by Rab Fulton
The day went on but the boy, carefree and smiling, took no heed of the lengthening shadows. Eventually the sun decided to go to bed just as Finn was stepping into the woods that led to his mother’s house. The boy did not want to delay his return home any longer, for that would worry his mother. ‘It’s light enough yet. I’ll stick to the path and be home soon enough.’ He was a little nervous – ‘not because of fairies, oh no, they don’t exist’ – just because he had never been in the woods at night before. But he was not afraid; the evening was warm and sweet smelling; birds were singing evening songs, and there were no such things as fairies and magical creatures, oh no.
The darkness deepened, though, and whatever light there was fled. It was harder to see the path in front of him. Finn began to worry more than a little bit. When he heard the sound of the stream he felt relieved and scared at the same time. Relieved because finding the stream would mean that he was halfway home and still on the path; but that path led not only to the stream but also to the rickety wooden bridge where, so his mother had assured him, all manner of strange and terrible nocturnal creatures congregated.
On the boy walked. The sound of the water trickling grew louder, as did the crunch and crackle of his footsteps upon the woodland path. Soon he saw the bridge, lit up by starlight. It glowed in the darkness like a ghost, while beneath it was a blackness that seemed to move and breathe as if alive – alive and waiting. Finn’s feet moved more slowly. He clenched the pipes more tightly. It was only a bridge; that was all. If he ran he would be over faster than any fairy or demon from Hell could reach out of the shadows and snatch him. Seconds it would take him. Only seconds and he’d be across to the other side and if he kept on running, sure he’d be home in ten minutes or less.
He walked cautiously, the path crackling beneath his feet. Closer and closer he came to that awful ramshackle crossing. His mind was made up now. He would stop, take a deep breath and then, whoosh, he would race across it. He stopped walking, but oh how terrible! Though he had stopped moving he could still hear a crackling and crunching sound. Eyes wide, he stared down, but his feet were perfectly still. Something else was moving on the path behind him. Raising his pipes like a weapon, he turned round. There stood a skinny goat with huge horns on its head.
Finn screamed in terror; he turned back to the bridge and in an explosion of energy shot forward. Nearer and nearer the glowing frame of the bridge came; brighter and brighter it glowed and beamed like a white fire or a burning frost. So terrible it was that he closed his eyes even as his feet pounded on to its creaking, shifting, shaking frame that seemed to go on and on and on. ‘Nearly there,’ the boy gasped. ‘Nearly there.’
Then he smacked full force into something. He bounced backwards and fell on his back. Shocked, he opened his eyes and saw, there on the bridge in front of him, the very same goat. It too glowed in the starlight. But worse by far was the way the creature looked at the boy; scrutinising him with an awful alien intelligence.
Finn, trembling with fear, knew then that this was not an ordinary goat; this was a pooka, a magical shapeshifting trickster that could do him great harm. But the creature’s gaze softened as if satisfied with what it saw. And then it spoke.
‘Howya?’ the pooka said, with a wink. ‘Would they be your own pipes that you’re clinging on to for dear life?’
The trembling boy nodded his head.
‘How good are you?’
Finn sat up. He was scared, but no longer shocked. His sense of fear had faded, to be replaced by a sense of wonder. It was all true, all the stories his mother had told him about the magical creatures who walked the woods in the evening. Staring back at the goat he declared in a shaky voice, ‘I am the best piper in all of Ireland.’
‘Is that so,’ smirked the pooka. ‘Play me a tune then.’
Brave as he was stubborn, the boy determined to show this talking goat that even though he was small he feared nothing. He grabbed his pipes, furrowed his brow in concentration, flexed his fingers and set to with a mighty vigour. But oh, what a cacophony squealed and parped and screeched from the chanter! It was a sound like a thousand constipated cats meowling in pain while simultaneously farting in frustration.
The boy stopped with a gasp. He stared at the pooka as if challenging it to make a comment. But the magic goat merely shrugged. ‘Mmm,’ it mused. ‘You may need a little help there.’ So saying, it shook its head violently and a blast of sparks spurted out from the tips of its razor-sharp horns. Finn braced himself as the sparks, glowing like embers, covered him and his pipes. But the little lights did not burn. They merely touched the boy and his instrument and instantly vanished.
‘Try again,’ insisted the pooka.
Finn did as he was asked, but this time the result was very different. The instrument felt lighter and the boy more relaxed. Bellow and bag rose and fell beneath his elbows easy and untroubled. His fingers were more supple and assured, almost as if the chanter was guiding them gaily up and down its frame. Instead of an ugly racket, a sweet tune skipped out of the instrument playful and joyous.
‘Grand so,’ nodded the pooka. ‘Now, quick, follow me before my guests start complaining.’
Finn, still playing a wonderful tune, followed the goat as it trip-tropped over the bridge and then squeezed through a dense thicket of leaves and twigs. Finn stopped playing and pushed his way through the vegetation. Twigs scratched and leaves flapped but on he went until pop! he burst out the other side and discovered he was in a plain wooden hall, thickly packed with laughing and singing revellers. As the pooka shouted out, ‘Make way there!’ a narrow gap appeared in the middle of the crowd. The boy looked and to his amazement saw the strangest and most terrifying party-goers he had ever encountered. There were cackling witches here and wafting ghosts there. Skeletons rattled their bones and just in front of him, was that the spirit of the goose he had stolen last Christmas?!
Soon the cry went up, ‘Here’s the piper!’ The pooka waited for the boy to catch up with him then whispered in his ear. ‘Don’t be afraid. They’re in a good mood, but don’t take any food or drink they offer you. Just play a few tunes and then I’ll get you home again safe and sound.’
‘You promise?’ whispered the boy.
‘Well, let’s just say I’ll promise to try and get you safely home again.’ With that the goat cut off the conversation by banging a hoof loudly on the floor. A stool appeared beside him and the hellish crowd grew quiet. Finn sat on the stool and picked up his pipes. The pooka smiled and winked at him. The brave and stubborn boy closed his eyes and began playing.
The tunes danced and jigged out of the chanter, and the boy’s fingers danced and jigged with them, while his feet tapped time and his arms moved to the breathing of the bellows and bag. Even the skraiching of the witches did not distract him from his playing. He only took one glance at his audience, but quickly looked back to his instrument for what he briefly glimpsed was horrifying indeed. All around the hall magical beings danced and leapt while filling the air with blood-curdling screeches. Finn closed his eyes and played on, with each tune faster and wilder than the one before.
When he stopped to take a breath, the pooka banged the floor again. ‘Time to pay the piper,’ he cried. Sure enough, all those erlish creatures stopped their mad cavorting and formed an orderly queue. One by one they thanked the boy and handed him a golden penny. When the last creature – the ghost of the Christmas goose – dropped its penny in Finn’s hand the pooka hissed, ‘Now follow me, boy, as quick as you can, before my guests change their mind.’
Through the crowd the pooka and boy went. They pushed open a door and squeezed through a thick hedge. The boy tumbled out of the hedge and found himself back in the woods, on the path that led from the bridge to his mother’s house. ‘Slan abhaile,’ said the pooka with a crooked smile and a dangerous wink. Then the creature vanished and the boy was alone in the dark woods. Terrified that a witch or a skeleton might leap out and snatch him, he began to run as fast as his
short legs could take him.
Through the front door of his house he burst, and fell exhausted and weeping in front of his mother. ‘Thank God,’ she said, helping him up and hugging him close. ‘I was so worried when you had not come home.’
‘I’m so sorry Mother, I didn’t believe you. I went into the woods after dark and everything you said was true.’ He told her the whole story and when he finished put his hand in his pocket. ‘I’m not lying, Mother. Look, here are the gold coins.’ But when he open his hands there were only hazelnuts there.
His mother took one of the hazelnuts and quietly examined it. ‘You’re very lucky,’ she said, quietly. ‘They only played a trick on you. It could have been far worse. Let’s hope you’ve brought no magic back with you.’
‘But what about my pipes,’ wailed Finn. ‘They had magic on them and I played them better than any piper that has ever lived.’ With that he sat on a chair, made his instrument ready and began to play. But the magic was gone and the sound was awful, almost as bad on the ears as the screeching of the witches. Finn refused to believe he could not play. Harder he banged away at the bellows, tighter he gripped and pounded at the chanter. His mother called on him to cease his racket, but angry and upset the boy carried on louder and louder until the whole countryside was woken by his pipes as they wailed and screamed like a body being murdered.
From near and far the neighbours came racing, banging at the door and then pushing their way in. At the front was the priest, his eyes blazing as he pointed at the boy and demanded he cease in the name of God and the martyrs. Well, that crowd had no sympathy for a small boy in torment. They booed and catcalled and called him terrible names. But he would not be beaten down by anybody else’s opinions. He was stubborn and brave, but also clever and wise. Even as the noise of his detractors shook the tiles from the roof, the boy paused. He remembered the advice that the husband of the cousin of his mother had given him. Treat the pipes with kindness and patience.
Finn took a breath and found a quiet stillness inside him. ‘I don’t need magic,’ he told himself. Slowly he began playing again. This time the pipes responded to his gentle coaxing, and to the boy’s delight a simple tune drifted out from the chanter. The notes were soft and quiet but something about the manner of the boy caught the attention of his annoyed neighbours. Gone was his angry frown; his hands were no longer bunched up like fists. He looked calm and at ease. He looked, in fact, like a piper.
The crowd fell quiet. ‘Keep playing,’ said his mother. Finn did so but only for a little while. He was tired and it was late. But for the ten minutes or so that he played the neighbours smiled and tapped their feet in appreciation. When Finn finished playing every man, woman and member of the clergy there clapped and cheered. And that, boys and girls, is the story of how Finn began his life as a world-famous piper.
12
The White Trout
There once was a soldier wounded in body and soul, who fled from battle. In time he came to live in the country between Knockma and Cong. He built a simple shack in the woods and there he settled.
Word of his arrival spread quickly and visitors came calling, many offering advice and help. A small bed, a stove, a table and two chairs were donated to him. The soldier thanked people for their gifts, but it was noted that he did not smile and he did not invite people into his home. Wounded in body and soul, the soldier struggled to keep his anger at bay. He felt safer on his own.
But there was one man called Padraig who persisted in coming round. The soldier refused to invite him into his simple home and spoke only a few words to him. But Padraig was patient. One morning he turned up at the soldier’s door carrying a rod and line. He also brought a piece of advice: ‘You can eat well here and clear your head at the same time.’
‘Is that so?’ said the soldier.
‘The river is filled with trout at this time of the year. In fact it’s so full that some of the poor fishes would welcome a change of scenery. You would be doing them a favour if you caught them, cooked them and put them in your belly.’
The angry soldier went to close his door but Padraig stuck his foot in and said, ‘Nothing beats fishing on a clear day with the sound of the birds above you and the splash of the river before you.’
Padraig pushed the rod and line through the door. The soldier looked at the long, thin pole. He had never fished in his life and was not sure what to make of the contraption. However, his life as a soldier had taught him that ignorance was dangerous. It was important that a man understood how things worked. Lack of knowledge could very easily lead to a lack of blood or limbs, or even life itself.
The soldier opened the door. ‘Please show me how it works.’
‘Gladly. My name is Padraig.’ Padraig held out his hand.
‘I am Eisa,’ said the soldier as they shook hands.
The two men walked along a trail through the woods. Insects buzzed and birds sang boastful songs. The trees were draped in greens and between the leaves sunlight glinted like jewellery. Soon they came to a river that was not so big but big enough and deep enough. The bottom of the river was lined with soft-edged stones, reds and browns, greys and blacks, all polished up like boots on a parade ground.
Padraig sat on the river bank and pointed. ‘Look there.’ Eisa looked and saw something move in the shaded part of the water. The shape darted into sunlight, then another joined it and another.
The wounded soldier smiled.
‘These fish have stripes like little tigers.’
‘They’re trout,’ explained Padraig. ‘Now sit down beside me and I’ll show you how to catch them.’
By the end of the day the wounded soldier was as proficient with rod and line as ever he had been with gun and blade. Together the men caught a dozen fish. As they walked back towards Eisa’s simple home, Padraig said, ‘Will I show you how to cook them?’
The wounded soldier nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’
In the little shack Padraig showed the wounded soldier how to gut and clean the fish. Then while butter melted in a large pan, he rolled each fish in flour, salt and pepper. When the butter was bubbling he placed two of the trout in. Five minutes later they were ready for eating. ‘Delicious,’ grinned Eisa. ‘Delicious to eat and delicious to smell.’ And that was how Padraig became the first person made welcome into the home of the wounded soldier.
Over the weeks the two men went fishing every other day. At first Padraig was curious about Eisa. Did he have family? What was his home country like? But Eisa would not talk about such things and Padraig asked no more. The two men spoke little, both content to take in the sounds, scents and colours of the woods and the water.
One day they followed the trail a little further along from their usual fishing spot. They came to a place where the river widened into a deep pool.
‘The trees are thicker here,’ explained Padraig, sitting down by the pool. ‘There’s more shade, which keeps this spot cooler in the summer and shields it from the worst of the winds in the winter. A perfect spot.’
‘It’s lovely,’ agreed Eisa, unwrapping his rod and line.
‘People don’t fish here,’ said Padraig. ‘It’s more a place for sitting and thinking.’
‘But look!’ cried Eisa. ‘Over there is a huge trout. See, it’s white. It’s big enough to feed me for a week.’
Padraig laughed and looked up at his friend. ‘Ah now, nobody tries to catch the white trout. Shall I tell you why?’
Eisa sat down and continued to get his rod and line ready. His companion gently put his hand on the fishing equipment. ‘Listen, Eisa.’
‘A long time ago there was a king who ruled these parts. His daughter was kind, clever and witty. She also knew her own heart and told her father she was determined that she would marry only for love and never for politics. The king, who loved his daughter very much, agreed to this.
‘Now, from when she was a child the princess would come to this very spot to bathe and rest. She was attended by three handmaidens
at the pool, and beyond the trees were posted grim guards. The pool was her place and as private as her own bedchamber. And when the princess became a young woman, the pool became even more important to her as a place to reflect and consider the life before her.
‘In time the princess fell in love with the son of a rival king. Despite their history the two monarchs agreed that their children should marry. There was great hope that the marriage would bring an end to conflict in the land.
‘On the morning of her wedding the princess came to her beautiful pool to bathe. It was a hot day of shimmering sunlight and the princess delighted in cooling her limbs in the fresh clean water. But the sound of uproar beyond the trees interrupted her. Quickly she dried and dressed while one of her handmaidens went to ask the guards what was happening.
‘As she was combing her hair, the handmaiden returned. With her there were two guards. Between the two guards stumbled a man, his face so distraught and soaked with tears and grime that for a moment the princess did not recognise him. Then she realised it was the servant of her beloved prince. In that very instant she knew the man she loved was dead. She would never see her prince again. Never again hold him in her arms, or listen to his great plans and his soft laughter. He was gone from her and all that they had planned together: adventures, children, old age and shared sorrows and joys. All gone.
‘The servant wailed that his master had been killed by assassins on his morning walk. He said much more, but the princess did not hear him. Her strength fell out of her and she collapsed on the bank of this beautiful pool.’
Padraig paused for a moment. The green leaves shifted and sighed like an ocean. Indifferent to the world’s sorrows, sunlight and shadow played on the water and on the grassy bank. ‘Go on,’ demanded the wounded soldier irritably.
‘The princess grieved,’ continued Padraig. ‘There was no end to her grief. Days and years passed but her sorrow only sharpened. Every day she walked with her three handmaidens to this pool. But she would not bathe there. Instead she demanded of the water: “Where is my betrothed? Where is my husband to be?”