Fairy Tales of Ireland

by W. B. Yeats

  But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away, when a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, “Jamie Freel has her awa’ frae us, but he sall hae nae gude o’ her, for I’ll mak’ her deaf and dumb,” and she threw something over the young girl.

  While they rode off disappointed, Jamie lifted the latch and went in.

  “Jamie, man!” cried his mother, “you’ve been awa’ all night; what have they done on you?”

  “Naething bad, mother; I ha’ the very best of gude luck. Here’s a beautiful young lady I ha’ brought you for company.”

  “Bless us an’ save us!” exclaimed the mother, and for some minutes she was so astonished that she could not think of anything else to say.

  Jamie told his story of the night’s adventure, ending by saying, “Surely you wouldna have allowed me to let her gang with them to be lost forever?”

  “But a lady, Jamie! How can a lady eat we’er poor diet, and live in we’er poor way? I ax you that, you foolitch fellow?”

  “Weel, mother, sure it’s better for her to be here nor over yonder,” and he pointed in the direction of the castle.

  Meanwhile, the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire.

  “Poor creature, she’s quare and handsome! Nae wonder they set their hearts on her,” said the old woman, gazing at her guest with pity and admiration. “We maun dress her first; but what, in the name o’ fortune, hae I fit for the likes o’ her to wear?”

  She went to her press in “the room”, and took out her Sunday gown of brown drugget; she then opened a drawer and drew forth a pair of white stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her “dead dress”, as she called it.

  These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain triste ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only saw the light occasionally, when they were hung out to air; but she was willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was turning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie back to her.

  The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat down on a “creepie” in the chimney corner, and buried her face in her hands.

  “What’ll we do to keep up a lady like thou?” cried the old woman.

  “I’ll work for you both, mother,” replied the son.

  “An’ how could a lady live on we’er poor diet?” she repeated.

  “I’ll work for her,” was all Jamie’s answer.

  He kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears stole down her cheeks many an evening while the old woman spun by the fire, and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment lately acquired by him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest.

  But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them looking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig, mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.

  So a year passed, and Halloween came round again. “Mother,” said Jamie, taking down his cap, “I’m off to the ould castle to seek my fortune.”

  “Are you mad, Jamie?” cried his mother, in terror; “sure they’ll kill you this time for what you done on them last year.”

  Jamie made light of her fears and went his way.

  As he reached the crabtree grove, he saw bright lights in the castle windows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window, he heard the wee folk say, “That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played us this night last year, when he stole the nice young lady from us.”

  “Ay,” said the tiny woman, “an’ I punished him for it, for there she sits, a dumb image by his hearth; but he does na’ know that three drops out o’ this glass I hold in my hand wad gie her her hearing and her speeches back again.”

  Jamie’s heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company – “Here comes Jamie Freel! welcome, welcome, Jamie!”

  As soon as the tumult subsided, the little woman said, “You be to drink our health, Jamie, out o’ this glass in my hand.”

  Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never knew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless, and sank on a stove by the fire.

  “You’re kilt surely this time, my poor boy,” said his mother.

  “No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!” and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field.

  The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.

  The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.

  “Jamie,” said the lady, “be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink, that I may write to my father, and tell him what has become of me.”

  She wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.

  At length she said, “You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.”

  “I ha’ no money to hire a cart for you,” he replied, “an’ how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?”

  But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her, and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen’s Green.

  “Tell my father that his daughter is here,” said she to the servant who opened the door.

  “The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago.”

  “Do you not know me, Sullivan?”

  “No, poor girl, I do not.”

  “Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.”

  “Well, that’s not much to ax; we’ll see what can be done.”

  In a few moments the lady’s father came to the door.

  “Dear Father,” said she, “don’t you know me?”

  “How dare you call me Father?” cried the old gentleman, angrily. “You are an imposter. I have no daughter.”

  “Look in my face, Father, and surely you’ll remember me.”

  “My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago.” The old gentleman’s voice changed from anger to sorrow. “You can go,” he concluded.

  “Stop, dear Father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it.”

  “It certainly is my daughter’s ring; but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way.”

  “Call my mother, she will be sure to know me,” said the poor girl, who, by this time, was crying bitterly.

  “My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?”

  But the young lady persevered, till at last the mother was sent for.

  “Mother,” she began, when the old lady came to the door, “don’t you know your daughter?”

  “I have no daughter; my daughter died and was buried a long, long time ago.”

  “Only look in my face, and surely you’ll know me.”

  The old lady shook her head.

  “You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely, Mother, you know me now?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the mother, “my Gracie had a mole on her neck like that; but then I saw her in her coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her.”

  It became Jamie’s turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy journey, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween, and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantment.

  She took up the story when he paused, and told how kind the mother and son had been to her.

  The parents
could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every distinction; and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet, said they did not know what to do to show their gratitude.

  But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go without her. “If Jamie goes, I’ll go too,” she said. “He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear Father and Mother, you would never have seen me again. If he goes, I’ll go too.”

  This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a coach and four, and there was a splendid wedding.

  They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law’s death.

  What Irish man, woman, or child has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin M’Coul? Not one, from Cape Clear to the Giant’s Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And, by the way, speaking of the Giant’s Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story.

  Well, it so happened that Fin and his gigantic relatives were all working at the Causeway, in order to make a bridge, or what was still better, a good stout pad-road, across to Scotland; when Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. To be sure, Fin was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow thing in life brought him back, only to see that she was snug and comfortable, and, above all things, that she got her rest well at night; for he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used to be subject to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept him very anxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the good spirits and health that she had when they were first married. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.

  Oonagh, or rather Fin, lived at this time on the very tip-top of Knockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that rises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side – east-east by south, as the sailors say, when they wish to puzzle a landsman.

  Now, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest Fin’s affection for his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by no manner of means the real cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Cucullin – some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch – but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a targer. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not, I cannot say, but the report went that, by one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to show to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him.

  Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Fin M’Coul himself; and he swore, by the solemn contents of Moll Kelly’s Primer, that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Fin, however, who no doubt was the cock of the walk on his own dunghill, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry; so accordingly kept dodging about from place to place, not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened to get the hard word that Cucullin was on the scent of him. This, then, was the marrow of the whole movement, although he put it on his anxiety to see Oonagh; and I am not saying but there was some truth in that too.

  However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it spoken, that he heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was naturally enough seized, in consequence, with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, poor woman, who was delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it (he assured them) in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir tree, as I said before, and having snedded it into a walking stick, set out on his affectionate travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of Knockmany, by the way.

  In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, the people wondered very much why it was that Fin selected such a windy spot for his dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.

  “What can you mane, Mr M’Coul,” said they, “by pitching your tent upon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and where you’re often forced to take your nightcap1 without either going to bed or turning up your little finger; ay, an’ where, besides this, there’s the sorrow’s own want of water?”

  “Why,” said Fin, “ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the dickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump,2 and, plase goodness, as soon as the Causeway’s made, I intend to finish it.”

  Now, this was more of Fin’s philosophy; for the real state of the case was, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might be able to see Cucullin coming towards the house, and, of course, that he himself might go to look after his distant transactions in other parts of the country, rather than – but no matter – we do not wish to be too hard on Fin. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp look-out – and, between ourselves, he did want it grievously – barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own cousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.

  “God save all here!” said Fin, good-humouredly, on putting his honest face into his own door.

  “Musha, Fin, avick, an’ you’re welcome home to your own Oonagh, you darlin’ bully.” Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy.

  “Faith,” said Fin, “beautiful; an’ how are you, Oonagh – and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?”

  “Never a merrier – as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet ‘Tyrone among the bushes’.”

  Fin gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily, to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence.

  “An’ what brought you home so soon, Fin?” said she.

  “Why, avourneen,” said Fin, putting in his answer in the proper way, “never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure you know that truth, anyhow, Oonagh.”

  Fin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting, or wheedling a secret out of her good man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this.

  “It’s this Cucullin,” said he, “that’s troubling me. When the fellow gets angry, and begins to stamp, he’ll shake you a whole townland; and it’s well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a pancake, to show to anyone that might misdoubt it.”

  As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his absence; and the wife, who knew what he did it for, said, very sweetly.

  “Fin, darling, I hope you don’t bite your thumb at me, dear?”

  “No,” said Fin; “but I bite my thumb, acushla,” said he.

  “Yes, jewel; but take care and don’t draw blood,” said she. “Ah, Fin! don’t, my bully – don’t.”

  “He’s coming,” said Fin; “I see him below Dungannon.”

  “Tha
nk goodness, dear! an’ who is it, avick? Glory be to God!”

  “That baste, Cucullin,” replied Fin; “and how to manage I don’t know. If I run away, I am disgraced; and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so.”

  “When will he be here?” said she.

  “Tomorrow, about two o’clock,” replied Fin, with a groan.

  “Well, my bully, don’t be cast down,” said Oonagh; “depend on me, and maybe I’ll bring you better out of this scrape than ever you could bring yourself, by your rule o’ thumb.”

  This quieted Fin’s heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was hand and glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been a kind-hearted one, for, by all accounts, she never did anything but good in the neighbourhood.

  Now it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua, living opposite them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I have mentioned already, and this Granua was quite as powerful as herself. The beautiful valley that lies between them is not more than about three or four miles broad, so that of a summer’s evening, Granua and Oonagh were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it, from the one hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion Oonagh resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that surrounded them.

  “Granua,” said she, “are you at home?”

  “No,” said the other; “I’m picking bilberries in Althadhawan” (the Devil’s Glen).

  “Well,” said Oonagh, “get up to the top of Cullamore, look about you, and then tell us what you see.”

  “Very well,” replied Granua; after a few minutes, “I am there now.”

  “What do you see?” asked the other.

  “Goodness be about us!” exclaimed Granua, “I see the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from Dungannon.”

  “Ay,” said Oonagh, “that’s our difficulty. That giant is the great Cucullin; and he’s now commin’ up to leather Fin. What’s to be done?”