by Rab Fulton
‘The princess was loved by the people of the realm, and by her handmaidens and father. But as time passed, love was tempered by impatience. People die all the time, some complained. The princess must allow her wound to heal over, said others. It was disrespectful for her to be so focused on the death of her beloved that she failed to celebrate his life. She was young yet and would love again. The king needed grandchildren and it was selfish of her to not look for a new husband.
‘But grief is a personal thing, and there is no right way or wrong way of suffering it.
‘Sometimes when she stood by the pool the princess would try to talk to her handmaidens of her lost love, of his laughter and his eyes, but the words would catch in her throat like a hook and she could not speak them.
‘Her handmaidens talked among themselves about their mistress. “She would be better off dead,” snapped one. “Better if she were fully alive,” said another. “If only she would bathe in the pool again,” spoke the third, quietly. “Perhaps the water would wash the grief off her.”
‘Her companions agreed with her, but though they thought and thought and talked and talked, they could not come up with a plan for getting the princess to bathe in the pool. Finally in despair all the silly maidens whispered at the same time, “Oh, I wish our princess would bathe in the pool again.”
‘And so that’s what happened. The next day they accompanied the mourning princess to the pool. But again the princess refused to bathe. She stood staring at the water and demanded: “Where is my betrothed? Where is my husband to be?” Just then a loud rustling alarmed the handmaidens. They looked towards the trees but there was nothing there. When they turned back, the princess was gone. The maidens searched and the guards searched, but nothing was found of her on the riverbank or in the woods. Then the men and women searched the pool. And there they saw a large trout, its body as white as a wedding gown, and they knew that their mistress had been transformed.
‘There the white trout has remained to this day. Some say she is waiting for her beloved prince yet. Others say that she is waiting for all the grief to be washed from her, for only then can she join her prince in Heaven. And others say the trout is just a trout, though large and white and long living.’
Padraig smiled at his companion, but the wounded soldier’s face was dark with anger. Snatching up his rod and line the wounded soldier hissed, ‘I am not a fool that you can trick and taunt with fairy tales.’ With that Eisa hurried along the trail and back to his shack. There he stayed all day, refusing to open the door when Padraig knocked on it. Wounded in body and soul the soldier struggled to keep his anger at bay. Padraig eventually stopped knocking and left. Eisa paced the floor of his small home, his anger growing brighter and fiercer until he knew what he must do. He would go that very night and catch the white trout. Catch it, kill it, cook it and eat it.
Late in the evening Eisa made his way back to the pool. Above the branches and leaves of the trees stars blinked. It was a cool night and beautiful but Eisa thought only of the white trout and how he would soon slaughter it. When he came to the pool he saw the water was as black as the night sky. The fish floated lazily in the darkness, its whiteness glowing like a dream. Eisa, calmer now, attached a hook to the line. On the hook a worm wriggled. Eisa cast his line and waited. He waited a long time but the fish showed no interest. It simply swam in a slow, wide circle.
Frustrated, the wounded soldier threw aside his rod and stepped into the night-black pool. ‘I’ll catch you with my own hands,’ he muttered, and began to wade towards the fish. As he walked the pool got deeper until the cold water was up to the wounded soldier’s waist. Shivering, he looked around and to his surprise saw that the fish was only two or three feet from him. The creature was no longer swimming in a circle, but floated in one spot just beneath the surface of the water. It was much larger by far than any other trout Eisa had seen over the summer. Larger and cleverer, for it seemed to be watching him.
As Eisa stepped closer to the curious beast he remembered Padraig talking about how when he was a boy he caught fish by tickling them. Eisa reached his hand out and put it in the water below the fish and gently stroked its belly. The fish blinked lazily and Eisa was sure its expression changed. ‘Did you just smile, my dear?’ he cooed softly to the creature. He stepped closer, all the while stroking the fish’s belly. Then he leapt at the creature. Too late it tried to escape. It pounded the water with its powerful tail, twisted and writhed in the snare of the soldier’s arms. But Eisa held fast even when he slipped beneath the water. Gagging and choking, he held on to the massive heavy beast, and soon enough he made it back to dry land.
He ran through the woods, clothes heavy and sodden, his arms aching as he held tight on to the gowping, flapping creature. He got into the shack and threw the fish to the floor. The creature’s tail whipped side to side, almost knocking the wounded soldier over. But nothing could stop him now. The stove was lit, the butter placed in a large pan, the gutting knife picked up.
Eisa bent down by the large writhing fish. He grabbed its head and brought the knife slicing down. The fish, frantic with fear, twisted aside. The knife cut the fish but did not kill it. Again and again the wounded soldier brought the knife down, but now the creature writhed and twisted so fast and so frantic that no more blows landed on it. ‘I’ll cook you alive then,’ roared Eisa. With that he grabbed the giant fish and threw it into the pan.
The fish screamed and leapt from the pan. And as it screamed and as it leapt the horrified Eisa saw it change, change from a fish into a young woman robed in white, who landed in a heap on the floor before him. Shaking and dumbfounded, Eisa dropped the knife. The woman struggled to her feet. She stood before Eisa with tears in her eyes and a terrible ragged wound on her breast. ‘Throw me back,’ she moaned. ‘Throw me back before I bleed to death.’
And Eisa did so. He shook off the killing madness and, praying to God for forgiveness, he gently lifted the woman. He ran through the darkness, weighed down by the woman and his own grief. The night was dark and his burden heavy, but he did not slip, not even once. Soon he reached the pond where he gently lowered the woman into the water. Instantly she turned back into the white trout. The wound in its side closed up and healed, leaving only a red mark. With a splash the creature swam down into the darkest part of the pond.
There is little more to say about the wounded soldier and the white trout, but say it I will. Padraig found his friend the next day, lying by the pool. His clothes were damp and stained with blood. He took him back to his shack and cleaned him up and put him to bed, where he slept for two solid days.
What Eisa dreamt during those days nobody knows, but when he awoke his simmering anger was gone. He remained a quiet man but the quietness had a reflective, curious quality, as if Eisa were noticing the world anew and was humbled by what he saw. He admitted to his friend that he had tried to catch the fish and vowed never to do so again.
The years rolled by. Padraig and Eisa walked, occasionally talked, caught fish and visited the pool of the white trout. If Padraig noticed the red mark on the fish he did not say. For a long time the white trout remained wary of Eisa. It would hide in the shadows whenever he came by. But gradually the fish let go its fear and began swimming in its usual lazy contented fashion.
Eisa had a knack for making and fixing things (a good survival skill for a soldier, and an even better social skill for one living in rural Ireland) and he made a little money as the local handyman. He also made friendly acquaintances. He was happy enough and even developed a droll sense of humour. It was noticeable, though, that he never spoke about his previous life to anyone. At least not to anyone who walked on two legs and lived on dry land.
Sometimes when Padraig went for a walk by himself he would come across Eisa sitting at the pool’s edge. His friend would be talking to the white trout, but Padraig made a point of not listening. He would make a lot of noise to alert his friend, and call out a cheery ‘hello’.
Eisa lived a
long life and I think a happy one. But, as God intended, we are all mortal and in time Eisa’s journey in this world finished and the old grey-haired former soldier died. His funeral was packed out and filled with joy and laughter.
Afterwards Padraig went for a walk in the woods. He was ancient now himself and walked slowly between two of his great-grandchildren. They came to the pool and one of the children asked, ‘Where is the white trout?’ But the white trout had gone and was never seen again.
For my part I like to think that Eisa and the princess travelled to Heaven together. There, I have no doubt, they met again with the loved ones they had once lost a long, long time ago.
13
The Three Spouses
On the furthest western fringes of the kingdom of Connacht there lies a place called Renvyle. Watched over by brooding mountains, Renvyle is a landscape of large and small hillocks rolling towards the sea like a fleet of homesick whales. The Atlantic spray and gusting rain are ignited into glittering diamonds by the darts of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Not that Renvyle is wet all the time. There are times when the sea and sky are settled, with the waters calm and green and the heavens blue and at ease, and the world around a perfect painting of nature and beauty.
But it is at night that Renvyle is at its most pretty. On clear nights the moon shines like a great ancient coin fallen from the back pocket of the cosmos and stars are scattered like silver drops weaved into the gauzy fabric of the Milky Way.
It was on one such night that a man, who we will call Jack Mhor, was walking down a lonely country road, making his way home from a funeral. The road was lined with thorny hedgerows and the crisp air carried the faint smell of honeysuckle and mud and warm cow dung. His way was lit by the silvery light of the stars and moon, and by this light he saw, a little in front of him, a shape in the middle of the road. Jack Mhor was not sure whether it was a bag of groceries or perhaps a small bundle of rags. But as he drew closer he could see the details of the shape more clearly. To Jack Mhor’s surprise the shape was not a bag, nor a bundle, nor even a ball. It was in fact a head, sat there in the road with it eyes open and unmoving.
‘Now then,’ spoke Jack Mhor, kneeling down. ‘Is that not a peculiar affair? A head in a road in want of a body.’ He scratched his chin, looked up at the stars for an answer and, getting none, looked back down. The head was still there. ‘Well, you are a handsome fellow and that is no mistake. But what a tragedy for a man’s top and torso to be estranged from one another. Did you roll out the coffin, I wonder, just before the final box was lowered down?’
So saying, Jack Mhor lifted up the head. ‘Well, friend, let’s take you to the graveyard and find where your body is settled. Then, God willing, we can effect a reconciliation.’
Holding the head firmly, Jack stood up and turned back the way he had come. To his surprise he saw standing there in the road a figure. It was tall and dressed in an elegant long black coat, topped by a gap where a head should be. The figure held out its arms and Jack Mhor handed it the head. The being took the head and stuck it on to its neck. There was a little bit of twisting and tugging and pulling but soon enough body and head where in perfect harmony. The head opened its mouth, stretched its jaw, closed its mouth, puckered its lips, and then smiled.
Now encountering a head is one thing, but meeting its body up and as active as you and me is a worrisome thing. Indeed it was more than worry that began to shudder its way through Jack Mhor. He hoped – and silently prayed – that the being in front of him was a ghost, as ghosts are harmless enough and more to be pitied than feared. But the being was too solid, too in the world, as it were, to be a mere wraith. No, there was no doubt that Jack Mhor stood before a far more substantial and dangerous creature, nothing less than one of the daoine maithe, the good people, the immortals.
The tall man smiled at Jack. ‘It’s good to see someone capable of showing proper respect due a head. Others have not been so proper. But they were suitably dealt with. Now, please, follow me. I have something to show you.’
The creature turned around and began walking towards the nearby graveyard. Jack, his worries deepening into fear, followed. He had no doubts now that he was in the company of a fairy, and a powerful one at that. It would not do to offend the creature, and yet Jack knew to be on his guard against tricks and deceptions that could see him snatched from this world. What were the rules he had learned as a child? Never eat the food of the good people nor sip their wine. Never listen to their music. Never make them angry. Treat them with absolute respect.
Jack followed the tall gentleman along the road, and as they walked the night grew darker as clouds swallowed the stars. Soon Jack was stumbling in thick blackness. He would have done himself an injury were it not for the fact that a faint light glowed from the figure of the man in front of him, as if the fairy were wearing a cape of moonlight.
Soon Jack found himself in the graveyard. The fairy lord, for Jack had no doubt that he was in the company of magical aristocracy, was standing beside a long gravestone that lay on the ground. The fairy lord bent and gripped one edge of the stone. With a ripping noise he tore it loose from the ground, revealing a deep hole. Beetles, as large and angry as a man’s fist, scuttered and clicked out from the hole. Jack shook as he looked at the great gap in the ground that gaped like a giant mouth hungry for a meal of meat and bone.
‘Let’s go,’ said the fairy in a cheery voice. He clicked his fingers and the hole was filled with a soft light. By this glow Jack could see the beetles lining up in ranks as if they were an army awaiting orders from their commander in chief. The fairy stepped into the gaping hole and began to descend the stairs inside. By now Jack’s curiosity was as great as his fear, and his curiosity, let’s be honest, was fuelled partly by greed. It was not unheard of for fairies to give gifts to human visitors. Perhaps there was gold down there or some other marvels that would change Jack’s life for ever?
With a nod to the insect army, Jack Mhor stepped into the open grave. Carefully he followed the narrow stairs down and down. He came at last to a long corridor made of dark rich soil woven through with pale strands of roots, and lit by a dull glow. There stood the fairy lord, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face.
‘Look down the length of the corridor,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Jack looked at the corridor stretching before him and after a few minutes noticed something. ‘There are three long shallow indents in the right-hand wall.’ As he looked the indents began to change. ‘They’re becoming doors,’ cried Jack Mhor with excitement, as he thought of gold and of treasure.
‘Good.’ The fairy smiled. ‘Let’s go take a closer look. There may be things of value here, what think you, mortal?’
Jack said nothing as he and the fairy walked to the door farthest away. ‘Open it,’ commanded the fairy and Jack Mhor eagerly did so.
What he saw was a most curious thing. For the door opened on to a plain-looking kitchen with a stove in one corner and a window in the other. In the middle of the room was a table covered in scratches and stains. Standing before the stove was a figure.
‘This,’ whispered the fairy, ‘is the first spouse. Watch closely.’
The figure at the stove turned round. It was a woman carrying a great pot filled with potatoes. What she wore, or the colour of her hair, or any other details, escaped Jack Mhor, for he was so startled by the expression on the woman’s face. There was such anger and bitterness in her expression it seemed as if the very lines on her face were etched into a hieroglyph of rage and hatred.
‘Here’s your supper!’ screamed the woman as she slammed the pot on the table. ‘Eat it! It’s all we have, you wretch, you fool, you lazy, pathetic …’
The fairy closed the door on the scene. In the quiet he looked down at Jack Mhor. ‘The woman you have just seen was poor all of her life. It made her bitter and angry, and though she died a long time ago she remains angry and bitter yet, with no hope of peace or contentment. Now open the s
econd door and let’s see the second spouse.’
Jack Mhor took a breath and obeyed the fairy (for who would dare disobey such a creature?). The door opened to reveal another kitchen, with a stove in one corner and a window in the other, and there in the middle a table scratched and stained. Standing before the stove was a figure.
‘This,’ whispered the fairy, ‘is the second spouse. Watch closely.’
The figure at the stove turned round. It was a man carrying a great pot filled with potatoes that were burnt and ruined. What he wore, or the colour of his hair, or any other details, escaped Jack Mhor, for he was so startled by the expression on the man’s face. His eyes were red rimmed and teary, but his mouth was twisted into a snarl.
This second spouse slammed the pot on the table. Some of the charred potatoes fell out. ‘Here’s your lovely supper,’ he hissed, his voice dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. ‘It’s all we have in the world and I’ve worked on it all day, so eat it, you fool, you wastrel, you …’
The fairy closed the door and said: ‘The second spouse lived in poverty too. It made him bitter and spiteful, and though he died long ago, he remains bitter and spiteful yet. Now, let’s open the last door and observe the third spouse.’
Jack Mhor opened the third door. Again he looked on a kitchen, with a stove in one corner and a window in the other. In the middle was a table, its age-blackened surface gleaming like a mirror. At the stove stood a figure. When it turned round Jack Mhor felt his heart grow light. He was looking at a woman who radiated peace and love. Her clothes were plain, to be sure, and showed signs of constant mending, but her face was handsome and her eyes strong and kind. She smiled as she spoke: ‘It’s potatoes again for supper, but there are far worse things in the world.’ She placed a mat on the table and then put the pot carefully on the mat. She cut up some butter and put it on the potatoes, then sprinkled on some chopped chives and black peppercorn. ‘Fit for royalty,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Let’s eat.’