The Ashes of Old Wishes

by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

  This sthranger was certainly the most mysterious lookin' crachure, man or mortial, ever seen before in Tipperary. At a fair, whin one person stops to look at a strange sight, another pushes up, then another and another, so while Joey was takin' his full of a look, a crowd the size of a funeral swayed this way an' that, every mouth spachless and every eye poppin' wild.

  Over a round, red face that was fringed by redder whuskers, the wuzzard wore a tall, peaked cap, an' he had a long red dress with silver moons an goold stars sprinkled all over it. He talked haughty and commanding, and you could hear him half the fair away.

  "Yer past, prisint, an' yer fuchure," he was sayin'. "The hidden saycrits of yer life rayvealed for a bit of silver! Come on, good people! Me fadder was a Aygyptian an' me mudder was a African. I'm the siventh son of a siventh son of a siventh son," he says. "Is there any saycrit yez'd like diskivered. Is there anything yez'd like to know what yez would do?"

  An' then an' there, ferninst the brown tint, Joey straightened stiff as a gun, for a pro-ject shot intil his mind with a swiftness that no other pro-ject had ever displayed itself there before in Joey's whole life.

  Although Hooligan knew well that the loikes of thim forchune-tellers sell their sowls to Sattin for the power of foretellin', yet the smith was mortial hungry to find out the name of the thief that stole Blackie, so he raysoned with himself this away: "Well, if he's sold his sowl, that was before I met him, and since he's lost anyway, I can do him no harm."

  "I'll tell yer past for nawthin', an' thin if yer satisfied with the strength of me power, I'll tell yer prisint an' yer fuchure for eight pince," bawled the soothersayer, lookin' hard with his little yallow eyes at Joey.

  At thim worruds, though feelin' all the time in the marrow of his bones that this raysonable offer was only a timptaytion from the Divil, Joey began to argyfy with himself agin, and he says, "Be-dad, if Sattin has informayshun to sell, an' I pay him square an' honest for that same informayshun, sure there's no fayvors, granted on ayther side. He gives me what I bargain for, an' I pay him for what I get. Thin, there's no bones broke," says he.

  There was always an irrayligious sthreak in thim Hooligans.

  Thinkin' this away, the smith was standin' as I've tould ye, with one hand deep in his pocket, feelin' for the money, and his brows knitted, whin suddin the wuzzard stretched out a hand an' touched Joey on the showlder.

  "Come in, me poor man," says the maygician. "I see plain the throuble that's wound up on the inside of ye. An' 'tis me that can unwind it."

  There was something so confidential and at the same time so cocksure in the way the wuzzard spoke, that the smith hesitayted no longer. Although his conscience could have been heard acrass the lane, hollerin' at him, an' although he was a good dale frightened, still, without a worrud, he follyed Sattin's immissary intil the booth, an' the wuzzard pulled shut the flap of the tent. Thin the two sat on stools just ferninst aich other. The smith's big hand thrimbled a little whin the maygician took it up an' began peerin' intil the hard, black, horny palm.

  "I'll begin on yer past an' yer prisint," says the wise man. An' with that, he shut both of his two eyes. Joey waited anxious for the first worruds, an' whin they came, they were so wondherfully thrue that the smith blinked with astonishment.

  "Ye're a smith!" says the Wuzzard.

  "My sowl," gasped Joey to himself. "He niver before in all his life seen me, an' I niver till this minute set eyes on the soothersayer."

  "Ye have niver been very rich," says the Aygptian, thriumphant.

  "Look at that now! No more have I," gasped Joey.

  "But if ye were only rich, ye'd be a raymarkable man," the wuzzard says, solemn. That capped everything. Joey had always and ever since childhood said that same thing to himself, but no livin' sowl before had ever a-greed with him. That one bit of informaytion alone was worth more than the eight pence.

  "Ye've had throuble," wint on the forchune-teller.

  "I have! Lots of it," cried Joey, wagging his head pitiful.

  "An' yer wife is sometimes onraysonable with ye," the wuzzard says.

  The cowld pusperation started out on Joey's forehead. "Say no more," he says, growin' hoarse. "I'd give fi' pounds if only Nancy could hear ye say thim worruds. Here's the eight pince," he says. "Ye know me past like a book. Niver mind goin' over me prisint. I know that as well as ye do yerself. Unfold me fuchure," says the smith.

  Joey could hear the crowd whuspering and sniggering just outside the tent door, but so entranced was the smith with wondher that he gave them no heed.

  The soothersayer opened his eyes wider an', as he glared intil the smith's hand, wint on talkin'. An' he spoke hollow: "Ye'll get a letther," says the raymarkable man. "An' ye'll go on a journey," he says hurrying. "An' some of yer wife's relaytions'll take down sick, an' ye'll be rich someday, but 'tis little good that'll do ye, for ye'll not live long afther; an' yer wife'll be a great dale happier in her next marriage than she's been in this one. I think yer wife's name is Nancy," says the siventh son, suddenly frownin' gloomy up at Hooligan. "At laste there's a Nancy in yer hand," he says.

  For a moment the smith was nonplushed, as well he might be; his face grew crimson. Thin he broke out: "Do you mane to tell me," he says, chokin', "that me wife—Nancy's her name, sure enough—do you mane to tell me that Nancy'll marry agin afther I'm dead and gone?" Joey widened his palm and frowned down into his own hand, the same as if he could read the signs himself.

  "I'm only tellin' what I see plain in yer hand," says the soothersayer, cowld an' savage. "Don't crass me," he says. "Give me back yer paw. It isn't the likes of ignerant smiths that has the saycrits of the fuchure," says he.

  Joey was still for one bitther minute; thin he bridled up. "Tell me," he says, "is the man she's to marry a little wiry fellow who wears a hairy cap?"

  The wuzzard bent back Joey's fingers till they cracked and peered down a long time.

  "I see in yer hand a hairy cap on the head of a little wiry man," rayplied the forchuneteller at last.

  "Once more, answer me this: Is the little villain a schoolmasther?" axed the smith.

  "He is, no less!" answered the wuzzard imaget.

  "She rayfused Maurteen Cavanaugh, the schoolmasther, six times before we were married," says the smith, grittin' his teeth. "I'll go home now an' bate the life out of him," says he, startin' to get up.

  "Have sinse," says the wuzzard, putting out his hand. "He has yit not an idee of what's comin', nor has Nancy, nor will they have till yer dead a year an' a day. There'd be no satisfaction in batin' a man onless ye towld him what ye were batin' him for, would there? An' if ye towld the schoolmasther, ye'd be the mock of the counthry. No, no, no, I have a betther way nor that," says the wuzzard, taking out of his pocket something that was like a snuffbox. "I have an enchanted powdher here that I med special for the Imperor of Boolgaria, on just such an oc-casion as this. Now, for four silver crowns, I'll give ye enough to make Nancy hate the schoolmasther all her life an' even afther."

  With hand dipped far intil his pocket and one leg stretched, the smith strove to cogitate. The wise man mintioned four silver crowns in the same disrayspectful tone of voice in which he might say "four little petaties".

  But, so far as Joey was consarned—an' the smith was, by no manner of manes, a stingy man—thim worruds gave him a toothache in his heart. Though four crowns would almost buy a foine young pig, the pain was not for the loss of the money alone, mind ye, but it came mostly from the needcessity of spindin' a sum like that for any such shuperflous purpose. Howandever, he answered nothing at all just thin; he only sunk a little lower on the stool, flinging one leg dayjected over the other an' his chin burried in the folds of his new cravat.

  The wuzzard leaned over an' spoke confaydential. "This same powdher med the Quane of Swuzzerland thry to pizen the King of Rooshia—ah, thin, wasn't that same King of Rooshia a divil among the girls!" says the maygician, smilin' roguish an' pensive. "Many's t
he time he sint for me to ate dinner at his house. If I'd known 'twas agin him the powdher was to be intended, I'd never have sowld it to the Imperor of Boolgaria." He dhropped Joey's hand and propped his head on his own hand, his elbow on his knee.

  "That's the way the royalty used to be cutting up. Poor people never know how lucky and contented they are. The Boolgarian slipped a taste of that same powdher into the Quane of Swuzzerland's punch one night whin we were all at a christening, an' it thwisted her feelings the other way altogether. Before that, she used to be langwidging afther the Rooshin." The wuzzard sighed raygretful. "Blessings be on thim ould happy days," he says, shakin' his head, "whin me an' the royalty used to wandher in one crowd from place to place, seekin' nothing but divarshin, an' we all as sociable an' as common in our ways an' talk with aich other as, saving yer prisence, a flock of geese." At this, his voice broke into a sigh. "Hi ja!" says he.

  The longer the Aygyptian talked about kings and quanes an' high s'ciety, the smaller four crowns grew in Joey's eyes; they dwundled and they dwundled till, whin the wuzzard stopped an' hung his head sorrowful undher thim happy raymimbrances, a silver crown seemed about the vally of a copper fardin.

  Straightening himself up, the smith said, "The price is not so onraysonable if the enchantment does its worruk," says he. "An' I'll take the chanst," he says. "But if it fails—if it doesn't purvent me widdy marryin' that man—begorra, if ye'll ever crass me path ag'in, I'll make surgent's worruk of ye. Mind that now," says he.

  "I give ye lave," says the wuzzard, thumping his knee umphatic.

  Well, what could Joey do but count the four crowns out of his leather bag, an' so disturbed was he about Nancy and the schoolmasther that after he had safely stowed away the powdher in the bottom of his leather purse, he was actwilly goin' out of the tint without axin' one worrud of Blackie, whin the bleatin' of a sheep which was bein' druve past outside, called to his mind the ould misfortune; so the lad turned, hurried, an' sat himself on the stool ag'in.

  "I want ye to tell me," he says flusthered, "who was the blaggard that stole me pet lamb last Christmas Eve night," says he. "I must bate someone, or me heart'll bust inside of me. Sendin' me back the price by Father Cassidy, as he did, won't save the thief, nor the axin' of me pardon by the same manner and manes won't relayse him. Tell me his name, for salt won't save him."

  "I saw all that in yer hand the first minute," sneered the maygician.

  "Then why didn't ye tell it?" cried Joey, turnin' hot on the soothersayer.

  "Ax yerself why I didn't," says the wuzzard, high an' lofty. "I only agreed to tell yer own past, prisint, an' fuchure for eight pince. There was no bargain I can raymimber of to go over your farm an' tell the past, prisint, an' fuchure of all your pigs an' cows an' sheep. I'd like to see meself," says the wuzzard. "Shame on ye!" he says.

  Joey wasn't what ye might call lightfooted at an argyment, so he could think of no answer. All the same, he had a dull, hurt feeling that, in some way, he was being chated. So he threw a surly grunt and an ugly eye at the Aygyptian.

  "None of yer black looks, me man," says the forchune-teller, swaggerin' his head. "Fair worruds will sarve ye betther here, me lad," he says.

  Joey, at that, let a growl out of him that sounded like an impty barrow goin' over the stones, an' begorra, at the sound of it, the soothersayer put on a friendlier face an' spoke more modified. "I'll tell ye what I'll do," he says, confidin', "just so as to sind ye away satisfied. There's some questions I'm forbid to answer. The powers that have me in conthrol won't let me tell all I know. But, barrin' such things as I'm forbid to dishclose, for another shillin', I'll answer any four questions ye're amind to ax about the forchune of yer sheep. An' loathe enough am I to tell a bastes forchune at any price. It takes all me power. I haven't the strength of a cat for hours afther," he says.

  Still sour-faced an' sullen, Joey took another shillin' from the leather bag an' tossed it at the Aygyptian, sayin' threatenin' as he did so, "Now go on. Tell me the past, prisint, an' fuchure of me sheep, an' tell it thrue," he growled.

  The wuzard must have been a fighting man himself, for afther he got the last shillin' in his pocket, he brustled up, an' this time looked Joey square in the eye, an' the look he gave was so study an' so belittlin' that the big smith felt himself rayly growin' kind of cowering.

  "Raymimber, I'm only to be axed questions," says the maygician. "But I don't mind tellin' ye that yer sheep has no prisint or fuchure; it only has a past. It was kilt an' ate long ago. That's why ye got back the money instid of the baste. But ax yer four questions, an' ax thim all at once," says he.

  Joey wrunkled his brows an' for a while puzzled hard. Then, he says, says he, "First an' foremost, tell me the name of the man that stole me sheep. That'll be the first question. Thin ye'll unfold to me how he managed to get the baste away so quick an' complete. Thirdly," he says, "ye'll expatiate why the thief sint the money back by Father Cassidy, or why he sint it back at all. An' lastly, ye'll tell me, since there's a thief in the parish, why it is that he niver stole anything before nor since. Do that, an' ye'll take a powerful load off me mind," says he.

  All this time, the wuzzard, his chin in his hand, was watchin' Joey with hawk's eyes, an' whin Hooligan had finished, the wise man picked up the smith's hand, an' afther peerin' intil it a full minute, began bending the palm, an' slapping it an' twisting the fingers till Joey cried out with hurt.

  "I niver saw anything so mystarious," says the wuzzard. "There's one thing I can't make out for the life of me. Was the sheep stole at night or in the daytime? Yer hand don't show which it was."

  With that, Hooligan, growin' impatient, up an' tould the time of night it all happened, an' in tellin' that, relayted everything else he knew consarning the sarcumstances.

  The last worrud wasn't out of his mouth before the wuzzard, with a groan, started up from his stool.

  "Wait a minute," he says whusperin'. "Must make a saycrit incantaytion.' Saying this, he went behind a black curtain which hung acrass the back pa-art of the tint. The cloth was left a little dhrawn, an' what did Joey see inside, sittin' on a box, but a skilliton's bare head, an' around the head was laid a row of bones.

  The smith was staring, horrified, when the maygician, afther his saycrit incantaytion, came out and sat down again. Joey caught a quare, sthrong smell coming from the soothersayer. 'Twas some like the smell of whuskey.

  "I find," says the maygician, "that I'm forbid to tell the name of the purloiner, but I'll give ye such a thrue dayscription of him that ye can go from the door of this tint an' lay yer hands on his showldher.

  "Listen: First, he's a near neighbor; that's why he got the lamb away so quick an' so complate. Next, he's an honest man; that's the rayson he niver stole before nor since. He's a rayligious, man, too; ye may know that by the way he ran to Father Cassidy.

  "Lastly, an' by this sign ye may know him best of all: he's powerful proud; so a-mazin' proud that, rather than let his hunger be known to the kindly-hearted neighbors about, he'd commit sheep-staylin', the most disgraceful of all criminal crimes. Don't be too hard on the unfortinit sowl, for I tell ye, his need was great that black time. And now," says the wuzzard, getting up and guiding Joey gently toward the door, "afther that dayscription, ye're a dull man if ye can't go out an' lay yer hand on him."

  Bekase Joey didn't like to admit himself a dull man, an' bekase, too, the maning of things always came to him not sudden, but afther awhile, the lad was contint to ax no more questions, bein' sartin sure that the name itself would drift in on his mind during the journey home.

  Ye may believe what ye like but the wondher-struck, satisfied look on the smith's face as he marched out of the maygician's tint into the waitin' crowd med the Aygyptian's fortune that day.

  Howandever, sorra mind did Joey mind the stares of the pushin' crowd, an' just as little attintion did he give to their impident questionings, but, showldering his way through the throng, he welted his brogues down the sthree
ts of the town an' out intil the quiet counthry lane. The spring twilight was just settlin' down over the white of the hawthorn bushes and the new green of the meadows. As he wint along, his thoughts were thrippin' an' throwin' aich other.

  Instead of one mysthery to dale with, now Joey Hooligan had two; that about his wife, Nancy, an' Maurteen almost smothered the first. Oh, how he longed to grip his two hands in the schoolmasther's hair. But no, he must kape that throuble covered in the bottommost hole of his heart, for very shame sake, if for nothing else.