Irish Stories and Folklore

by Stephen Brennan

  The mistress and little Nance came into the room. Anthony got up. He couldn’t look them in the face. He began at his old clatter, counting the toes of his feet. Five on each foot; four toes and a big toe; or three toes, a big toe, and a little toe; that’s five; twice five are ten; ten in all. He couldn’t add to their number or take from them. His mother was talking, the mistress was talking, but Anthony paid no heed to them. He was waiting till something would be said about the doll. There was nothing for him to do till that but count his toes. One, two, three…

  What was that? Eibhlin was referring to the doll. Anthony listened now.

  ‘Wasn’t it good of you to send me the doll?’ she was saying to Nance. ‘From the day Anthony brought it in to me a change began coming on me.’

  ‘It did that,’ says her mother. ‘We’ll be forever grateful to you for that same doll you sent to her. May God increase your store, and may He requite you for it a thousand times.

  Neither Nance nor the mistress spoke. Anthony looked at Nance shyly. His two eyes were stuck in the doll, for the doll was lying cosy in the bed beside Eibhlin. It had its mouth half open, and the wonder of the world on it at the sayings of Eibhlin and her mother.

  ‘It’s with trouble I believed Anthony when he brought it into me,’ says Eibhlin, ‘and when he told me you sent it to me as a present.’

  Nance looked over at Anthony. Anthony lifted his head slowly, and their eyes met. It will never be known what Nance read in Anthony’s eyes. What Anthony read in Nance’s eyes was mercy, love and sweetness. Nance spoke to Eibhlin.

  ‘Do you like it?’ says she.

  ‘Over anything,’ says Eibhlin. ‘I’d rather it than anything I have in the world.’

  ‘I have the little house it lives in,’ says Nance. ‘I must send it to you. Anthony will bring it to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Ora!’ says Eibhlin, and she clapping her two little thin palms together.

  ‘You’ll miss it, love,’ says Eibhlin’s mother to Nance.

  ‘No,’ said Nance. ‘It will put more improvement on Eibhlin. I have lots of things.’

  ‘Let her do it, Cait,’ said the mistress to the mother.

  ‘Ye are too good,’ says the poor woman.

  Anthony thought that it’s dreaming he was. Or he thought that it’s not a person of this world little Nance was at all, but an angel come down out of heaven. He wanted to go on his knees to her.

  When the mistress and little Nance went off, Anthony ran out the back door and tore across the garden, so that he’d be before them at the bohereen-foot, and they going out on the road.

  ‘Nance,’ says he, ‘I s-stole it,—the d-doll.’

  ‘Never mind, Anthony,’ says Nance, ‘you did good to Eibhlin.’

  Anthony stood like a stake in the road, he couldn’t speak another word.

  Isn’t it he was proud bringing the doll’s house home to Eibhlin after school the next day! And isn’t it they had the fun that evening settling the house and polishing the furniture and putting the doll to sleep on its little bed!

  The Saturday following Anthony went to confession, and told his sin to the priest. The penance the priest put on him was to clean the doll’s house once in the week for Eibhlin, till she would be strong enough to clean it herself. Eibhlin was strong enough for it by the end of a month. By the end of another month she was at school again. There wasn’t a Saturday evening from that out that they wouldn’t hear a little, light tapping at the master’s door. On the mistress going out Anthony would be standing at the door.

  ‘Here’s a little present for Nance,’ he’d say, stretching towards her half-a-dozen duck’s eggs, or a bunch of heather, or, at the least, the full of his fist of duileasg, and then he’d rush off with him without giving the mistress time to say ‘thank you.’

  THE DEVIL, THE DEMON CAT

  BY LADY WILDE

  There was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman; as he had always good luck, she had plenty of fish at all times stored away in the house ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish. So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch.

  One day, as she and a woman were spinning together, the house suddenly became quite dark; and the door was burst open as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then turned round and growled at them.

  “Why, surely this is the devil,” said a young girl, who was by, sorting fish.

  “I’ll teach you how to call me names,” said the cat; and, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood came. “There, now,” he said, “you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see you.” And with that he walked over to the door and shut it close, to prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away.

  Just then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he pushed open the door and tried to get in; but the cat stood on the threshold, and would let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with his stick, and gave him a sound blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in the fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so badly that the man at last took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.

  “Now, it’s time for my dinner,” said the cat, going up to examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. “I hope the fish is good to-day. Now, don’t disturb me, nor make a fuss; I can help myself.” With that he jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the woman.

  “Away, out of this, you wicked beast,” she cried, giving it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back, only it was a devil; “out of this; no fish shall you have to-day.”

  But the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and spoiling and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blow. On this, both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them, and spit fire; then, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house.

  But presently the mistress returned, carrying with her a bottle of holy water; and, looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish, and not minding. So she crept over quietly and threw holy water on it without a word. No sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled the place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the cat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning slowly till it became shriveled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from that time the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the evil one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no more.

  THE ENCHANTED CAVE OF CESH CORRAN

  BY JAMES STEPHENS

  *

  Fionn mac Uail was the most prudent chief of an army in the world, but he was not always prudent on his own account. Discipline sometimes irked him, and he would then take any opportunity that presented for an adventure; for he was not only a soldier, he was a poet also, that is, a man of science, and whatever was strange or unusual had an irresistible attraction for him. Such a soldier was he that, single-handed, he could take the Fianna out of any hole they got into, but such an inveterate poet was he that all the Fianna together could scarcely retrieve him from the abysses into which he tumbled. It took him to keep the Fianna safe, but it took all the Fianna to keep their captain out of danger. They did not complain of this, for they loved every hair of Fionn’s head more than they loved their wives and children, and that was reasonable for there was never in the world a person more worthy of love than Fionn was.

  Goll mac Morna did not admit so much in words, but he admitted it in all his actions, for although he never lost an opportunity of killing a member of Fionn’s family (there was deadly feud between clann-Baiscne and clann-Morna), yet a call from Fionn brought Goll raging to his
assistance like a lion that rages tenderly by his mate. Not even a call was necessary, for Goll felt in his heart when Fionn was threatened, and he would leave Fionn’s own brother only half-killed to fly where his arm was wanted. He was never thanked, of course, for although Fionn loved Goll he did not like him, and that was how Goll felt towards Fionn.

  Fionn, with Conán the Swearer and the dogs Bran and Sceólan, was sitting on the hunting-mound at the top of Cesh Corran. Below and around on every side the Fianna were beating the coverts in Legney and Brefny, ranging the fastnesses of Glen Dallan, creeping in the nut and beech forests of Carbury, spying among the woods of Kyle Conor, and ranging the wide plain of Moy Conal.

  The great captain was happy: his eyes were resting on the sights he liked best—the sunlight of a clear day, the waving trees, the pure sky, and the lovely movement of the earth; and his ears were filled with delectable sounds—the baying of eager dogs, the clear calling of young men, the shrill whistling that came from every side, and each sound of which told a definite thing about the hunt. There was also the plunge and scurry of the deer, the yapping of badgers, and the whirr of birds driven into reluctant flight.

  Now the king of the Shí of Cesh Corran, Conaran, son of Imidel, was also watching the hunt, but Fionn did not see him, for we cannot see the people of Faery until we enter their realm, and Fionn was not thinking of Faery at that moment. Conaran did not like Fionn, and, seeing that the great champion was alone, save for Conán and the two hounds Bran and Sceólan, he thought the time had come to get Fionn into his power. We do not know what Fionn had done to Conaran, but it must have been bad enough, for the king of the Shí of Cesh Cotran was filled with joy at the sight of Fionn thus close to him, thus unprotected, thus unsuspicious.

  This Conaran had four daughters. He was fond of them and proud of them, but if one were to search the Shí’s of Ireland or the land of Ireland, the equal of these four would not be found for ugliness and bad humor and twisted temperaments.

  Their hair was black as ink and tough as wire: it stuck up and poked out and hung down about their heads in bushes and spikes and tangles. Their eyes were bleary and red. Their mouths were black and twisted, and in each of these mouths there was a hedge of curved yellow fangs. They had long scraggy necks that could turn all the way round like the neck of a hen. Their arms were long and skinny and muscular, and at the end of each finger they had a spiked nail that was as hard as horn and as sharp as a briar. Their bodies were covered with a bristle of hair and fur and fluff, so that they looked like dogs in some parts and like cats in others, and in other parts again they looked like chickens. They had moustaches poking under their noses and woolly wads growing out of their ears, so that when you looked at them the first time you never wanted to look at them again, and if you had to look at them a second time you were likely to die of the sight.

  They were called Caevóg, Cuillen, and Iaran. The fourth daughter, Iarnach, was not present at that moment, so nothing need be said of her yet.

  Conaran called these three to him.

  “Fionn is alone,” said he. “Fionn is alone, my treasures.”

  “Ah!” said Caevóg, and her jaw crunched upwards and stuck outwards, as was usual with her when she was satisfied.

  “When the chance comes take it,” Conaran continued, and he smiled a black, beetle-browed, unbenevolent smile.

  “It’s a good word,” quoth Cuillen, and she swung her jaw loose and made it waggle up and down, for that was the way she smiled.

  “And here is the chance,” her father added.

  “The chance is here,” Iaran echoed, with a smile that was very like her sister’s, only that it was worse, and the wen that grew on her nose joggled to and fro and did not get its balance again for a long time.

  Then they smiled a smile that was agreeable to their own eyes, but which would have been a deadly thing for anybody else to see.

  “But Fionn cannot see us,” Caevóg objected, and her brow set downwards and her chin set upwards and her mouth squeezed sidewards, so that her face looked like a badly disappointed nut.

  “And we are worth seeing,” Cuillen continued, and the disappointment that was set in her sister’s face got carved and twisted into hers, but it was worse in her case.

  “That is the truth,” said Iaran in a voice of lamentation, and her face took on a gnarl and a writhe and a solidity of ugly woe that beat the other two and made even her father marvel.

  “He cannot see us now,” Conaran replied, “but he will see us in a minute.”

  “Won’t Fionn be glad when he sees us!” said the three sisters.

  And then they joined hands and danced joyfully around their father, and they sang a song, the first line of which is:

  “Fionn thinks he is safe. But who knows when the sky will fall?”

  Lots of the people in the Shí learned that song by heart, and they applied it to every kind of circumstance.

  *

  By his arts Conaran changed the sight of Fionn’s eyes, and he did the same for Conán.

  In a few minutes Fionn stood up from his place on the mound. Everything was about him as before, and he did not know that he had gone into Faery. He walked for a minute up and down the hillock. Then, as by chance, he stepped down the sloping end of the mound and stood with his mouth open, staring. He cried out:

  “Come down here, Conán, my darling.”

  Conán stepped down to him.

  “Am I dreaming?” Fionn demanded, and he stretched out his finger before him.

  “If you are dreaming,” said Conán, “I’m dreaming too. They weren’t here a minute ago,” he stammered.

  Fionn looked up at the sky and found that it was still there. He stared to one side and saw the trees of Kyle Conor waving in the distance. He bent his ear to the wind and heard the shouting of hunters, the yapping of dogs, and the clear whistles, which told how the hunt was going.

  “Well!” said Fionn to himself.

  “By my hand!” quoth Conán to his own soul.

  And the two men stared into the hillside as though what they were looking at was too wonderful to be looked away from.

  “Who are they?” said Fionn.

  “What are they?” Conán gasped. And they stared again.

  For there was a great hole like a doorway in the side of the mound, and in that doorway the daughters of Conaran sat spinning. They had three crooked sticks of holly set up before the cave, and they were reeling yarn off these. But it was enchantment they were weaving.

  “One could not call them handsome,” said Conán.

  “One could,” Fionn replied, “but it would not be true.”

  “I cannot see them properly,” Fionn complained. “They are hiding behind the holly.”

  “I would be contented if I could not see them at all,” his companion grumbled.

  But the Chief insisted.

  “I want to make sure that it is whiskers they are wearing.”

  “Let them wear whiskers or not wear them,” Conán counseled. “But let us have nothing to do with them.”

  “One must not be frightened of anything,” Fionn stated.

  “I am not frightened,” Conán explained. “I only want to keep my good opinion of women, and if the three yonder are women, then I feel sure I shall begin to dislike females from this minute out.”

  “Come on, my love,” said Fionn, “for I must find out if these whiskers are true.”

  He strode resolutely into the cave. He pushed the branches of holly aside and marched up to Conaran’s daughters, with Conán behind him.

  *

  The instant they passed the holly a strange weakness came over the heroes. Their fists seemed to grow heavy as lead, and went dingle-dangle at the ends of their arms; their legs became as light as straws and began to bend in and out; their necks became too delicate to hold anything up, so that their heads wibbled and wobbled from side to side.

  “What’s wrong at all?” said Conán, as he tumbled to the ground.

&nbs
p; “Everything is,” Fionn replied, and he tumbled beside him.

  The three sisters then tied the heroes with every kind of loop and twist and knot that could be thought of.

  “Those are whiskers!” said Fionn.

  “Alas!” said Conán.

  “What a place you must hunt whiskers in?” he mumbled savagely. “Who wants whiskers?” he groaned.

  But Fionn was thinking of other things.

  “If there was any way of warning the Fianna not to come here,” Fionn murmured.

  “There is no way, my darling,” said Caevóg, and she smiled a smile that would have killed Fionn, only that he shut his eyes in time.

  After a moment he murmured again:

  “Conán, my dear love, give the warning whistle so that the Fianna will keep out of this place.”

  A little whoof, like the sound that would be made by a baby and it asleep, came from Conán.

  “Fionn,” said he, “there isn’t a whistle in me. We are done for,” said he.

  “You are done for, indeed,” said Cuillen, and she smiled a hairy and twisty and fangy smile that almost finished Conán.

  By that time some of the Fianna had returned to the mound to see why Bran and Sceólan were barking so outrageously. They saw the cave and went into it, but no sooner had they passed the holly branches than their strength went from them, and they were seized and bound by the vicious hags. Little by little all the members of the Fianna returned to the hill, and each of them was drawn into the cave, and each was bound by the sisters.

  Oisín and Oscar and mac Lugac came, with the nobles of clann-Baiscne, and with those of clann-Corcoran and clann-Smól; they all came, and they were all bound.

  It was a wonderful sight and a great deed this binding of the Fianna, and the three sisters laughed with a joy that was terrible to hear and was almost death to see. As the men were captured they were carried by the hags into dark mysterious holes and black perplexing labyrinths.