The Ashes of Old Wishes

by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

  "Still," Bridgeen continued, "It isn't for thim I came to ask you."

  "Tare an' ages, what is it, thin? Ye're makin' me narvous! I niver saw such a quare little colleen."

  "A fortnight ago last Monday"—and Bridgeen bit her lips to hide the tremble—"my mother died; and oh, how can I live longer without her!"

  The Leprechaun slowly wagged his head and clucked his tongue sympathetically.

  Bridgeen faltered. "I know she's in Heaven, as Father Cassidy says, and that it's cruel and wicked to wish her back to life again; but I know, too, that even if she is happy with the angels, she still must miss little Paudeen, the baby, sometimes—and, Misther Leprechaun, the one wish I have is that you'll let me see my mother for a minute, just for a minute, won't you?" Without realizing the boldness of it, she stretched her hands out to him, all the pleading of the world in her eager eyes.

  The little cobbler shook his head sadly. "What good'd that do?" he sighed.

  "If you only knew how my heart aches and aches for a sight of her when I go home and find her not there! You don't know what a terrible thing it is to be without your mother, Leprechaun, do you?"

  "I don't," he answered, wiping his eyes with the corner of his apron. "I never had a mother, but I can aymagine. I wish I could bring her to ye, acushla, but it's beyant me power, I'm sorry to say. Ye see, she's a blessed sperrit up in Heaven, and we Fairies are only onblessed sperrits down here, ye undherstand; an' it's little the likes of her'd have to do with the likes of us. But maybe the talk I'm talkin' is too deep for ye, colleen. It's tayology," he said with a grand sweep of his hand.

  The last hope was gone. Her head sank forward in a despair too deep for tears. "Never again! O Mother! Mother!"

  The Leprechaun had pushed his spectacles high on his forehead and was vigorously wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "Stop, mavourneen," he said gruffly, ashamed of his weakness. "Now maybe it isn't so bad as all that. Whist now!" He paused a moment in deep thought, and a grim, determined look stole over his odd little face.

  "I'm goin', Bridgeen Daley," he said, getting up and tightening the strings on his leather apron. "Sthop yer cryin', an' dhry yer eyes. I'm off. I may get insulted an' I may be malthrated, and at the very laste, I'm sure to have an ackerymoneous argymint. Howandever, what I can do, I will do, an' what I can't do, I won't do, but I'll sthrive my best endayvors; so do you go and sit again undher that withered three, and we'll see what'll happen. Don't be afeared, for if a thousand fairies were there ferninst ye, they'd not harm a hair of yer purty head. But whatever ye do, stir not a stir, and spake not a worrud till the shadow of this three raiches yondher hazel bush. Goodbye. I'm off!" And flash! he was gone.

  Bridgeen went and sat under the tree as she was told. Presently she noticed how the stealthy shadow of the tree crept nearer and nearer the hazel bush. At last, the quivering tracings of the topmost branch, reaching out eager fingers, touched the bush.

  Bridgeen caught her breath and glanced around for some sign, but for the moment, there was none. The only moving things she saw were two belated bees, which, rising heavily laden from the sweetbriar bush at her side, buzzing and tumbling, started for home; and in the grass at her feet, a busy little brown spider was measuring off the outlines of a net and stopped now and then to listen, one slender arm lifted. The colleen looked reproachfully toward the white stone upon which had perched the Leprechaun. There it still shone dimly amongst the swaying rushes.

  "The time is past, and she isn't here. Oh, I wonder if she'll come," grieved Bridgeen.

  As if in answer to the thought, the rushes bowed low to the ground, and over their heads swept a cool wind that lifted the curls on the child's brow. Or was it the wind? Was it not rather soft, caressing fingers that were smoothing the brown hair back from her forehead?

  Bridgeen started to her knees with a sobbing, laughing cry of "Mother! Mother! My own mother!"

  For there, bending over her, was the white, gentle face she loved best in all the world. Never before had the child seen so much tenderness and peaceful happiness shining in the dear, patient eyes. Crying and laughing, Bridgeen flung herself into the arms outstretched for her.

  "Bridgeen asthore, acushla, machree!" Though the voice was as soft as the voice of the wind, it still held the same lingering tenderness that had soothed and comforted a thousand griefs and sorrows. And wonder of wonders, slowly about her shoulders closed the remembered pressure of her mother's arms.

  And now, with her head once more in its old place upon her mother's breast, all the cares, all the heartaches were forgotten.

  "Your lonesome cry brings me thus visible to you, alannah!"

  "O Mother, I've wanted you so much!" murmured Bridgeen with a sigh of measureless joy and relief.

  "But don't you know I am never away from you, asthore? I've felt every tear that you have shed, and every grief of your heart has been a pain to me."

  "Oh, if I had only known that, Mother, I wouldn't have grieved. I thought you were away from us entirely," cried the child.

  "Listen, Bridgeen, and mark my words," the mother warned, "for the time is short and I've many things to tell you."

  And then, with faces close, the two talked earnestly about many important things: how willingly Bridgeen must obey her father; how careful she must be to keep the stirabout from burning in the morning; but, above all, how watchful she must be to keep her brother Jamesy away from the fire. The colleen promised faithfully not to forget. And so they talked on lovingly, happily together.

  At last the mother said, "It is the children's bedtime, and you must be my own brave daughter and go to them. Keep well in your mind what I have said; be cheerful and contented, for we are not separated. And listen, mavourneen!

  "Tomorrow—the morning we had so long hoped for and planned for together, the day of your Confirmation—though you will not see me there, still I'll be kneeling happy at your side."

  "Mother, I'll be contened and happy always now. Indeed, indeed, I will."

  "Now hurry home, mavourneen," the mother whispered. "Run straight on without looking back. Have no fear, and remember!" Bridgeen felt a kiss on her forehead, and she knew that her mother was gone.

  So, her happy heart filled with satisfied longings, without once turning her head, she ran out into the fields, her spirit growing lighter and lighter at every step.

  On and on Bridgeen hurried, picking up her father's brogues as she passed the stile; and she never tarried till she came to her own door.

  There she found waiting for her, all bristling with excitement, Kathleen, Norah, Jamesy and Paudeen, and they were carefully guarding a long, white, pasteboard box, held jealously between them.

  "Oh, Bridgeen, Father Cassidy was just here, an' he said he met the Leprechaun, an' he left this box an' said he'd skiver Jamesy for pokin' at the fire, an' for us all not to so much as lay a finger on the knot of the cord till you came home." It was Kathleen who spoke.

  With shaking fingers and amid eager proffers of help from Kathleen, Norah, Jamesy, and even little Paudeen, the string was untied and the lid lifted. And what do you think was in that same box?

  Why, nothing else but the prettiest white dress and veil and wreath ever worn in the parish of Ballinderg.

  The next morning, the good old archbishop leaned over Bridgeen Daley where she knelt.

  He thought that in all the years of his life, he had never seen so happy a face.

  And do you wonder that to this day, Bridgeen will listen to no doubting or unkind word spoken of the Leprechaun?

  -

  The Monks of Saint Bride

  THERE was a decent bit of a man, yer honor, named Michael Bresnahan, who, till a few years ago, lived over in that little fisher village under the cliff, and he had a good, sensible lump of a woman for a wife, named Katie.

  No one could say a word against Katie; she was thrifty, she was clean, she was hardworking—only she used to be faulting Michael, and faulting him, and faul
ting. If the decent man happened home of an evening with a sign of a little drop of drink on him, one would think from the way Katie went on that it was after robbing a church he was.

  Well, one day, Michael said to himself that he'd bear it no longer, so he up and went to his wife's relations, especially her sisters' husbands, to ask their advice about what he should do. They pitied him, indeed—sure, no one could do less—but all the counsel they could scrape together to give the unfortunate man was just the kind of encouragement relations always give: "Arrah, God help ye, me poor man, don't I know, and bear it the best ye can!"

  Well, there wasn't much comfort in that, so Michael put in the next day going around, asking the neighbors what he'd do with Katie, and everyone freely gave the advice the neighbors always give under such circumstances: "Musha, God help ye, me poor man, and ye're a fool for standing it!"

  Now, taking public advice on family matters soon grows into a pleasant habit with anyone, so, after Michael had exhausted the cottages on both sides of the village street, he took the road in his hands, and was making his way down to Haggarty's public house at the crossroads, when who should he meet up with, ambling along on the gray pony, but his reverence, Father John Driscoll.

  "This is me chance to get in the first word before Katie sees his riverence," he thought.

  And what does the blundering lad do but stop the priest in the middle of the road and there make his bitter complaint. That was the rock Michael split on, for the clergyman, without a word of warning, up with his whip and hit Bresnahan two rousing welts over the legs, and then when the poor man took to his heels, Father Driscoll galloped after, at every jump of his pony larruping Michael down the road and calling him such heart-scalding names that the very crows wouldn't pick his bones. You'd pity the state he was in after, and he sitting by the hedge rubbing his smarting legs.

  "There don't seem to be any rale appreciation of a good man in this worruld," he whimpered.

  That same night, Michael made up his mind to do something tremendous. So, bright and early the next morning, the desperate man slipped from the blue teapot on the dresser the last shilling in the house, and taking the road in his hands again off with him to Ballinderg to get the grand advice from Sheelah Maguire, the fairy doctor. It's she that was the deep-knowing crachure. And the advice that Sheelah gave him would raise the hair on your head: "Hand me the shillin'! All Souls' night'll be here soon, and whin it comes, d'ye go up to the monastery of Saint Bride an' help the monks, an' they'll help you."

  If one goes to the Fairies for counsel and afterwards doesn't follow what he's bid, it's certain sure he'll find himself twice as bad off as ever before.

  When Michael heard that same advice, the cold sweat broke out on his forehead, for no man in five hundred years had ever been bold enough to face the monks of Saint Bride.

  Where are the monks of Saint Bride, is it, yer honor? Why, God rest their souls, they're dead hundreds of years! That old ruin up on the cliff is where the monastery used to be.

  Troth and I must tell you of the monks of Saint Bride, or you'll never be able to rightly appreciate the terrible thing that happened to Michael Bresnahan that Halloween night.

  So you see that high bare cliff beyant?—Aill Ruahd they do be calling it—well, in the days when the five kings ruled over Ireland—and many a year ago that was—Black Roderick O'Carrioll with three hundred of his fighting men lived perched upon the very pinpoint of the hill. Right opposite, on that other bold headland where you see the ruins lying tumbled, dwelt the far-famed Monks of Saint Bride. And just as you see it now, between their stout old monastery and the castle of the O'Carrioll, the blue sea curved in like the half of a cartwheel.

  Barring these two habitations, there wasn't another strong house within forty miles; but only the cottages of the cowherds and of the swineherds and the low mud huts of the kerns.

  However, it's little the O'Carrioll cared for near neighbors, and it's little he bothered the monks with his visiting, and as for the monks, it's far from being sorry the holy men were to have the O'Carrioll keeping that way to himself.

  A fierce proud man was Black Roderick, and the greatest pleasure he took in life was in leading a hundred or two of his spears over the walls of some nobleman's castle and leaving its roof glowing blood red against the midnight sky.

  But though half the province of Leinster hated and feared the O'Carrioll, it wasn't that way at all with him in his own household, for, whatever was the reason, with all his stern, cold ways, there was many a man-at-arms who sat at the chief's table that would willingly have laid down his life to serve Black Roderick. But if the chief himself had any great liking for his men, he wasn't the one to be making much talk about it, and indeed they used to be saying that there was but one mortal man that he showed any fondness for and that same his only brother, the yellow-haired, pleasant-faced young Turlough. And it was no wonder for him to be fond of the lad the way he was, for a brighter-minded, comelier young fellow there wasn't to be found in the seven counties. Indeed, it's more like father and son the two men were than like brother and brother.

  All their days, they lived that way together, with their foraging and their games and their hunting and their feasting, happy and contented enough, I dare say, though it's little enough attention the two paid to prayers or to fasting or to any other pious thing. Nor at Christmas, nor Easter, nor on any other holy day did either of the two go next or near the monastery chapel of Saint Bride.

  In that way, they kept their lawless lives, living to themselves, for themselves, and not caring a ha'porth for Heaven or the crack of a finger for Hell. Sometimes on dark nights, when the torches would be glimmering on the far cliff, the old abbot would sadly shake his head. "Let them see to it," he would mutter. "What can anyone expect from the likes of that but misfortune on earth and torment hereafter."

  Well, the misfortune came at last, and when it did, a bitter, burning, incurable misfortune it was.

  One black midnight, the holy monks were awakened by a great noise of confused shouting and cheering passing along the road in the valley below them. And what should the good men see but the flare of a hundred torches held high by O'Carrioll's men above a dim crush of hard-driven cattle.

  "The O'Carrioll is home from his raiding," said Brother John. "I wonder who this time was the unfortunate that felt the edge of his sword."

  "God rest his soul the night, wherever he lies," sighed Brother Andrew. "And isn't it the marvel that Heaven has spared the heartless spoiler so long!"

  While the monks stood wondering what depredation Black Roderick was after doing, there suddenly fell a hard rapping upon the convent gate, and a voice strident as a trumpet startled the monastery: "Open! Open, I say! 'Tis the O'Carrioll bids ye!"

  Straightway there buzzed a hurried consultation among the brown brothers at the gate. While some were for letting him in, others brought staves and scythes and one hid a sword under his robe.

  However, at last the drawbridge was let down, indeed, and the gate was opened, as needs must be, and then two shadowy horses crossed the wide moat and stumbled into the abbey court.

  First of all plunged the O'Carrioll himself on the tall black horse that people used to be saying could fight as well as his master. And the figure of a woman is what Roderick carried in front of him, and she wrapped in his wide cloak; and at the black steed's haunches, on a panting white mare, rode Turlough, the brother, and by the strange, wild look on his face, the monks thought at first that maybe it was a deep wound that was on him and that it was for a leech the two men were coming.

  "Quick, Sir Abbott!" cried the dark man. "Out with your book, and marry the both of us here, for when this lady crosses my threshold, I wish her to go as my wife. That much I'll do for her father's daughter." So saying, he dismounted and helped his burden to the ground, and standing beside the girl, lifted her hand in his and then sternly waited.

  And Brother Paul was telling the next day how when Bla
ck Roderick took the lady's hand, young Turlough's face went deadly white and the lad's fingers made a sudden stealthy reach toward the sword hilt at his side; and sure everyone saw how the colleen (it's little more than a child she was) tottered and would have fallen if the O'Carrioll himself had not held her up.

  I never rightly heard the truth about the three of them, but I think there must have been something before that time between Turlough and the young colleen. Who was the lady and how came the friendship between herself and young Turlough was, you may be sure, more than a nine days' wonder at Saint Bride's.

  One morning, a rumor reached the monastery that the colleen was the O'Coffey's daughter, and that she had been stolen out of the West, but that couldn't be true, because the O'Coffey's daughter was being reared in France. And after that, some pilgrims were saying that the lady might be the child of the O'Donavon from Munster, but if that were true, half of Ireland would have been in arms against the O'Carrioll. Even Black Roderick wouldn't have dared the O'Donavon. So one way and another, the matter was bothering the friars at their beads and distracting them at their vespers till they could get no good of their prayers.