Darby O'Gill and the Good People

by Herminie Templeton Kavahagh

  The idee of becomin' acquainted pursonal with the ghosts, an' in a friendly, pleasant way have dalings with them, was a new sinsation to Darby. "What'll I do now?" he axed.

  "Go home to yer supper," says the King, "an' meet me by the withered three at Conroy's crass-roads on the sthroke of twelve. There'll be little danger to-night, I'm thinkin', but if ye should run against one of thim spalpeens trow the bit of comb at him; maybe he'll take it to the banshee an' maybe he won't. At any rate, 'tis the best yez can do."

  "Don't keep me waitin' on the crass-roads, whatever else happens," warned Darby.

  "I'll do me best endayvour," says the King. "But be sure to racognise me whin I come; make no mistake, for ye'll have to spake first," he says.

  They were walking along all this time, an' now had come to Darby's own stile. The lad could see the heads of the childher bunched up agin the windy-pane. The King sthopped, an', laying a hand on Darby's arrum, spoke up umpressive:

  "If I come to the crass-roads as a cow with a rope about me horns ye'll lade me," he says. "If I come as a horse with a saddle on me back, yez'll ride me," says he. "But if I come as a pig with a rope tied to me lift hind leg, ye'll dhrive me," says the King.

  "Oh, my! Oh, my! Oh, tare an' ages!" says Darby.

  "But," says the King, wavin' his hand aginst inthurruptions, "so that we'll know aich other we'll have a by-worrud bechuxt us. An' it'll be poethry," he says. "So that I'll know that 'tis you that's in it ye'll say 'Cabbage an' bacon'; an' so that ye'll know that 'tis me that's in it I'll answer, 'Will sthop the heart achin'.' Cabbage an' bacon will sthop the heart achin'," says the King, growin' unwisible. "That's good, satisfyin' poethry," he says. But the last worruds were sounded out of the empty air an' a little way above, for the masther of the night-time had wanished. At that Darby wint in to his supper.

  I won't expaytiate to yer honour on how our hayro spint the avenin' at home, an' how, afther Bridget an' the childher were in bed, that a growin' daysire to meet an' talk sociable with a ghost fought with tunty black fears an' almost bate them. But whenever his mind hesitayted, as it always did at the thought of the Costa Bower, a finger poked into his weskit pocket where the broken bit of comb lay hid, turned the scale.

  Howandever, at length an' at last, just before midnight our hayro, dhressed once more for the road, wint splashin' an' ploddin' up the lane toward Conroy's crass-roads.

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  II

  A man is never so brave as whin sittin' ferninst his own comfortable fire, a hot supper asleep in his chist, a steamin' noggin of flaygrant punch in his fist, an' a well-thried pipe betwixt his teeth. At such times he rumynates on the ould ancient hayroes, an' he daycides they were no great shakes, afther all. They had the chanst to show themselves, an' that's the only difference betwixet himself an' themselves. But whin he's flung sudden out of thim pleasant surcumstances, as Darby was, to go chargin' around in the darkness, hunting unknown an' unwisible dangers, much of that courage oozes out of him.

  An' so the sthrangest of all sthrange things was, that this night, whin 'twas his fortune to be taken up be the Costa Bower, that a dhread of that death-coach was present in his mind from the minute he shut the door on himself, an' it outweighed all other fears.

  In spite of the insurance that King Brian had given, in spite of the knowledge that his friends, the Good People, were flyin' hither an' thither over that townland, there crept into his sowl an' fastened itself there the chanst that the headless dhriver might slip past thim all an' gobble him up.

  In wain he tould himself that there were a million spots in Ireland where the death-carriage was more likely to be than in his own path. But in spite of all raysons, a dhreading, shiverin' feelin' was in his bones, so that as he splashed along he was flinging anxious looks behind or thremblin' at the black, wavering shadows in front.

  Howsumever, there was some comfort to know that the weather was changin' for the betther. Strong winds had swept the worst of the storm out over the ocean, where it lingered slow, growlin' an' sputtherin' lightening.

  A few scatthered, frowning clouds, trowing ugly looks at the moon, sulked behind.

  "Lord love your shining face," says Darby, looking up to where the full moon, big as the bottom of a tub, shone bright an' clear over his head. "An' it's I that hopes that the blaggard of a cloud I see creeping over at you from Sleive-na-mon won't raich you an' squinch your light before I meet up with Brian Connors."

  The moon, in answer, brushed a cloud from her face, and shed a clearer, fuller light, that made the flooded fields an' dhropping threes quiver an' glisten.

  On top of the little mound known as Conroy's Hill, an' which is just this side of where the roads crass, the friend of the fairies looked about over the lonesome counthry-side.

  Here and there gleamed a distant farm-house, a still white speck in the moonlight. Only at Con Kelley's, which was a good mile down the road, was a friendly spark of light to be seen, an' that spark was so dim and so far that it only pressed down the loneliness heavier on Darby's heart.

  "Wisha," says Darby, "how much I'd druther be there merry-makin' with the boys an' girls than standin' here lonesome and cowld, waiting for the divil knows what."

  He sthrained his eyes for a sight of a horse, or a cow, or a pig, or anything that might turn out to be Brian Connors. The only thing that moved was the huge dark cloud that stretched up from Sleive-na-mon, and its heavy edge already touched the rim of the moon.

  He started down the hill.

  The withered three at the cross-roads where he was to meet the King waved its blackened arms and lifted them up in warning as he came toward it, an' it dhripped cowld tears upon his caubeen and down his neck when he stood quaking in its shadows.

  "If the headless coachman were to ketch me here," he whumpered, "and fling me into his carriage, not a sowl on earth would ever know what became of me.

  "I wish I wasn't so knowledgeable," he says, half cryin'. "I wish I was as ignorant about ghosts an' fairies as little Mrs. Bradigan, who laughs at them. The more you know the more you need know. Musha, there goes the moon."

  And at them words the great blaggard cloud closed in on the moon and left the worruld as black as yer hat.

  That wasn't the worst of it by no manner of manes, for at the same instant there came a rush of wind, an' with it a low, hollow rumble that froze the marrow in Darby's bones. He sthrained his eyes toward the sound, but it was so dark he couldn't see his hand before his face.

  He thried to run, but his legs turned to blocks of wood and dayfied him.

  All the time the rumble of the turrible coach dhrew nearer an' nearer, an' he felt himself helpless as a babe. He closed his eyes to shut out the horror of the headless dhriver an' of the poor, dead men laning back agin the sate.

  At that last minute a swift hope that the King might be within hearing lent him a flash of strength, and he called out the by-word.

  "Cabbage an' bacon!" he cried out, dispairing. "Cabbage an' bacon'll stop the heart achin'!" he roared, dismally, an' then he gave a great gasp, for there was a splash in the road ferninst the three, an' a thraymendous black coach, with four goint horses an' a coachman on the box, stood still as death before him.

  The dhriver wore a brown greatcoat, the lines hung limp in his fingers, an' Darby's heart sthopped palpitaytin' at the sight of the two broad, headless chowlders.

  The knowledgeable man sthrove to cry out agin, but he could only croak like a raven.

  "Cabbage an' bacon'll stop the heart achin'," he says.

  Something moved inside the coach. "Foolish man," a woice cried, "you've not only guv the byword, but at the same time you've shouted out its answer!"

  At the woice of the King—for 'twas the King who spoke—a great wakeness came over Darby, an' he laned limp agin the three.

  "Suppose," the King went on, "that it was an inemy you'd met up with instead of a friend. Tare an' 'ounds! he'd have our saycret and maybe he'd put the comeither
on ye. Shaun," he says, up to the dhriver, "this is the human bean we're to take with us down to Croaghmah to meet the banshee."

  From a place down on the sate on the far side of the dhriver a deep, slow woice, that sounded as though it had fur on it, spoke up:

  "I'm glad to substantiate any sarvice that will in any way conjuice to the amaylyro-ra-tion of any friend of the raynounded King Brian Connors, even though that friend be only a human bean. I was a humble human bean meself three or four hundhred years ago."

  At that statement Darby out of politeness thried to look surprised.

  "You must be a jook or an earl, or some other rich pillosopher, to have the most raynouned fairy in the worruld take such a shine to you," wint on the head.

  "Haven't ye seen enough to make yerself like him?" cried the King, raising half his body through the open windy. "Didn't ye mark how ca'm an' bould he stood waitin' for ye, whin any other man in Ireland would be this time have wore his legs to the knees runnin' from ye? Where is the pillosopher except Darby O'Gill who would have guessed that 'twas meself that was in the coach, an' would have flung me the by-worrud so careless and handy?" cried the King, his face blazing with admyration.

  The worruds put pride into the heart of our hayro, an' pride the worruld over is the twin sisther of courage. And then, too, whilst the King was talkin' that deep, obsthreperous cloud which had covered the sky slipped off the edge of the moon an' hurried to jine its fellows, who were waiting for it out over the ocean. And the moon, to make a-minds for its late obscuraytion, showered down sudden a flood of such cheerful, silver light that the drooping, separate leaves and the glistening blades of grass lept up clane an' laughin' to the eye. Some of that cheer wint into Darby's breast, an' with it crept back fresh his ould confidence in his champyion, the King.

  But the headless dhriver was talking. "O'Gill," says the slow woice agin, "did I hear ye say O'Gill, Brian Connors? Surely not one of the O'Gills of Ballinthubber?"

  Darby answered rayluctant an' haughty, for he had a feeling that the monsther was goin' to claim relaytionship, an' the idee put a bad taste in his mouth. "All me father's people came from Ballinthubber," he says.

  "Come this or come that," says the deep woice, thremblin' with excitement, "I'll have one look at ye." No sooner said than done; for with that sayin' the coachman thwisted, an' picking up an extra'onary big head from the sate beside him, hilt it up in his two hands an' faced it to the road. 'Twas the face of a goint. The lad marked that its wiry red whuskers grew close undher its eyes, an' the flaming hair of the head curled an' rowled down to where the chowlders should have been. An' he saw, too, that the nose was wide an' that the eyes were little. An uglier face you couldn't wish to obsarve.

  But as he looked, the boy saw the great lips tighten an' grow wide; the eyelids half closed, an' the head gave a hoarse sob; the tears thrickled down its nose. The head was cryin'.

  First Darby grew oncomfortable, then he felt insulted to be cried at that way be a total sthranger. An' as the tears rowled faster an' faster, an' the sobs came louder an' louder, an' the ugly eyes kep' leering at him affectionate, he grew hot with indignaytion.

  Seeing which, the head spoke up, snivelling: "Plaze don't get pugnaycious nor yet disputaytious," it begged, betwixt sobs. " 'Tisn't yer face that hurts me an' makes me cry. I've seen worse—a great dale worse—many's the time. But 'tis the amazin' fam'ly raysimblance that's pathrifying me heart."

  The dhriver lifted the tail of his coat an' wiped the head's two weepin' eyes. " 'Twas in Ballinthubber I was born an' in Ballinthubber I was rared; an' it's there I came to me misfortune through love of a purty, fair maid named Margit Ellen O'Gill. There was a song about it," he says.

  "I've heerd it many an' many the time," says the King, noddin', sympathisin', "though not for the last hundhred years or so." Darby glared, scornful, at the King.

  "Vo! Vo! Vo!" wailed the head, "but you're like her. If it wasn't for yer bunchy red hair, an' for the big brown wen that was on her forehead, ye'd be as like as two pase."

  "Arrah," says Darby, brustlin', "I'm ashamed to see a man of yer sinse an' station," he says, "an' high dictation—"

  "Lave off!" broke in the King, pulling Darby be the sleeve. "Come inside! Whatever else you do, rayspect the sintimintalities—there all we have to live for, ghost or mortial," says he.

  So, grumbling, Darby took a place within the coach beside his friend. He filled his poipe, an' was borrying a bit of fire from that of the King, whin looking up he saw just back of the dhriver's seat, and opening into the carriage, a square hole of about the hoight an' the width of yer two hands. An' set agin the hole, starin' affectionate down at him, was the head, an' it smiling langwidging.

  "Be this an' be that," Darby growled low to the King, "if he don't take his face out of that windy, ghost or no ghost, I'll take a poke at him!"

  "Be no manner of manes," says the King, anxious; "What'd we do without him? We'll be at Croaghmah in a few minutes, then he needn't bother ye."

  "Why don't ye dhrive on?" says Darby, lookin' up surly at the head. "Why don't ye start?"

  "We're goin' these last three minutes," smiled Shaun; "we're comin' up to Kilmartin churchyard now."

  "Have you passed Tom Grogan's public-house?" axed the King, starting up, anxious.

  "I have, but I can turn back agin," says the face, lighting up, intherested.

  "They keep the best whusky there in this part of Ireland," says the King. "Would ye mind steppin' in an' bringing us out a sup, Darby agra?"

  Misthress Tom Grogan was a tall, irritated woman, with sharp corners all over her, an' a timper that was like an east wind. She was standing at her own door, argyin' with Garge McGibney an' Wullum Broderick, an' daling them out harrud names, whilst her husband, Tom, a mild little man, stood within laning on the bar, smoking saydately. Garge an' Wullum were argying back at Misthress Grogan, tellin' her what a foine-looking, rayspectable woman she was, an' couldn't they have one dhrop more before going home, whin they saw coming sliding along through the air toward them, about four feet above the ground, a daycint-dhressed man, sitting comfortable, his poipe in his mouth an' one leg crossed over the other. The sthranger stopped in the air not foive feet away, and in the moonlight they saw him plain knock the ashes from his poipe an' stick it in the rim of his caubeen.

  They ketched hould of aich other, gasping as he stepped down out of the air to the ground, an' wishin' them the top of the avening, he brushed past, walked bould to the bar an' briskly called for three jorums of whusky. Tom, obliverous—for he hadn't seen—handed out the dhrinks, an' the sthranger, natural as you plaze, imptied one, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand an' started for the door, carrying the two other jorums.

  Tom, of course, follyed out to see who was in the road, and then he clutched hould of the three others, an' the four, grippin' aich other like lobsters bilin' in the pot, clung, spacheless, swaging back an' forth.

  An' sure 'twas no wonder, for they saw the sthrange man lift the two cups into the naked air, an' they saw plain the two jorums lave his hands, tip themselves slowly over until the bottoms were uppermost—not one dhrop of the liquor spillin' to the ground. They saw no more, for they aich gave a different kind of roar whin Darby turned to bring back the empty vessels. The next second Tom Grogan was flying like a hunted rabbit over the muddy petatie-field behind his own stable, whilst Wullum Broderick an' Garge McGibney were dashin' furious afther him like Skibberberg hounds. But Mrs. Grogan didn't run away, bekase she was on her own thrashol', lying on the flat of her back, and for the first time in her life spacheless.

  Howandever, with a rumble an' a roar, the coach with its thravellers wint on its way.

  The good liquor supplied all which that last sight lacked that was needful to put our three hayroes in good humour with thimselves an' with aich other, so that it wasn't long before their throubles, bein' forgot, they were convarsing sociable an' fumiliar, one with the other.

  Da
rby, to improve his informaytion, was sthriving to make the best of the sitiwation be axin' knowledgeable questions. "What kind of disposition has the banshee, I dunno?" he says, afther a time.

  "A foine creachure, an' very rayfined, only a bit too fond of crying an' wailing," says Shaun.

  "Musha, I know several livin' women that cap fits," says the knowledgeable man. "Sure, does she do nothin' but wail death keens? Has she no good love-ballads or songs like that? I'd think she'd grow tired," he says.

  "Arrah, don't be talkin'!" says Shaun. " 'Tis she who can sing them. She has one in purticular—the ballad of Mary McGinnis—that I wisht ye could hear her at," he says.

  "The song has three splendid chunes to it, an' the chune changes at aich varse. I wisht I had it all, but I'll sing yez what I have," he says. With that the head began to sing, an' a foine, deep singin' woice it had, too, only maybe a little too roarin' for love-ballads:

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