Irish Stories and Folklore

by Stephen Brennan

  She laughed a careless and a cruel laugh, for she knew that the King was in their power, now that she was there alone with him, and the clerics and the Christian teachers gone. “Fear me not, O Murtough,” she cried; “I am, like thee, a daughter of the race of men of the ancient family of Adam and of Eve; fit and meet my comradeship with thee; therefore, fear not nor regret. And as to that true God of thine, worker of miracles and helper of His people, no miracle in all the world is there that I, by mine own unaided power, cannot work the like. I can create a sun and moon; the heavens I can sprinkle with radiant stars of night. I can call up to life men fiercely fighting in conflict, slaughtering one another. Wine I could make of the cold water of the Boyne, and sheep of lifeless stones, and swine of ferns. In the presence of the hosts I can make gold and silver, plenty and to spare; and hosts of famous fighting men I can produce from naught. Now, tell me, can thy God work the like?”

  “Work for us,” says the King, “some of these great wonders.” Then Sheen went forth out of the house, and she set herself to work spells on Murtough, so that he knew not whether he was in his right mind or no. She took of the water of the Boyne and made a magic wine thereout, and she took ferns and spiked thistles and light puff-balls of the woods, and out of them she fashioned magic swine and sheep and goats, and with these she fed Murtough and the hosts. And when they had eaten, all their strength went from them, and the magic wine sent them into an uneasy sleep and restless slumbers. And out of stones and sods of earth she fashioned three battalions, and one of the battalions she placed at one side of the house, and the other at the further side beyond it, and one encircling the rest southward along the hollow windings of the glen. And thus were these battalions, one of them all made of men stark-naked and their color blue, and the second with heads of goats with shaggy beards and horned; but the third, more terrible than they, for these were headless men, fighting like human beings, yet finished at the neck; and the sound of heavy shouting as of hosts and multitudes came from the first and the second battalion, but from the third no sound save only that they waved their arms and struck their weapons together, and smote the ground with their feet impatiently. And though terrible was the shout of the blue men and the bleating of the goats with human limbs, more horrible yet was the stamping and the rage of those headless men, finished at the neck.

  And Murtough, in his sleep and in his dreams, heard the battle-shout, and he rose impetuously from off his bed, but the wine overcame him, and his strength departed from him, and he fell helplessly upon the floor. Then he heard the challenge a second time, and the stamping of the feet without, and he rose again, and madly, fiercely, he set on them, charging the hosts and scattering them before him, as he thought, as far as the fairy palace of the Brugh. But all his strength was lost in fighting phantoms, for they were but stones and sods and withered leaves of the forest that he took for fighting men.

  Now Duivsech, Murtough’s wife, knew what was going on. She called upon Cairnech to arise and to gather together the clans of the children of his people, the men of Owen and of Niall, and together they went to the fort; but Sheen guarded it well, so that they could by no means find an entrance. Then Cairnech was angry, and he cursed the place, and he dug a grave before the door, and he stood up upon the mound of the grave, and rang his bells and cursed the King and his house, and prophesied his downfall. But he blessed the clans of Owen and of Niall, and they returned to their own country.

  Then Cairnech sent messengers to seek Murtough and to draw him away from the witch woman who sought his destruction, but because she was so lovely the King would believe no evil of her; and whenever he made any sign to go to Cairnech, she threw her spell upon the King, so that he could not break away. When he was so weak and faint that he had no power left, she cast a sleep upon him, and she went round the house, putting everything in readiness. She called upon her magic host of warriors, and set them round the fortress, with their spears and javelins pointed inwards towards the house, so that the King would not dare to go out amongst them. And that night was a night of Samhain-tide, the eve of Wednesday after All Souls’ Day.

  Then she went everywhere throughout the house, and took lighted brands and burning torches, and scattered them in every part of the dwelling. And she returned into the room wherein Murtough slept, and lay down by his side. And she caused a great wind to spring up, and it came soughing through the house from the north-west; and the King said, “This is the sigh of the winter night.” And Sheen smiled, because, unwittingly, the King had spoken her name, for she knew by that that the hour of her revenge had come. “’Tis I myself that am Sigh and Winter Night,” she said, “and I am Rough Wind and Storm, a daughter of fair nobles; and I am Cry and Wail, the maid of elfin birth, who brings ill-luck to men.”

  After that she caused a great snowstorm to come round the house; and like the noise of troops and the rage of battle was the storm, beating and pouring in on every side, so that drifts of deep snow were piled against the walls, blocking the doors and chilling the folk that were feasting within the house. But the King was lying in a heavy, unresting sleep, and Sheen was at his side. Suddenly he screamed out of his sleep and stirred himself, for he heard the crash of falling timbers and the noise of the magic hosts, and he smelled the strong smell of fire in the palace.

  He sprang up. “It seems to me,” he cried, “that hosts of demons are around the house, and that they are slaughtering my people, and that the house of Cletty is on fire.” “It was but a dream,” the witch maiden said. Then he slept again, and he saw a vision, to wit, that he was tossing in a ship at sea, and the ship floundered, and above his head a griffin, with sharp beak and talons, sailed, her wings outspread and covering all the sun, so that it was dark as middle-night; and lo! as she rose on high, her plumes quivered for a moment in the air; then down she swooped and picked him from the waves, carrying him to her eyrie on the dismal cliff outhanging o’er the ocean; and the griffin began to pierce him and to prod him with her talons, and to pick out pieces of his flesh with her beak; and this went on awhile, and then a flame, that came he knew not whence, rose from the nest, and he and the griffin were enveloped in the flame. Then in her beak the griffin picked him up, and together they fell downward over the cliff’s edge into the seething ocean; so that, half by fire and half by water, he died a miserable death.

  When the King saw that vision, he rose screaming from his sleep, and donned his arms; and he made one plunge forward seeking for the magic hosts, but he found no man to answer him. The damsel went forth from the house, and Murtough made to follow her, but as he turned the flames leaped out, and all between him and the door was one vast sheet of flame. He saw no way of escape, save the vat of wine that stood in the banqueting hall, and into that he got; but the burning timbers of the roof fell upon his head and the hails of fiery sparks rained on him, so that half of him was burned and half was drowned, as he had seen in his dream.

  The next day, amid the embers, the clerics found his corpse, and they took it up and washed it in the Boyne, and carried it to Tuilen to bury it. And they said, “Alas! that Mac Erca, High King of Erin, of the noble race of Conn and of the descendants of Ugaine the Great, should die fighting with sods and stones! Alas! that the Cross of Christ was not signed upon his face that he might have known the witchdoms of the maiden what they were.”

  As they went thus, bewailing the death of Murtough and bearing him to his grave, Duivsech, wife of Murtough, met them, and when she found her husband dead, she struck her hands together and she made a great and mournful lamentation; and because weakness came upon her she leaned her back against the ancient tree that is in Aenech Reil; and a burst of blood broke from her heart, and there she died, grieving for her husband. And the grave of Murtough was made wide and deep, and there they laid the Queen beside him, two in the one grave, near the north side of the little church that is in Tuilen.

  Now, when the burial was finished, and the clerics were reciting over his grave the deeds of the King, and
were making prayers for Murtough’s soul that it might be brought out of hell, for Cairnech showed great care for this, they saw coming towards them across the sward a lonely woman, star-bright and beautiful, and a kirtle of priceless silk upon her, and a green mantle with its fringes of silver thread flowing to the ground. She reached the place where the clerics were, and saluted them, and they saluted her.

  And they marveled at her beauty, but they perceived on her an appearance of sadness and of heavy grief. They asked of her, “Who art thou, maiden, and wherefore art thou come to the house of mourning? For a king lies buried here.” “A king lies buried here, indeed,” said she, “and I it was who slew him, Murtough of the many deeds, of the race of Conn and Niall, High King of Ireland and of the West. And though it was I who wrought his death, I myself will die for grief of him.”

  And they said, “Tell us, maiden, why you brought him to his death, if so be that he was dear to thee?” And she said, “Murtough was dear to me, indeed, dearest of the men of the whole world; for I am Sheen, the daughter of Sige, the son of Dian, from whom Ath Sigi or the ‘Ford of Sige’ is called to-day. But Murtough slew my father, and my mother and sister were slain along with him, in the battle of Cerb upon the Boyne, and there was none of my house to avenge their death, save myself alone. Moreover, in his time the Ancient Peoples of the Fairy Tribes of Erin were scattered and destroyed, the folk of the underworld and of my fatherland; and to avenge the wrong and loss he wrought on them I slew the man I loved. I made poison for him; alas! I made for him magic drink and food which took his strength away, and out of the sods of earth and puff-balls that float down the wind, I wrought men and armies of headless, hideous folk, till all his senses were distraught. And, now, take me to thee, O Cairnech, in fervent and true repentance, and sign the Cross of Christ upon my brow, for the time of my death is come.”

  Then she made penitence for the sin that she had sinned, and she died there upon the grave of grief and of sorrow after the King. And they digged a grave lengthways across the foot of the wide grave of Murtough and his spouse, and there they laid the maiden who had wrought them woe. And the clerics wondered at those things, and they wrote them and revised them in a book.

  THE THIEF

  BY PATRICK PEARSE

  One day when the boys of Gortmore were let out from school, after the Glencaha boys and the Derrybanniv boys had gone east, the Turlagh boys and the Inver boys stayed to have a while’s chat before separating at the Rossnageeragh road. The master’s house is exactly at the head of the road, its back to the hill and its face to Loch Ellery.

  ‘I heard that the master’s bees were swarming,’ says Michileen Bartly Enda.

  ‘In with you into the garden till we look at them,’ says Daragh Barbara of the Bridge.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ says Michileen.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’says Daragh.

  ‘By my word, the master and the mistress will be out presently.’

  ‘Who’ll stay to give us word when the master will be coming?’ says Daragh.

  ‘I will,’ says little Anthony Manning.

  ‘That’ll do,’ says Daragh. ‘Let a whistle when you see him leaving the school.’

  In over the fence with him. In over the fence with the other boys after him.

  ‘Have a care that none of you will get a sting,’ says Anthony.

  ‘Little fear,’ says Daragh. And off forever with them.

  Anthony sat on the fence, and his back to the road. He could see the master over his right shoulder if he’d leave the schoolhouse. What a nice garden the master had, thought Anthony. He had rose-trees and gooseberry-trees and apple-trees. He had little white stones round the path. He had big white stones in a pretty rockery, and moss and maiden-hair fern and common fern growing between them. He had …

  Anthony saw a wonder greater than any wonder the master had in the garden. He saw a little, beautiful wee house under the shade of one of the rose-trees; it made of wood; two stories in it; white color on the lower story and red color on the upper story; a little green door on it; three windows of glass on it, one downstairs and two upstairs; house furniture in it, between tables and chairs and beds and delf, and the rest; and, says Anthony to himself, look at the lady of the house sitting in the door!

  Anthony never saw a doll’s house before, and it was a wonder to him, its neatness and order, for a toy. He knew that it belonged to the master’s little girl, little Nance. A pity that his own little sister hadn’t one like it—Eibhlin, the creature, that was stretched on her bed for a long three months, and she weak and sick! A pity she hadn’t the doll itself! Anthony put the covetousness of his heart in that doll for Eibhlin. He looked over his right shoulder—neither master nor mistress was to be seen. He looked over his left shoulder—the other boys were out of sight. He didn’t think the second thought. He gave his best leap from the fence; he seized the doll; he stuck it under his jacket; he clambered out over the ditch again, and away with him home.

  ‘I have a present for you,’ says he to Eibhlin, when he reached the house.

  ‘Look!’ and with that he showed her the doll.

  There came a blush on the wasted cheeks of the little sick girl, and a light into her eyes.

  ‘Ora, Anthony, love, where did you get it?’ says she.

  ‘The master’s little Nance, that sent it to you for a present,’ says Anthony.

  Their mother came in.

  ‘Oh, mameen, treasure,’ says Eibhlin, ‘look at the present that the master’s little Nance sent me!’

  ‘In earnest?’ says the mother.

  ‘Surely,’ says Eibhlin. ‘Anthony, it was, that brought it in to me now.’

  Anthony looked down at his feet, and began counting the toes that were on them.

  ‘My own pet,’ says the mother, ‘isn’t it she that was good to you! Muise, Nance! I’ll go bail that that present will put great improvement on my little girl.’

  And there came tears in the mother’s eyes out of gratitude to little Nance because she remembered the sick child. Though he wasn’t able to look his mother between the eyes, or at Eibhlin, with the dint of fear, Anthony was glad that he committed the theft.

  He was afraid to say his prayers that night, and he lay down on his bed without as much as an ‘Our Father.’ He couldn’t say the Act of Contrition, for it wasn’t truthfully he’d be able to say to God that he was sorry for that sin. It’s often he started in the night, imagining that little Nance was coming seeking the doll from Eibhlin, that the master was taxing him with the robbery before the school, that there was a miraculous swarm of bees rising against him, and Daragh Barbara of the Bridge and the other boys exciting them with shouts and with the music of drums. But the next morning he said to himself: ‘I don’t care. The doll will make Eibhlin better.’

  When he went to school the boys asked him why he went off unawares the evening before that, and he after promising them he’d keep watch.

  ‘My mother sent for me,’ says Anthony. ‘She’d a task for me.’

  When little Nance came into the school, Anthony looked at her under his brows. He fancied that she was after being crying; he thought that he saw the track of the tears on her cheeks. The first time the master called him by his name he jumped, because he thought that he was going to tax him with the fault or to cross-question him about the doll. He never put in as miserable a day as that day at school. But when he went home and saw the great improvement on Eibhlin, and she sitting up in the bed for the first time for a month, and the doll clasped in her arms, says he to himself: ‘I don’t care. The doll is making Eibhlin better.’

  In his bed in the night-time he had bad dreams again. He thought that the master was after telling the police that he stole the doll, and that they were on his track; he imagined one time that there was a policeman hiding under the bed and that there was another hunkering behind the window-curtain. He screamed out in his sleep.

  ‘What’s on you?’ says his father to him.

  ‘T
he peeler that’s going to take me,’ says Anthony.

  ‘You’re only rambling, boy,’ says his father to him. ‘There’s no peeler in it. Go to sleep.’

  There was the misery of the world on the poor fellow from that out. He used think they would be pointing fingers at him, and he going the road. He used think they would be shaking their heads and saying to each other, ‘There’s a thief,’ or, ‘Did you hear what Anthony Pharaig Manning did? Her doll he stole from the master’s little Nance. Now what do you say?’ But he didn’t suffer rightly till he went to Mass on Sunday and till Father Ronan started preaching a sermon on the Seventh Commandment: ‘Thou shalt not steal; and if you commit a theft it will not be forgiven you until you make restitution.’ Anthony was full sure that it was a mortal sin. He knew that he ought to go to confession and tell the sin to the priest. But he couldn’t go to confession, for he knew that the priest would say to him that he must give the doll back. And he wouldn’t give the doll back. He hardened his heart and he said that he’d never give the doll back, for that the doll was making Eibhlin better every day.

  One evening he was sitting by the bed-foot in serious talk with Eibhlin when his mother ran in a hurry, and says she—

  ‘Here’s the mistress and little Nance coming up the bohereen!’

  Anthony wished the earth would open and swallow him. His face was red up to his two ears. He was in a sweat. He wasn’t able to say a word or to think a thought! But these words were running through his head: ‘They’ll take the doll from Eibhlin.’ It was all the same to him what they’d say or what they’d do to himself. The only answer he’d have would be, ‘The doll’s making Eibhlin better.’