by Bob Curran
“I do know”, said the girl, “but it’s the quarest marriage iver I h’ard of. Sure it’s not three weeks since he tould her right an’ left that he hated her like poison!”
“Whist asthoreen!” said the colliagh, bending forward confidentially; “throth an’ we all know that o’ him. But what could he do the crature! When she put the burragh-bos on him!”
“The what?” asked the girl.
“Then the burragh-bos machree-o? That’s the spancel o’ death avourneen; an’ well she has him tethered to her now; bad luck to her!”
The old woman rocked herself and stifled the Irish cry breaking from her wrinkled lips by burying her face in her cloak.
“But what is it?” asked the girl eagerly. “What’s the burragh-bos, anyways an’ where did she get it?”
“Och, och! It’s not fit for comin’ over to young ears but cuggir (whisper) acushla! It’s a shtrip o’ the skin o’ a corpse, peeled from the crown o’ the head to the heel without a crack or split or the charm’s broke; an’ that rowled up, an’ put on a sthring roun’ the neck o’ the wan that’s cowl’d by the wan that wants to be loved. An’ sure enough it puts the fire in their hearts, but an’ sthrong. afore twenty-four hours is gone.”
The girl had started from her lazy attitude and gazed at her companion with eyes dilated by horror.
“Merciful Saviour!” she cried. “Not a sowl on airth would bring the curse out o’ heaven by sich a black doin’.”
“Aisy, Biddeen alanna!, an’ there’s wan that does it, an isn’t the divil. Arrah asthoreen, did ye niver hear tell o’ Pexie na Pishrogie, that lives betune two hills o’ Maam Turk?”
“I h’ard o’ her”, said the girl, breathlessly.
“Well sorra bit lie, but it’s herself that does it. She’ll do it for money any day. Sure they hunted her from the graveyard o’ Salruck, where she had the dead raised; an’ glory be to God!, they would ha’ murthered her, only they missed her thracks, an’ couldn’t bring it home to her afther.”
“Wist, a-wauher (my mother)” said the girl, “here’s the thraveller getting’ up to set off on the road again! Och, then, it’s the short rest he tuk, the sowl.”
It was enough for Coll, however. He had got up and now went back to the kitchen, where the old man had carried a dish of potatoes to be roasted, and earnestly pressed his visitor to sit down and eat them. This Coll did readily, having recruited his strength by a meal, he betook himself into the mountains again, just as the rising sun was flashing among the waterfalls, and sending the night mists drifting down the glens. By sundown the same evening, he was standing over the hills of Maam Turk. Asking of herds his way to the cabin of one Pexie na Pishrogie.
In a hovel on a brown, desolate heath, with scared-looking hills flying off into the distance on every side, he found Pexie—a yellow-faced hag, dressed in a dark red blanket, with elf-locks of coarse black hair protruding from under an orange kerchief swathed around her wrinkled jaws. She was bending over a pot upon her fire, where herbs were simmering and she looked up with an evil glance when Coll Dhu darkened her door.
The “burragh-bos is it her honour wants?” she asked when he had made known his errand. “Ay, ay: but the arighad, the arighad! (money) for Pexie. The burragh-bos is ill to get.”
“I will pay,” said Coll Dhu, laying a sovereign on the bench before her.
The witch sprang upon it, and chuckling bestowed on her visitor a glance, which made even Coll Dhu shudder.
“Her honour is a fine king” she said “an’ her is fit to get the burragh-bos. Ha! Ha!, her will get the burragh-bos from Pexie. But the arighad is not enough. More, more!”
She stretched out her claw-like hand, and Coll dropped another sovereign into it. Whereupon she fell into more horrible convulsions of delight.
“Hark ye!” cried Coll. “I have paid you well but if your infernal charm does not work, I will have you hunted for a witch.”
“Work!” cried Pexie rolling up her eyes “If Pexie’s charrm not work, then her honour come back here an’ carry these bits o’ the mountain away on her back. Ay, her will work. If the colleen hate her honour like the old desuil hersel’, still withal her love will love her honour like her own white sowl afore the sun sets or rises. That (with a furtive leer) or the colleen dhas go wild mad afore wan hour.”
“Hag!” snapped Coll Dhu “that last part is a hellish invention of your own. I heard nothing of madness. If you want more money, speak out, but play none of your hideous tricks on me.”
The witch fixed her cunning eyes on him and took her cue at once from his passion.
“Her honour guess true” she simpered; “it is only the little bit more arighad poor Pexie want.”
Again the skinny hand was extended. Coll Dhu shrank from touching it, and threw his gold upon the table.
“King, king!” chuckled Pexie. “Her honour is a grand king. Her honour is fit to get the burragh-bos. The colleen dhas sall love her like her own white sowl. Ha, ha!”
“When shall I get it?” asked Coll Dhu, impatiently.
“Her honour sall come back to Pexie in so many days, dodeag (twelve), so many days, for that the burragh-bos is hard to get. The lonely graveyard is far away, the dead man is hard to raise—”
“Silence!” cried Coll Dhu, “not a word more. I will have your hideous charm, but what it is, or where you get it, I will not know.”
Then, promising to come back in twelve days, he took his departure. Turning to look back when a little way across the heath, he saw Pexie gazing after him, standing on her black hill in relief against the lurid flames of the dawn, seeming to his dark imagination like a fury with all hell at her back.
At the appointed time Coll Dhu got the promised charm. He sewed it with perfumes into a cover of cloth of gold and hung it on a fine wrought chain. Lying in a casket which had once held the jewels of Coll’s broken-hearted mother, it looked a glittering bauble enough. Meantime the people of the mountains were cursing over their cabin fires, because there had been another unholy raid upon their graveyard and were banding themselves to hunt the criminal down.
A fortnight passed. How or where could Coll Dhu find an opportunity to put the charm round the neck of the colonel’s proud daughter? More gold was dropped into Pexie’s greedy claw, and then she promised to assist him in his dilemma.
Next morning the witch dressed herself in decent garb, smoothed her elf-locks under a snowy cap, smoothed the evil wrinkles out of her face, and with a basket on her arm, locked the door of the hovel and took her way to the lowlands. Pexie seemed to have given up her disreputable calling for that of a simple mushroom-gatherer. The housekeeper at the grey house bought poor Muireade’s mushrooms of her every morning. Every morning g she left unfailingly a nosegay of wild flowers for Miss Evleen Blake, God bless her! She had never seen the darling young lady with her own two longing eyes, but sure hadn’t she heard tell of her sweet purty face, miles away! And at last one morning, whom should she meet but Miss Evleen herself returning alone from a ramble. Whereupon poor Muireade ‘made bold’ to present the flowers in person.
“Ah,” said Evleen, “it is you who leave me the flowers every morning? They are very sweet.”
Muireade had sought her only for a look at her beautiful face. And now that she had seen it, bright as the sun, and as fair as the lily, she would take up her basket and go away contented. Yet she lingered a little longer.
“My lady never walk up big mountain?” said Pexie.
“No,” said Evleen, laughing; she feared she could not walk up a mountain.
“Ah yes; my lady ought to go, with more gran’ ladies an’ gentlemen, ridin’ on purty little donkeys, up the big mountains. Oh, gran’ things up big mountains for my lady to see!”
Thus she set to work, and kept her listener enchanted for an hour, while she related wonderful stories of those upper regions. And as Evleen looked up to the burly crowns of the hills, perhaps she thought there might be sense in this wild old woman’s sugg
estion. It ought to be a grand world up yonder.
Be that as it may, it was not longer after this that Coll Dhu got notice that a party from the grey house would explore the mountains the next day; that Evleen Blake would be one of the number; and that he, Coll, must prepare to house and refresh a crowd of weary people, who in the evening would be brought, hungry and faint, to his door. The simple mushroom gatherer should be discovered in laying in her humble stock among the green hills, should volunteer to act as guide to the party, should lead them far out of their way through the mountains and up and down the most toilsome ascents and across dangerous places; to escape safely from which the servants should be told to throw away the baskets of provisions which they carried.
Coll Dhu was not idle. Such a feast was set forth, as had never been spread so near the clouds before. We are told of wonderful dishes furnished by unwholesome agency, and from a place believed much hotter than is necessary for the purposes of cookery. We are told how Coll Dhu’s barren chambers were suddenly hung with curtains of velvet and with fringes of gold; how the blank, white walls glowed with delicate colours and gilding; how gems of pictures sprang into sight between the panels; how tables blazed with plate and gold, and glittered with rarest glass; how rich wines flowed, as the guests had ever tasted; how servants in the richest livery, amongst whom the wizen-faced old man was a mere nonentity appeared and stood ready to carry in wonderful dishes, at whose extraordinary fragrance the eagles came pecking at the windows and the foxes drew near the walls, snuffing. Sure enough, in all good time, the weary party came within sight of the Devil’s Inn and Coll Dhu sallied forth to invite them across his lonely threshold. Colonel Blake (to whom Evleen in her delicacy, had said no word of the solitary’s strange behaviour towards herself) hailed his appearance with delight, and the whole party sat down to Coll’s banquet in high good humour. Also, it is said, in much amazement at the magnificence of the mountain recluse.
All went in to Coll’s feast, save Evleen Blake, who remained standing on the threshold of the outer door; weary, but unwilling to rest there; hungry, but unwilling to eat there. Her white cambric dress was gathered on her arms, crushed and sullied with the toils of the day; but her bright cheek was a little sunburned; her small dark head with its braids a little tossed, was bared to the mountain air and the glory of the sinking sun; her hands were loosely tangled in the strings of her hat; and her foot sometimes tapped the threshold-stone. So she was seen.
The peasants tell that Coll Dhu and her father came praying her to enter, and the magnificent servants brought viands to the threshold, but no step would she move in ward, no morsel would she taste.
“Poison, poison!” she murmured and threw the food in handfuls to the foxes who were snuffing on the heath.
But it was different when Muireade, the kindly old woman, the simple mushroom-gatherer, with all the wicked wrinkles smoothed out of her face, came to the side of the hungry girl, and coaxingly presented a savoury mess of her own sweet mushrooms, served on a common earthen platter.
“An’ darlin’ my lady, poor Muireasde her cook them hersel’ an’ no thing o’ this house touch them or look at poor Muireade’s mushrooms.”
Then Evleen took the platter and ate a delicious meal. Scarcely was it finished when a heavy drowsiness fell upon her, and unable to sustain herself on her feet, she presently sat down upon the doorstone. Leaning her head against the framework of the door, she was soon in a deep sleep, or trance. So she was found.
“Whimsical, obstinate little girl!” said the colonel, putting his hand on the beautiful, slumbering head. And, taking her in his arms, he carried her into a chamber which had been (say the story-tellers) nothing but a bare and sorry closet in the morning but which was now fitted up with Oriental splendour. And here on a luxurious couch she was laid, with a crimson coverlet wrapping her feet. And here in the tempered light coming through the jewelled glass, where yesterday had been a rough hung window, her father looked his last upon her lovely face.
The colonel returned to his host and friends and by-and-by the whole party sallied forth to see the after-glare of a fierce sun-set swathing the hills in flames. It was not until they had gone some distance that Coll Dhu remembered to go back and fetch his telescope. He was not long absent. But he was absent long enough to enter that glowing chamber with a stealthy step, to throw a light chain around the neck of the sleeping girl, and to slip among the folds of her dress the hideous glittering burragh-bos.
After he had gone away again, Pexie came stealing to the door and, opening it a little sat down on the mat outside, with her cloak wrapped around her. An hour passed and Evleen Blake still slept, her breathing scarcely stirring the deadly bauble on her breast. After that, she began to murmur and moan, and Pexie pricked up her ears. Presently a sound in the room told that the victim was awake and had risen. Then Pexie put her face in the aperture of the door and looked in, gave a howl of dismay, and fled from the house, to be seen in the country no more.
The light was fading among the hills, and the ramblers were returning towards the Devil’s Inn, when a group of ladies who were considerably in advance of the rest, met Evleen Blake advancing towards them on the heath, with her hair disordered as by sleep, and no covering on her head. They noticed something bright, like gold, shifting and glancing with the motion of her figure. There had been some jesting among them about Evleen’s fancy for falling asleep on the door-step instead of coming in to dinner, and they advanced laughing, to rally her on the subject. But she stared at them in a strange way, as if she did not know them, and passed on. Her friends were rather offended and commented on her fantastic humour, only one looked after her, and got laughed at by her companions for expressing uneasiness on the wilful young lady’s account.
So they kept their way, and the solitary figure went fluttering on, the white robe blushing, and the fatal burragh-bos glittering in the reflection from the sky. A hare crossed her path, and she laughed out loudly, and clapping her hands, sprang after it. Then she stopped and asked questions of the stones, striking them with her open palm because they would not answer. (An amazed little herd sitting behind a rock, witnessed these strange proceedings). By-and-by she began to call after the birds, in a wild, shrill way, startling g the echoes of the hills as she went along. A party of gentlemen returning by a dangerous path, heard the unusual sound and stopped to listen.
“What is that?” asked one.
“A young eagle” said Coll Dhu, whose face had become livid, “they often give such cries.”
“It was uncommonly like a woman’s voice” was the reply; and immediately another wild note rang towards them from the rocks above, a bare saw-like ridge, shelving away to some distance ahead, and projecting one hungry tooth over an abyss. A few more moments and they saw Evleen Blake’s light figure fluttering out towards this dizzy point.
“My Evleen!” cried the colonel, recognizing his daughter, “she is mad to venture on such a spot!”
“Mad!” repeated Coll Dhu. And then dashed off to the rescue with all the might and swiftness of his powerful limbs.
When he drew near her, Evleen had almost reached the verge of the terrible rock. Very cautiously he approached her, his object being to seize her in his strong arms before she was aware of his presence, and carry her many yards away from the spot of danger. But in a fatal moment, Evleen turned her head and saw him. One wild ringing cry of hate and horror, which startled the very eagles and scattered a flight of curlews above her head, broke from her lips. A step backward brought her within a foot of death.
One desperate though wary stride and she was struggling in Coll’s embrace. One glance in her eyes, and he saw that he was striving with a mad woman. Back, back, she dragged him and he had nothing to grasp by. The rock was slippery and his shod feet would not cling to it. Back, back! A hoarse panting, a dire swinging to and fro; and then the rock was standing naked against the sky, no-one was there, and Coll Dhu and Evleen Blake lay shattered far below.
The
Brownie of the Black Haggs
Relationships between the fairies and their human neighbors were always problematic. For the ancient Celts, fairies were everywhere. They were the embodiment of the natural forces that were in the landscape all around. But, even though they were supernatural beings, they often exhibited qualities that were recognizably human: They could be flattered, appealed to, angered, and irritated. They could also show displeasure, anger, or downright cruelty if they so chose. And it was also said that they could show love and hate, just as humans can. In fact, many Celtic seers stated that experienced such emotions far more keenly than any human.
Living cheek by jowl with such unpredictable beings was often difficult for their human neighbors. An old tale from Rathlin Island off the north Irish coast tells of how the fairies came and cursed a family for teeming (washing) potatoes too close to a fairy mound and for allowing the water to seep into their hall. The family never enjoyed any success after that, and several of them were said to have died prematurely, whilst several others remained childless. Such was the penalty for annoying the fairies.
One had to be careful in other ways. In many parts of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales it was considered ill luck to speak to a fairy, even when one of them spoke first. Everywhere it was believed that accepting money from the fairy kind was to invite disaster. In fact, it was better to have nothing to do with the fairies at all and to keep oneself to one’s own kind.
Scottish writer and poet James Hogg (1770–1835), widely known as the “Ettrick Shepherd,” was well aware of the powers and forces that dwelt in the landscape all around him and of how capricious they could be. Born and raised in the Ettrick Forest on the Scottish Borders, much of Hogg’s writings and poetry, “The Mountain Bard” (1807), “The Forest Minstrel” (1810), “Mador of the Moor” (1816), and his celebrated “Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner” (1824), reflect his rural background and the perspectives of the country people. He also wrote several supernatural tales, of which “The Brownie of the Black Haggs” is one: a tale of eerie retribution and justice that ably reflects the relationship between humans and the fairy kind.