
“Who’re them?” says he to the curate.
“Them are the fallen angels,” says the curate.
They had a human form, no wings. God took the wings off of ’em after Lucifer rebelled—that way they couldn’t go back, d’you see. They had no wings. But there was so many of ’em that you couldn’t drive a knife down between ’em. They were as thick as hair on a dog’s back. They were the finest people he ever seen. And whatever way he looked at ’em, some o’ the finest girls he ever seen was in it, he said. They had to be good-looking, you know! ’Twas the sin o’ pride put Lucifer down, d’you see. The best-looking angel in Heaven, ’twas the sin o’ pride put him down. I s’pose they were nearly all as good-looking.
But that was all right, anyway. The curate went on alone another bit until he came to a place where there was a little bridge crossing the road—ciseachs they’re called here in west Clare, these small little gullets or bridges. But this man, a fine-looking man, stopped him there.
“I have a question for you, Father,” says he. Oh, he styled him; he called him “Father.” He had respect for the cloth.
“I have a question for you.”
“What is it?” says the curate. “I’ll answer it if I can.”
“Will the fallen angels,” he said, “ever be saved?”
Begod, the curate had his mouth half open to answer him, to tell him they wouldn’t by all accounts—they won’t you know—but he was lucky he didn’t. Something tempted him to say, “I’ll be here at this very place tomorrow night. I’m a man to my word,” says he, “and I’ll have a look at the good books tomorrow, and I’ll have an answer for ye,” he said.
Okay. They let him go, but they were very disappointed. He was going out along the road now, and they were very disappointed, but no one of ’em ever left a hand on him.
That was all right, anyway. He went home, went to bed. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he’d think about sleeping, this five-acre field’d come before him, and it full o’ fallen angels.
At that time there was none o’ these tablets, now, these sleeping tablets or any o’ these things; the only cure they had was to walk three times around the room backwards, and you might sleep. It used to work in some cases. The curate tried it before and it worked, but this night, mind you, ’twouldn’t work. ’Twouldn’t work at all. He was turning and twisting all night, but no sleep.
He got up early in the morning. ’Twas his morning to say Mass, and he went out and looked after the horse—brushed and settled him, gave him water, and brought in an armful of hay to him. After that he went out and dressed himself for Mass. He said Mass, anyway, and he came in again. And the servant girl had the breakfast ready for him. He told her not to prepare any dinner for him, that he wouldn’t be around. He didn’t tell her where he was going or anything.
He put the saddle on the horse again and rode down the street o’ Miltown and out the Ennis road, on east Cloonanaha, into Inagh, down Kilnamona, and into Ennis. And he turned in the bishop’s gate.
The bishop that was in Ennis that time had a couple o’ hundred acres o’ land, and he used to keep a lot o’ cattle and milk cows and everything. He had three or four men working for him. One of ’em took the curate’s horse, anyway, and put him up, and he went in to the bishop. The bishop had a terrible welcome for him, a great welcome. And they talked away for a start.
“You just came at the right time,” says the bishop, and he told the servant girl to bring in two dinners. She did, and the curate, after riding a horse down from Miltown, had a fair stroke.
They went to eat, anyway, but faith, the bishop had a good stroke, too. And about halfway through the dinner the curate told him the story, what happened to him last night.
“What answer did you give him?” says the bishop.
“I gave ’em no answer at all till I’d see you.”
“Well, you’re a smart man,” says he. “And a lucky man. If you told ’em the truth,” he said—I s’pose the truth is they’ll never be saved—“they’d rip you from ear to ear,” he said. “D’you get the papers?” he said to the curate.
“Well, I don’t get every day’s paper,” says the curate, “but if I was down the town I’d buy a paper.”
“Well,” says the bishop, “there was a man killed above in south Armagh, in Forkhill. He went out on a sick-call with a bicycle. He was found on the road dead and the bicycle thrown against the wall. He was destroyed,” he said. “Another parish priest down in Cork,” says he, “he went out the same night on a sick-call, and the same story, the same thing happened him. The pony was found grazing over the lockspit2 o’ the road, and the parish priest was found farther and he destroyed. You’re a smart man. There’s only one answer to that question,” says the bishop, “and I’ll tell you.”
And he did tell him.
After a start, anyway, the bishop lit the pipe. And that time, when you’d fill the pipe you’d hand it around till it’d be empty. They used to generally rub it to the sleeve o’ their coat. I often saw it. They’d hand it to the next person, hand it around till it’d be empty. ’Twas a common practice at the time. The bishop, I s’pose, was from the country himself and he knew it. He handed it to the curate, and the curate took a good smoke out of it, and he said he’d leave for Miltown.
And he had the answer. He went out, anyway, put the saddle on the horse again, and he hit out for Miltown. The same story—up into Inagh, hither along to the Five Crosses, and on to Miltown.
He landed in good time and the servant girl had the supper ready for him. He ate it. And he told her to call him at eleven o’clock, and he went to bed.
The same story again. No sleep. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he’d think about sleeping, he’d see this five-acre field out in front of him, full o’ these people, the fallen angels. He couldn’t sleep.
About eleven o’clock, anyway—he had to be there about twelve—he tackled his horse, went in the saddle again, put his horse in the same stable, and walked in the road. The night before ’twas coming out he was, but ’twas going in he was this night. No man ever said a word to him. But, talk o’ people! There was a three-acre field near him and ’twas full o’ the same people. They were along the tops o’ walls and everything. He had only just room to walk up the road.
No man ever said a word to him until he landed at the water again. And the same story again. But when the man asked him, “Will the fallen angels ever be saved?” he gave ’em the bishop’s answer.
“That won’t be known till the end o’ time, till the Last Day.”
Well, d’you see, ’twasn’t a yes or no answer. He kept ’em in hope, anyway. They never rose a hand to him, or done a bit o’ harm to him. But they were disappointed, and wicked-looking.
He walked out the road again, anyway, and he went home and slept that night. But that isn’t the end o’ the story. The bishop o’ the diocese o’ Killaloe—and that goes down to Tipperary, and some parts of it goes up to Longford, I’m told—he sent for one priest out of every parish in the diocese. And the idea of it was, d’you see, to tell ’em how to answer the fallen angels if they ever met ’em.
And there was never, as far as I heard, a priest killed in the diocese o’ Killaloe ever since with the fallen angels.
That’s the way the story goes.
This story, which was told to me in west Clare, within sight of the Atlantic Ocean, by one of the best and last of the great traditional storytellers of that area, is useful for the distinctions it makes between several categories of otherworldly creatures t
hat are very often confused in Irish folklore.
But it is far more than that, of course, as is obvious from how it is told. It is, in fact, pure drama: gripping, compelling stuff, that takes us into the world of these strange beings and shows us life from their perspective, a lonely exile of frustrated waiting that makes them potentially deadly to meet for the unwary or slow-witted traveler by night, particularly during that most dangerous of months, November, traditionally regarded as the month of the dead in Ireland.
As in so much Irish lore the priest figures largely, but in this case his knowledge places him in a position where his spiritual power may avail him little against the forces of the dark. It is verbal ambiguity that protects him, rather than any holiness.
“But the fairies, o’ course, to do anything right, they had to have one live person, d’you see. An’ they’d sweep ’em. Any wedding, or any wake, or any big football match, they used say that they’d have to have one live person to carry it out right.”
MILTOWN MALBAY, JANUARY 17, 1999
A Fairy Funeral
WHEN I WAS about nineteen years old, now, I came home one night about one o’ clock, and my father sent me up to the back o’ the hill to have a look at a cow that was on the point o’ calving. I went up, anyway. ’Twas a grand night in the month o’ May. There was a kind o’ frost in it, a dew. And that time there was corncrakes, and you’d love to hear ’em on a soft night like that.
I looked at this cow, anyway, and I felt her bones and I looked at her udder, and I knew she wouldn’t calve that night. She was grazing out along with the cows.
And I was coming back—I often came out o’ this field fifty times a day. I knew where the stile was and everything. But I s’pose I missed the step. I couldn’t get it, anyway, and I knew for a finish that I was going astray. I was going around in circles; I knew well.
But ’twas the old plan, if you were going astray, to turn your coat inside out. I s’pose the idea o’ that is the brain’d be gone inside out and by turning the coat you might bring yourself back. I done it, but it didn’t bring me back.
I went on, anyway, and I was going around for, I s’pose, a couple of hours, and I saw a light. I thought ’twas someone at the back o’ the hill that was up with a cow calving or a mare foaling—’twas that time o’ the year, in the month o’ May. I made for the light, anyway, and when I came into the yard ’twas a long thatched house. I knew by the look of it ’twasn’t any house around. And I was passing the window, and whatever look I gave, I saw a big crowd inside. The door was open, anyway. I went in. And when I went in, the house was full. And there was a girl of about twenty years, a grand-looking girl, inside in this coffin in the middle o’ the floor.
I knew it was a wake by the looks o’ things and I went over and said a few prayers, but I didn’t shake hands to anyone, for I knew no one.
I went back over by the wall, anyway, and ’twas like any wake, now, boys and girls. There was only four or five small little wizened, withered people that was right fairies, I thought, in it. The rest of ’em, I s’pose, was people that was swept3 sometime or another, d’you see?
I went over by the wall, anyway, and I started talking to a couple o’ lads that was near me, and spoke about the weather, and cuttin’ turf. They knew it as well as me. We spoke about football matches and things like that, and they seemed to know what I was talking about.
The porter came around, anyway, and I took a drink o’ porter. And the pipes came around, but I never smoked a pipe. I didn’t take any pipe. The snuff came around. I took a sweep o’ the snuff.
That was all right, anyway. They were calling us down to the supper, below in the room. And I was good and hungry now. And you could smell the baker’s bread and the fresh tea and jam and everything.
But the girl near me told me, “Drink all the porter you get, or smoke all you get, and take the snuff, but don’t take a bite with ’em. If you eat one bite with ’em, they have you. That’s how they trapped me,” she said.
I was on my guard then.
They went round the house and brought ’em down to the room, one after the other, and when they came to me, I found all kinds of excuses: that I wasn’t hungry, and on like that. But they knew well, I’d say, that ’twas telling lies I was. They forced me and forced me, but I didn’t go down.
After a couple of hours, anyway, when the supper was over, they started to put the lid on the coffin. There was no undertaker there; ’twas themself was doing it. They put the lid on the coffin—three boys that did it, about my own age. And they said to the old woman that was in charge (she was one o’ the four or five fairy people I was telling you was in it), “Who’s the fourth to take out this coffin?” one of ’em said.
“Who,” says she, “but Francie Kennelly?” I nearly dropped dead when I heard my name called out like that.
The four of us took the coffin out the door. We didn’t put it on our shoulders at all—like any funeral now. We put it on our shoulders outside, and one of ’em, a good-sized man, said, “Follow me, now.”
We followed him, anyway, but grass was under our feet the whole time. And we crossed no wall, and sure, west Clare is full o’ walls. I s’pose we traveled for about a mile, anyway, but the coffin was leaning on our shoulders now. And there was no change; we never changed.
But we landed at this fort, anyway, with a grand, dry grave opened. And when we were coming near the fort, this red-haired young man came out with a round collar on him. He was a priest. I s’pose he was one that was swept with the fairies. They have to have every kind of a person, you know.
He came out to meet the corpse, anyway, and walked in with us. And the coffin was left down. And he read the burial service, now, the same as you’d hear below in Ennis or Crusheen where you’re living. ’Twas much the same as our own. He started off, “I am the resurrection and the life. He that believes in me will never die. Even though he die he shall live again.” All that. And he said Christ was the first to rise from the dead, and by the three days He lay in the tomb He made holy the graves of those that believe in Him. Just the same as our own now. But in the diocese o’ Killaloe here they says ten Hail Marys and an Our Father in honor o’ the resurrection. Well, I noticed they didn’t say it there at all. For sure, now, they had the same religion as ourself, but that was the only thing they left out.
He started to praise this girl, anyway, and he praised her up to the sky, but he never mentioned her name or anything about her—praised the great qualities she had, but nothing about her family.
The coffin was lowered in the grave, anyway, and there was two or three men there with shovels. I s’pose they were fairy men, too. They had the thing ready. There was no delay. They filled up the grave, and the very minute they filled up the grave, when they had it flattened out with the shovels, a cock crew.
And like that!—inside five seconds there was no one there but myself.
I looked around. And there was one big house, a slated house, and another small thatched house. They were both farmhouses. But ’twas in one o’ them two houses the cock crew.
I looked around, and I seen the Ennistymon hospital—’twas a landmark—and I knew where I was then. I walked home, anyway, but ’twas nearly six o’clock in the morning when I landed at home.
As far as I know they done me no harm or I done them no harm. But they have to have a live person. And I s’pose in that case, I was the live person.
This tale, from the same source as the previous one, shows us many facets of fairy belief in Ireland—that a person may be taken from this world of ours to the World Beyond while going about very ordinary tasks (mainly in the twilight or in the hours of darkness). A universally tried remedy when put astray by the fairies was to turn one’s coat inside out in hope of fooling them. In this case it does not work. Just as well for us, for as a result of this man’s night adventure we see that the Good People are in many ways like ourselves: that they have the same rituals—wakes, funerals, burial services . . . almost. W
e are even told where the burial will take place: in a fort.
Here and there, however, we can glimpse, through significant details, danger signs: the warning not to eat, the strange journey with the coffin, the red-haired priest, the prayers not said.
Cock crow, that division between the realms of darkness and daylight, intervenes, luckily. He arrives home in the early hours, unhurt; convinced, though, that they need a live person to conduct their business properly. The very way he phrases it: “But they have to have a live person,” is interesting. If he emphasizes the word “live” (which he does), what then are they to be regarded as? Dead? Or something in between? It is a question that finds no easy answer among philosophers and theologians, never mind folklorists.
“Footballers coming home after a game, or hurlers,
wouldn’t like to be by theirself. They’d have someone with ’em.
They might be asked to play a game with the fairies, you see.
They used like to have someone with ’em. If there was a
second with ’em they mightn’t be asked, they said.”
MILTOWN MALBAY, JUNE 27, 1999
Refereeing a Fairy Hurling Match
THERE’S A FORT a couple o’ miles from here, on the road to Askeaton, and this man I know, he told me he was coming home one night at about twelve o’clock. ’Twas a moonlit night in the autumn. And there was a hill where this fort was, so he had to get off his bicycle to walk up.
Next thing, this small little man, a fairy man, stood out in front of him and said, “Will you referee a match for us? We have two teams waiting, a very important match to be played, and there’s no one to referee it. He never showed up, wherever he went.”
Your man, anyway, was kind o’ slow in venturing into this unknown territory. Would you blame him? He had heard enough stories about people who were asked to oblige the fairies and didn’t, and what happened to ’em. So he laid up his bicycle and said he’d do whatever they wanted, as long as the people at home wouldn’t be waiting too long for him.
Meeting the Other Crowd Page 5