And when there was only one last load to bring, he stopped. And waited. He looked around him. Nothing stirring. He waited there ten minutes. Still nothing. The moon was starting to rise now, the makings of a fine, cool night. But no sign o’ life. He took up the scythe then, and his bundle on his shoulder, and walked for the gap. But every so often he’d look back, hoping, I s’pose, that the thing’d come back. But nothing.
When he came to the road he stopped, looked all around him again. Still no move. He waited a few more minutes. But there was nothing there. What could he do except go home! And that’s what he did. But every few yards he’d peep in over the ditch, between the bushes, back towards that far corner o’ the field. But maybe ’twas his misfortune he couldn’t leave well alone. Because he was only gone maybe twenty yards along the road when, what should he see, in the very same place, only something moving! He knew straight away what ’twas; dropped the bundle o’ reeds and ran back to the gap with the scythe in his hand. ’Twas halfway down the field now, coming towards him in the very same track as the other two days. And this time, by God, he was going to do something about it!
He stood there in its way, the scythe ready in his hands, and as it passed him he stabbed out, up with the blade, and cut it about a foot from where its tail was inside in its mouth.
It flopped down, into the grass, and ’twas only then he saw the right length of it—ten feet at the very least. But he didn’t care, only stuck the point o’ the blade down into it, threw the scythe over his shoulder, kept the thing well out from himself, and headed for home. O’ course, the creature was wriggling, going mad with pain, I s’pose. He didn’t care. Now he’d show his wife whether he was drinking or not!
He arrived home in ten minutes or so and there she was in the yard, waiting for him.
“Well,” says she, “did you—?”
But she got no chance to finish. He threw down the eel in front of her.
“Now,” says he. “Now was I drinking? Was I imagining it?”
The poor woman jumped back, of course, when she saw this thing, especially when it started wriggling down along the yard—trying to escape, I s’pose. But he wasn’t going to leave things so. Oh, no! He ran for the door, into the kitchen, to the dresser, and snapped the knife out of the drawer, the sharp knife they had for cutting the bacon. He was out again before the eel was gone two yards, and he clapped his boot down on it, just behind its head.
D’you know what he did then?! He slit it with that knife from his boot down to its tail—what was left of it. I don’t know what was he expecting to find. Gold? Some other kind o’ treasure? I don’t know. But all he got was blood, that small bit o’ blood you get when you cut up an eel. And he was so annoyed that he kicked it from him. He was disgusted. Worse than disgusted!
He went in home, left the eel to the cats—and there was plenty o’ them there, like you’d find in every farmyard.
His wife saw the temper he was in. She said nothing to him during the supper. Or after it, either. He went to bed. There was no more said that night.
But the following morning, early, about six o’ clock, he was up—his usual time, like all the other farmers o’ the place. He got out o’ the bed, nothing on him but his shirt, and started for the back door, for the water, to wash himself and wake up right and shave.
Remember, now, that in them days in Ireland there was no hot and cold water in houses at the turn of a tap—not like today! The last thing that had to be done at night—and ’twas usually the women that did it!—was go to the well and bring in the water, two buckets of it. One of ’em was for drinking. That one was left inside the door, in case animals might be paddling around in it in the dark. The other one was for washing and shaving, that kind o’ thing. That one was left outside. It didn’t matter so much.
Well, here was your man now, just out o’ the bed, half asleep, scratching and stretching himself. He opened up the door like he did every other morning, stepped out onto the flagstone in front o’ the same door. But when he did, there was something waiting for him.
What? Something that was going to change every day o’ the rest of his life. That’s what!
D’you remember the old razors that were there before these modern safety-razor things? Cutthroats they were called. They looked like a big sharp knife. Well, when he stepped out onto the flagstone to get the bucket, there, just outside the door, was one o’ them cutthroats, the sharp edge up.
He stood straight down on it, o’ course—he was half asleep. When he did, ’twas his wife inside in the bed heard the screech he let out o’ him. She leaped out of it, ran for the door, and found him there, thrown down on the flagstone, holding on to his foot.
There was blood pumping out of it.
“Quick!” says he. “In the name o’ God, get something, quick, or I’m dead!”
’Twas lucky for him that she was a cool-headed woman. She ran and got a cloth, tied it tight around his foot—he was split from his toes back to his heel, and bleeding like a stuck pig—then she ran for the neighbors, and they brought the doctor.
He was carried into Ennis hospital and when they saw the damage they had to operate there and then. They sewed up the wound—it took over thirty stitches—from his toes back to his heel. Then they put a plaster cast on his foot and most o’ the way up to his knee.
He was kept in there, o’ course, in the hospital, for nearly two weeks. And when he was let out, ’twas with two crutches. They told him to go home, put up his leg, rest himself, and do no standing for the next three weeks. He was glad to hear that, I s’pose. Nothing like sitting down and letting the woman do all the work!
But, when the time came, after the three weeks, he went back to Ennis hospital to get the plaster taken off. He was brought in and he was lying back in the bed, with a nurse and a doctor tending to him.
He had no pain in the leg at all, so he was expecting nothing unusual. ’Twas only when he looked up at the nurse, while the doctor was cutting away the plaster, that he knew there was something wrong. She was watching his leg as the plaster came off, and then he saw the strange look on her face. The same look was on the doctor’s face. The two of ’em were staring down at his leg, not a move out of either of ’em.
He pulled himself up in the bed to see what they were looking at. And there was his foot, shrunk to the size of a five-year-old’s!
What could he do, only stare at it, too?!
There was nothing that could be done for him. Even though they examined him upside down and back again. When he was let out o’ there that day, ’twas with a step and a half he went.
And until the day he died he never thatched another roof. How could he! For thatching you need two sound legs under you. Standing up there on a ladder, working above your head? Ha! You’d want no weakness in your legs for that job, I can tell you.
But d’you think he got any sympathy from his neighbors? He didn’t, not one bit!
And why? Because any one of ’em—especially the old people—could have told him that was no eel he met. That was one o’ the people that live in those lakes, carrying a message to some other lake. ’Twas going about its own business, doing no harm to him or anyone else. And he should have done the same, mind his own business. But he didn’t, and he paid the price of it—like you always will when you interfere with the Other Crowd.
A surprising fact about Crusheen parish is that there are, within its bounds, thirty-seven lakes. But an even more surprising thing is that the number of fishermen who take advantage of this wonderful amenity could be counted on the fingers of one hand. This leaves the field open for foreign visitors and, over the years, several of these, Germans in particular, have come to be almost Irish, enjoying the relaxation, the Guinness, the friendliness and conversation of the local pubs. And the silence of the lakes, of course.
But, I have often wondered, as I hear them enthuse about that wondrous solitude that attracts them to those same lakes year after year, whether they might change their minds,
moderate their enthusiasm a little, if they knew what lurked in some of those murky waters. For, as we can see from this tale told to me by a man who lived all his long life close to one of those lakes, more than fish inhabit them. And the other livers there do not appreciate being disturbed, particularly when going peacefully about their own private affairs.
“Well, I wouldn’t like to meet ’em, anyway. They could bring you or maybe injure you in such a way that they’d have you, d’you see. They could.”
LISCANNOR, SEPTEMBER 2, 1999
The Fairy Frog
I’LL TELL YOU ONE THING, now. If a poor man had a good-looking daughter in the times when the landlords were in it, ’twas bad news for him. He’d like to keep it quiet and get her married as soon as he could. Why? Because if the landlord found out about her, or the agent, even, they could send for her and do what they’d like with her. And ’twouldn’t be good, you may be sure o’ that. And what would a poor man be able to do? If he didn’t let her go, they’d all be thrown out on the road, more than likely. Evicted! And no coming back either.
There was this man and his wife living near Mount Callan, and all they had in the family was one daughter—oh, as fine a girl as ever you laid eyes on. She was about fifteen or sixteen years old, and they used to send her out to the upper field minding the cow when the day’d be fine. Sure, ’twas grand. She’d be there looking around her, the finest view in the whole world.
She was in it one day, anyway, and what came in a gap—only this frog, jumping, jumping, until ’twas up beside her. Sat down there looking at her with the big black eyes. And ’twas then she noticed the belly sticking out, down to the ground, nearly.
She didn’t move. Maybe she was afraid. But after a few minutes looking at her, the frog turned around and went off back the same way, out the same gap.
“Begod,” says the girl, “I’d love to be there when that thing that’s holding you back sees the light.”
But there was no more about it. She brought home her cow that evening and never said a word.
And she forgot all about it.
But . . . about a week after, she was gone to bed this night and the father and mother were still sitting up by the fire when they heard a saddle horse coming along the road.
“Begod, he’s in a hurry, whoever he is,” says the father.
Anyway, the horse stopped just outside the house and they heard the sound o’ the man getting down. Then the footsteps came up to the door, and next thing there was a knock.
They were in no hurry to open it at that hour, I can tell you.
The knock came again.
“Who’s there?” says the father.
“Open up! I have an urgent message.”
Maybe ’twas the way he said it . . . I don’t know. They were only poor people. They opened the door, anyway, and there was a gentleman standing there, riding boots on him, grand clothes, and a cloak over his shoulders. A fine cut of a man. Like one o’ the gentry.
They asked him in, o’ course. What else would they do? And the talk started. They asked him would he have the tea. He thanked ’em. No. He had business to do.
“Ye have a daughter, I’m told.”
“We have, sir,” says the father. “Why?”
“Well, ’tis like this,” says he, and he looked right close at ’em. “I want her to come with me until this time tomorrow night. Will ye let her come? And I give ye my word of honor that no harm will come to her. I’ll bring her back here safe and sound tomorrow night.”
They weren’t so happy with that, you may say! But what could poor people do in them days?
The mother went up to the room and called the girl.
“Come down,” says she. “You’re wanted. This gentleman here wants you to go with him.”
Oh, she was in an awful state, and would you blame her? To go out into the dark o’ the night with a stranger? But he spoke nice to her, promised her again that she’d be back safe and sound the following night.
In the finish up, anyway, she went, but she was crying when the stranger put her up on the horse behind him, and I don’t know but maybe the father and mother were crying, too. I s’pose they thought they’d never see her again.
They went off, anyway, in the dark, a long distance, until they came to this hill. And above, on the top of it, was a fort. They kept going till they were in front of it.
“Now,” says he, “we’re here.”
He took her off o’ the horse and brought her into the fort. And such a place! She never saw the like of it in her life. There was lights, and crowds o’ people walking around. And they were bowing to the man that was with her, like they knew him all their lives. And, sure, I s’pose they did! But he was someone important, anyway; you’d know that.
They walked down this big long hall and upstairs, up and up and into this room above.
The first thing the girl saw was the big four-poster bed and a woman inside in it, nearly ready to give birth. The midwife was there, and servant girls, all waiting and ready.
“Go on,” says the gentleman. “Go over and hold her hand.”
She was frightened but she did, and the woman in the bed was watching her with big black eyes. And ’twasn’t long before the child was born.
But . . . wasn’t he dead! And what did they do! The midwife, she passed him over to one o’ the servant girls, and she dropped him into the fire. Into the fire, mind, and covered him up with the sods o’ turf. Burned him up!
Sure, the poor girl was looking at that and she didn’t know what to do. But at that very minute this woman came in with a child in her arms—oh, a real child that was carried, you can be sure!—and she handed it to the woman in the bed.
All right. That was fine. The woman in the bed started breast-feeding the new child, but her own child was burned away in the fire until there was nothing there, only ashes.
The girl was watching all o’ this and she was amazed, o’ course. And frightened.
“Don’t be one bit afraid,” says the man that was with her, “only come on now. The supper is ready.”
He brought her out into a big hall where all the people were sitting down at tables, eating—oh, the finest o’ food and drink, better than you’d get in any hotel.
And a servant came to her and asked her what would she like. But no. She always heard that you shouldn’t touch any food in a fort or you’d never leave it, so she wouldn’t eat. But she thanked him. A couple o’ times he came back, but she took nothing. And the gentleman was watching her all the time.
When the feast was over the music started, and the dancing, and they were at that for the rest o’ the night, until ’twas nearly daylight. No one asked her to dance, though, and she was looking around her. And she saw these servants going into the room where the woman was in the bed. They went to the fire, raked out the ashes where the child was burned, and one of ’em brought out a shovel o’ them ashes. And just inside the hall door there was a big . . . ’twas like a holy water font you’d see outside a church, and full o’ water. The ashes were thrown into it and mixed up.
And when all the dancing was finished and the crowd started to leave, every one of ’em, they’d put their fingers into the water and rub it to their eyes. And when they were all gone she was wondering what would she do. And the gentleman says to her, “Sit down awhile. Take your ease.” So she did.
She must’ve fell asleep, ’cause when she woke ’twas getting dark.
“Come on,” says he. “We must be going. But first, herself wants to see you above in the room.”
The poor girl, she didn’t know what to say. She was took up, anyway, into the same room again, and there was the woman in the bed with the child.
“Come here,” says she.
She shoved over near the bed. Frightened.
“I’m thankful you came when I needed you,” says she. “I’ll have to reward you for that.”
“Oh,” says the girl, “I don’t want no reward. I’m glad if I was any use.”
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“Even so, you’ll have to get something,” and she reached in under her pillow and brought out a bag o’ gold and a necklace.
“Here,” says she. “Take these with you, now.”
And the girl did. Delighted, o’ course. ’Twas little o’ the like she ever saw at home.
The man came back.
“Are you ready to go home?” says he.
She bowed to the woman in the bed.
“Thanks very much,” says she, “for these. They’ll be a great help to my father and mother.”
They went out then. But when they were going he dipped his fingers into the water inside the hall door and rubbed it to his eyes, just like the crowd that went out earlier on. She saw him, so she says to herself that she better do the same, whatever ’twas for. But she had only rubbed it to her left eye when he turned around and caught her by the arm.
“Hurry on,” says he. “We must leave this very minute.”
He took her out, anyway, up on the horse behind him again, and off they went as fast as the horse’d go, and never stopped till they came to this grove o’ trees.
He pulled up the horse and he says, “Did herself give you anything that time she called you back?”
“She did,” says the girl.
“What was it?”
She was half afraid o’ him, that maybe he was going to rob her.
“Tell me,” says he, “what was it.”
So she told him about the bag o’ gold and the necklace.
“You aren’t the first one to get the like,” says he. “And if you’ll take my advice, and if you want to see your father and mother safe and sound again, take that necklace now and tie it around the branch o’ that near tree there.”
Oh, she didn’t want to do it, o’ course—to give away a grand thing like that! But he let her down, anyway, and he told her again, “Put it out o’ your hands, like I told you. Hurry!”
So she did what she was told, and they went on. But they were only gone a small bit when there was this fierce blast o’ thunder behind ’em, and a flash o’ lightning. And when she looked back the tree was broke in two halves. Burned up!
Meeting the Other Crowd Page 9