The irony is, however, that I had no sooner returned to my lodgings and practice than I received a wire I from an old college classmate, whom I may have mentioned once or twice in our Baker Street rooms, Lynwood Reginald McCabe, that necessitated precipitous action.
At the point when I began the serious study of medicine, he was studying mathematics and later went into architecture, developing quite a name for himself and opening his own offices. His strength, as is my understanding, was his emphasis on function, and his designs included grocery markets and barber shops, as I recall, and eventually banks and centres of finance. He has long since retired and bought a sheep ranch in southern Ireland. I had not thought of him in years, and here was this note nearly begging me to drop everything and come to his aid—in Ireland of all places!
I packed, arranged yet again for two of my long-suffering colleagues, to whom I’m greatly indebted, to divide my patients between them for the duration, and found myself before dawn standing in the swirling mist trackside at Victoria Station. There followed multiple rail connections, two ferries, more rail connections, at least one omnibus, and cabs to the extent that I’ve lost count, I finally arrived at the Bottle Hill Hotel on the main street of the tiny town of the same name some 45 miles north of Cork.
The proprietor sent word of my arrival to McCabe who dispatched a car and by seven p.m., when it was still warm and light. I was sitting on the porch of my old friend’s villa overlooking a long stretch of hilly green pasture that was thick with grazing sheep and lambs, who filled the atmosphere with their plaintive “baahs” as the shepherds and their dogs coaxed them to other ranging areas.
As of yet, despite my vigorous enquiries, McCabe would not come immediately to the point to explain either the reason he sent for me or the apparent urgency of his letter. From where I sat, he seemed as fit as a fiddle, and all seemed placid enough. It was over a simple but plentiful supper prepared and served by his staff that he finally explained the purpose of my rushed visit.
“Watson,” he began with a forkful of lamb and carrot casserole paused halfway to his mouth, “I asked you to come because I have a bit of a mystery on my hands.”
“Well, then, McCabe, I am flattered by your faith in my prowess, but I fear that over the years, despite my best efforts, I am not in the same league as my friend Sherlock Holmes, and he, as you may know is in retirement and seclusion, not to be disturbed under any circumstance.”
“Oh, I had no idea. But I did not ask for Mr Holmes, I asked for you—because my mystery seems to have a medical basis, and naturally your reputation as a physician is known far and wide.”
I must say I could feel myself blush at this remark.
“Watson, before I explain the problem, I must preface it by relating some of its circumstances. My ranch manager is a man named Donald O’Neary. He’s been with me for many years. All my crops, sheep, other livestock, and land are under his supervision. Some days ago, he mentioned in passing to me that he’d noticed a hedge of blackthorn bushes had sprung up near one of the stream crossings.”
[Ah! Blackthorn! Fascinating stuff! I could and should write a monograph solely on this bush and its berries. It’s said that Christ’s crown of thorns was made from it. And blackthorn is used to make magic wands! In fact, Little People are supposed to live in its branches! Heinous crimes, even village genocide, are known to have had at their heart assumptions and presumed knowledge about blackthorn! This is not a bush to be trifled with, Mrs Hudson!]
McCabe continued: “Donald shouldered a shovel, rake, and shears and began to march across the pasture. I suggested that he take his son, Tieg, along or another man, but he can be obstinate and said they had their own work to do and there was no reason, in any case, as he was perfectly capable of handling the task himself. Altogether he seemed happy and in good health. That was in the morning, and when he wasn’t present to supervise moving the flocks.
“In the afternoon, Tieg went looking for him. About an hour later one of the shepherds rushed in and said that they had found Donald sound asleep near the stream, but they couldn’t get him to awaken. They were bringing him in, and I sent for the doctor. We tried to make Donald comfortable in his own bed in his own house behind this one. It was then we discovered that there was a small circle of fungus growing on his chest. The local doctor, Dr Abernathy, who is about half our age, mind you, confirmed that Donald was unconscious and confirmed that there was a fungus growing on his chest, but all he could prescribe was castor oil. Otherwise there was nothing he can do because Donald clearly had been tampering with the fairies.”
I jumped up and exclaimed, “Unconscious! Fairies! Why are we sitting around? Show him to me!”
“There’s no hurry, Watson. You see, all this happened a week ago, and he seems not to have changed at all.”
“A coma?” I asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I asked for you.”
Fairies! Holmes, can you believe it? I was in for one rude awakening after another!
“You say that the local physician cannot help the man because your man is under a fairy’s curse?”
“I fear that is accurate enough. But you see, the doctor is a child of this land. He grew up here, went to Dublin and then London to receive his medical training and returned to be of use to his own people. As a result, it seems the community’s folklore is as alive to him as it was in his ancestors.”
“Enough of this. Show me your man.”
I grabbed my bag and we went out the door. McCabe led me to an outbuilding that lay near his home. Before we reached the door, a young man exited and came towards us. He was 20 years old or so, possessed a strong, dark body that was covered by a pair of baggy, brown trousers and a long-sleeved, red-plaid, woolen shirt. His pants were held up by a pair of yellow suspenders.
“Dr Watson, this is Tieg O’Neary, Donald’s son.”
We perfunctorily shook hands. It was difficult to get out of the boy any information that could help me. His principal communication were words to the affect of “It doesn’t seem right. I don’t know what to think. Do you think you can do something? It just couldn’t be fairies!”
I finally pushed past the boy, saying, “Let me be the judge of that!”
Inside the cabin, I found in his bed an older man of the same sort as the boy. I began my examination. His pulse, temperature, skin tone were all consistent with a man who was sound asleep. I could see his eyes moving under his closed lids in the manner of a man who was dreaming intensely. I pulled down the blanket to reveal his chest, and yes, there was a circle of lichenous fungus about five inches in diameter encircling a patch of greasy, blistered and bubbling, greenish brown mold. I had never seen anything quite like this, and I had to force myself from turning my eyes away!
McCabe touched my arm and said quietly, “It has grown. It was only a small patch when we found him a week ago, perhaps an inch across.”
Young Tieg O’Neary said then, “I remember he laughed as he was leaving. He jokingly said he hoped that they weren’t fairy bushes, those he was planning to pull out! My father never took that sort of thing seriously. Usually, he would play along when the subject of fairies came up among our staff and the villagers, but he always told me that the folks around here were ignorant and knew no better and would even go so far as to hallucinate music that they claimed was fairy music when he knew perfectly well that there was no music at all.”
Tieg went on to explain that it was common enough for some of their neighbours to leave lights on or candles lit in the windows at night to ward off the beings. On the other hand, he’s heard of some in other districts who left whiskey out at night for the benefit of the fairies.
What am I to make of all this nonsense. Well one thing is for certain: I have an extremely ill patient, and I had better find out what what’s ailing him. I saw to the comfort of Donald O’Neary, and McCabe arranged to have one of the less nervous neighbours stay with him all night. We then adjourned to the main house.
&nbs
p; As we smoked around the fire, I realized that I hadn’t seen O’Neary’s wife, the mother of Tieg. Approaching the subject indirectly, I could see that Tieg, as well as McCabe, was reticent to discuss the subject, but eventually I learned that some 15 years before, when Tieg was but a boy and McCabe had not yet even come to the area, Tieg’s mother was kidnapped from her own house, or presumed so, and was never seen again—though, of course, there were rumours for a time that she had been spotted in Dublin and London and even Paris. The majority opinion in the neighbourhood was that she was “taken by fairies!” Frankly, I’m sorry I brought it up as all I did was dredge up bad memories.
They also explained how the morning following Tieg’s finding O’Neary, McCabe took a party out to see what they could see. In fact, there was a hedge of blackthorn bushes near the stream, and one of them had been hacked down and lay broken on the ground. Tieg showed McCabe the spot where he had found his father laying on his back motionless. They saw nothing else at all that suggested wrong-doing or mischief of any sort. It was just as though the man had had a stroke and fell where he was standing.
Before I retired I made clear that if I was to help, I had to see the spot myself and interview the doctor, and that was arranged for the next morning. McCabe showed me the room that would be at my convenience during my stay. It is quite comfortable and has three lamps, a four-poster bed, a closet, and a sturdy oak secretary where I am sitting and composing this note to you. I hope to add the sequel with more data tomorrow before I post it to you.
John H. Watson, M.D.
June 14th 1924
To Continue, Holmes:
Before dawn this morning, I was introduced to Dr Abernathy (which to his credit seemed unperturbed by the early hour), and we discussed the matter over breakfast. I questioned him quite firmly without stating outright that I believed him to be incompetent. Nevertheless, here follows an approximation of our conversation.
* * * *
“Dr Abernathy,” I began, “I have examined O’Neary and, while his symptoms are indeed curious, I’m told that without benefit of a thorough examination, you have decreed the case hopeless and the work of fairies, and, furthermore, you’ve declared castor oil—castor oil!—is some sort of universal cure that will eradicate the fungus growth!”
“Dr Watson, I would hesitate to put any of the facts in exactly those words, but my examination was not as perfunctory as you’ve been led to believe, and, furthermore, I am expert on the maladies of these parts, of its culture and peoples. And I in no way suggested that Donald O’Neary’s case was hopeless. Please take it as fact that I pride myself in knowing how to speak to my patients in language they understand. For example, under normal circumstances would you explain to the parents of an injured girl that because her patellar tendon attaches to the tibial tubercle on the front of the tibia and because that tendon is also attached to the bottom of the patella where the quadriceps tendon is attached, when the patellar tendon ruptures, the patella therefore loses its anchoring support to the tibia? Or would you simply say that she has injured her knee?
“In that same vein,” he continued, “it is sometimes necessary for me to simply tell my patients that they have been visited by fairies.”
Here, regardless of his stated rationale, I was shocked and must have looked every inch of it.
“Though, I admit,” he went on after a pause, “in fairness and in thinking it over, I was surely wrong to make such a suggestion to McCabe, who is a thoroughly educated man. In my enthusiasm, I suppose I sometimes fail to separate one order of patient from another. But, tell me, doctor, how would you describe a fairy?”
“Me? Why I wouldn’t have a reason to try!”
“Humour me.”
“Well, I suppose a fairy is defined as a tiny humanoid only a few inches tall with wings and lives among the flowers.” Then I was hit with an inspiration. “Like Tinker Bell in Peter Pan!”
“Well, it is true that the popular magazines and the arts generally have encouraged that image and fanned it to the point where it is now pervasive and utterly taken for granted. To the degree even that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was fooled by the Cottingley fairy photographs, which were clumsily contrived by two children.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” I ventured. “It sounds as though you have no more patience for fairies than I do.”
“Those tiny fairies that you just described, doctor, are the product of the fertile imaginations of elitist town dwellers and city folk, of poets and playwrights, of painters and artists and illustrators who set themselves above country folk and who have perceived themselves as sophisticated and modern, especially at the close of the nineteenth century. The fairies of rural Ireland, however, are a different matter entirely.”
I was about to interrupt, but he would have none of it.
“The Celtic people have passed down tried and true information about fairies for some two millennia. Stop, doctor, and contemplate what a gulf of time two thousand years is! Mind you, these people couldn’t read or write so they kept their culture alive and protected the well-being of their families and communities through oral tradition. If you build your house over a fairy path, keep the doors open at night to allow the fairies free passage, otherwise your livestock will sicken and die. Keep your eye on newborn babes, as the fairies will substitute one of their own if you aren’t careful. Do not disturb a heap of stones in a field, as the fairies who live inside the pile will cause you no end of trouble. Calling them ‘the gentry’ or ‘the good folk’ or ‘the fair family’ or suchlike terms will ease their tempers and divert their malice. There are thousands of such directives—changing surprisingly little over time—and surprisingly specific to regions. The rules and perceptions can change radically from village to village, from county to county, even from nation to nation. For instance, there are the pobel vean in Cornwall, the brownies in Scotland, the corrigans in Brittany, the tylwyth teg in Wales, and countless others. And, of course, here in Ireland, we have the sidhe. All remarkably similar in some ways and yet distinct in others. And from thence derive all the leprechauns and elves and most of the other wee folk that haunt these lands!”
I was aghast that this doctor had the temerity to avoid my questions as thoroughly as a politician! I tried to steer the conversation back toward subjects that I understand. “What do you say is the nature of the fungus?”
“It is a simple mycelium fungus,” Abernathy answered, “which is the root cause of fairy rings in soil and circles of mushrooms in fields and forests. These fungi can grow quite enormous if not eradicated, you know. In O’Neary’s case, it is obvious that the fungus has somehow transferred itself to his skin. Though not common, this is not unheard of either, and a distillate made from boiled castor oil will prove quite effective if rubbed into the contaminated area.”
Fairy rings! Fairy traditions! Fairy curses! I’m sick to death of hearing such nonsense!
After breakfast and after that so-called doctor exited, Tieg and McCabe took me to the spot where O’Neary had been found unconscious. It was a good hike, and as neither McCabe nor I are as agile as we once were in our younger days, it was slow going. We aimed toward Bottle Hill (the tor, not the town) and which is also called Knock Magh, and Tieg volunteered that local legends held that there was a fairy city deep under the hill and that it was honeycombed with passages and tunnels of pure gold.
“But, doctor, I don’t believe anybody has ever chosen to investigate, as everyone believes the legends—more or less,” Tieg said. “Even father, choosing not to incite the distrust of our neighbours, has always respected the ban and has prevented the sheep from grazing anywhere near it. All this acreage has lain fallow for years.”
It was close to midday when we crossed a stream by way of a tranquil bridge and soon afterward had crossed the pasture and came within sight of an enormous rough column of stone with a more-or-less pointed top. It was a single stone about the height of three men and alone in the midst of the field. Yo
u can see it in your mind’s eye, I’m sure, Holmes, as it reminded me of those monuments of stone that you and I encountered in Cornwall.
“What is this?” I asked pointing to the column.
McCabe said, “Oh, that is just an old standing stone. They are common in this land. Legend has it, of course, that they are some sort of fairy signpost that marked some crossroads on a fairy path. Others say that they are prehistoric, built by long forgotten peoples.”
I was so exasperated at all this fairy talk I had to keep my temper. I couldn’t help but imagine how you would react to all this nonsense and remembered how you proved that whole Baskerville business with all its legends to be fraudulent.
[Ha! Watson! You assume too much. Fairy bushes and fairy paths are very real to people who seldom travel more than twenty miles from their villages. Fairy wisdom has lived for good reason through time immemorial. As to that other matter, all I did was show that an unscrupulous man had used the Baskerville legend for murder. I did nothing to prove or disprove the legend one way or another!]
Nearby, perhaps twenty yards away, there was the hedge that was the centre of so much trouble. There were about fifteen of the plants growing close together. At the end of the hedge was a weathered hole about three feet across and the dead and dried bush that had been cast aside.
“You say the stone marked a path,” I said. “Is there a real path, and where exactly is it?”
“Over here, Dr Watson,” McCabe said, and in a few moments we came to a worn pebbly path. I asked the two men to stay just where they were for the time being as I wanted to look around, and I am proud to say that I began my investigation in emulation of you, Holmes. I had even troubled to bring a small magnifying glass. The ground was covered with footprints and shoeprints, some old, some brand new it seemed. There were also some marks that, I thought, a large snake might have made.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 31