The Devil is an Irishman

by Eddie Lenihan

  The Devil is an Irishman

  EDDIE LENIHAN

  MERCIER PRESS

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  Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

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  © Eddie Lenihan 1995

  ISBN: 978 1 85635 609 1

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 850 7

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 867 5

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Introduction

  If the Devil is no Irishman, he surely deserves to be, because from time immemorial he has frequented the land of Ireland, held constant and intimate commerce with the people of Ireland and shown every sign of attachment to both the country and its population. If this does not entitle him to at least honorary Irish citizenship there is little in the way of justice in this world – or the next.

  The Devil stories I have collected here are a mere four out of hundreds in existence. The fact that there are so many to choose from proves beyond reasonable doubt that the Dark One has been a focus of Irish attention for centuries – he is one of our own, almost.

  An odd fact, but one not entirely to be wondered at, is that Devil stories far outnumber tales about his opposite number – God – in Irish tradition. Can it be that we Irish are in some fallen way more comfortable with the infernal than with the celestial?

  I think it can.

  Certain it is that the Devil, as seen in Irish stories, is a familiar sort of fellow, who may give you fair play if you can display a flash of wit or a dash of courage at the appropriate time, one indeed who is susceptible to a wide range of human weaknesses such as swearing, gambling, drinking, pride particularly – but not sex! The more one considers it the more it reads like the profile of a fine specimen of Irishness!

  And in this lies perhaps the most unpalatable truth of all (as well as the beginning of ultimate hope): we, each one of us, contain in ourselves the Devil, as he does his best to accommodate us. Whether the same is true of our relationship with God is perhaps harder to tell ... But that is a story for another time and place.

  Suffice it to say for now that without these tales, passed down from generation to generation, our lives, our culture would be much the poorer. It is to try to convince you, the reader, that this is so that I bring this sample of stories together here for your scrutiny.

  Believe them. Enjoy them. Because they are nothing if not the truth.

  The Two-Rooted Briar

  Not another county in Ireland has more gamblers to the square mile than County Clare. And not everyday gamblers, either, but seasoned card-sharpers. Never has a farmer at the mart of Ennis, Kilfenora, Kilrush or Sixmilebridge been known to show up without a deck in his hind pocket. And in more than one Clare parish the priest has had to stop in the middle of Sunday Mass and step down from the altar to break up the game at the church door when it became so noisy that the congregation could no longer concentrate on their prayers. And no bridal suite of any hotel worthy of the name in the Banner County but is equipped with at least one deck, in case the newly-weds should wish to amuse themselves. Such is the love they have for the Devil’s Prayerbook in County Clare – at work, at play and at prayer. In few other parts of Ireland are men and women to be found more dedicated to their trade.

  It is hardly surprising, therefore, that within the county there should be fierce rivalries between baronies, parishes and even townlands in the matter of card-playing. For example, the Moyasta Maulers rarely saw eye-to-eye with the Lahinch Losers (not a name of their own choosing, this; but therein lies another tale entirely), nor did the Scariff Stealers ever yield, except in extremity, to the Clarecastle Cabaires; and to think that the Ruan Rooters would look anywhere except down on all-comers – including the Clonderlaw Cleaners, who claimed to represent everywhere west of Kilrush – was to invite ridicule. And so it went in every part of the county, challenge and reply, insult and counter-insult – and all in the name of good clean sport and traditional ways.

  In only one place did the players feel no need of a fierce-sounding name to intimidate their foes, and that because their reputation was there already for all to reflect on. That place was Ballinruan, close by Crusheen on the Ennis–Gort highway. From this high, poor and rocky outpost the inhabitants had for generations defied the worst attempts of the lawbringers of the empire and had survived in their precarious holdings mainly on the proceeds of their sorties into the lowlands on gambling expeditions. Professional to a man, they were – and are to this day! In that place no man would be allowed to sit in to a serious game of cards – and every game to them was, by its very definition, serious – until he had served seven years at learning all the rules and subtle niceties, including the tokens in all their wondrous variety. Yes, tokens. For all the gamblers in that part of the world had their own collection of signs and signals: two winks of the left eye meant the ace of hearts. A scratch on the right side of the nose: the king of clubs. Two short slurps while drinking a pint of porter: the joker was in hand, waiting to flatten the five of trumps that was expected to clear all before it. And so on, down to the miserable Tulla Hearse, the ten of clubs.

  Yet if this fact had been mentioned to any of those seasoned players, if some poor innocent had accused them of cheating, a fight would be liable to break out immediately, honour at stake.

  ‘Cheatin’? What the hell are you talkin’ about? Aren’t they all doin’ it? What chance has the man that don’t?’

  A hard question to answer, in truth.

  Now, in that very parish of Ballinruan there was a man living who was known to one and all as Martin the Cards. Easy to know what his calling in life was; even his original surname had become largely forgotten because of it. Without a shadow of doubt, his like was not in the seven parishes round about when it came to making a deck whistle. No man had a stricter or a longer apprenticeship served to the same cards than he; as capable a man as ever fingered a deck – all of it learned on long winter nights in places like Barefield, Kilanena, Tubber and on out into the wilds of Kilbe-a-canty and Kinvara, where a man’s life was worth only the next trick, if even that. But – and such things sometimes happen – he was an honest man, like his father and grandfather before him; no tokens for him.

  ‘Play ’em as you find ’em or don’t play at all,’ were his father’s last words to Martin on his death-bed. (No fingering rosary-beads for him; business to the very end.) And heeded he was.

  But despite all his honesty a year came when things began to go against Martin at the table. And strange to say it started nowhere near the cards. First of all was the price of cattle; by the month of June they could hardly be given away as presents, and by September farmers were releasing them along the roads, hoping they might go on their rambles and not be eating the morsel of hay that people might need to feed themselves come Christmas if things continued so – if they had any hay left, that is – because the rain started to fall in July, and worse it got from then to Lá Samhna, November Eve. Lakes rose where even the oldest of the old people remembered nothing except dry ground; thatched cottages were seen floating by on the flooded rivers with people sitting on the roofs smoking their pipes as if this was an everyday occurrence and nothing to get upset about; the sun
became a vague memory, to be mulled over as people sat on their kitchen tables at night watching the rising water and hoping that it might be kind and not drown them all before morning.

  The only thing that continued as before, unchanged, was the nightly card-game, and if currachs and coracles made their appearance in parts of Clare where they had never previously been seen it was through sheer necessity, for if the game died all worthwhile civilisation would come to an end and the people might as well go drown themselves – which many did in any case trying to get to their old familiar places of play.

  If Martin and his neighbours had done the sensible thing and stayed at home in Ballinruan and played for the moment among themselves in that hilly place until the worst of the weather had passed and Doon Lough had returned to its accustomed level who knows what might have been the final result? But sense is one thing, the traditions and habits of a lifetime another entirely. They struggled to keep to the old routine: Monday in Barefield, Tuesday in Crusheen, Wed-nesday in Ruan and so on. But the chore of getting to these lowlands began to take its toll. Martin’s attention began to waver, then slip – a matter of little consequence in, for example, a game of poker, where no one would suffer except himself, but a serious affair where there were two partners also to be taken into account.

  They noticed, naturally, and were not slow in telling him: ‘Here, blast it! What d’you mean by not hittin’ that tray o’ clubs an’ it comin’ in to you? Are you blind, or what, or is it so you think you’re playin’ by yourself? Wake up, man.’

  That kind of talk, especially some of it from players with years less experience than him, was no help to his concentration. But worse by far were the post-mortems after each round of games. Eyes began to be averted from him and whispered comments shared that he knew were aimed at him and him alone.

  His errors became so bad at last that his partners abandoned him. It happened one Friday night, in Clarecastle. He was approaching the door of the pub when he heard the muttering and scuffling inside, then a door slam. When he entered no one looked in his direction as they would normally do, to greet him; instead there was an embarrassed silence, broken only by a yelp of welcome from the publican. But it was a forced jollity. Martin knew that. He was not a fool. And he knew, too, that the slamming door he had heard was his partners stampeding out to avoid him. They were probably cringeing, praying silent prayers, in the toilet now, and for an instant he was tempted to call their bluff and go visit. But no. It was hardly worth it. He was not wanted, and the part that hurt most was that he could hardly find it in himself to blame them. He would probably do the same thing himself.

  He turned, without a word, and trudged home through the darkness and rain, his mood matching the weather, knowing full well that he would get the same reception tomorrow night in Ballyea and on Sunday night in Lissycasey if he had so little self-respect as to show his face. And his wife, Cáit, knew it when he booted in the door before him. They were not usually a couple who talked much about their emotions or personal woes, a normal enough state of affairs at that time in Ireland, but necessity is a surly master, and within a very few minutes a cup of tea and a kind word or two brought all of Martin’s sorrows tumbling out.

  She listened, not at all amazed. Such things were by no means uncommon, she knew, sensible woman that she was.

  ‘All right,’ she soothed when he had said his piece. ‘If you’ll be said by me, there’s only one way to get over this – apart from staying at home entirely, that is.’ She smiled briefly as she added this and gave him a quick glance from the corner of her eye. But he did not notice the appeal.

  He snuffled, then looked up at her.

  ‘What is it you’re blabbering about, woman? How would there be a way out o’ this? I’m finished – done! – an’ that’s all about it. I’ll go to an early grave if things don’t change quick, but how would they? The damage is done an’ that’s that.’

  He was not a pretty sight just then, whining. Cáit felt like giving him a boot in a strategical place, to bring him back to something resembling a man, even if only briefly.

  ‘Will you catch a hold o’ yourself?’ She snorted, goaded by his weakness. ‘Are you my husband or a ciaróg?’

  ‘I don’t know any more, an’ that’s the truth of it,’ he whimpered, a defeated specimen of humanity.

  ‘Listen to me now,’ she hissed, ‘an’ listen very carefully. I always heard it said by my people in west Clare’ – she was from Kilfearagh, beyond Kilrush – ‘that there’s only one cure when things start goin’ against you at cards: under the briar, as quick ever as you can find one.’

  His head jerked up. He knew exactly what it was she was talking about: the two-rooted briar. It was common knowledge, just as the Prophecies of Colmcille were, among the old people. The only bother was ... Yes, he also knew the drawback!

  ‘What’s that you’re saying?’ he mouthed. ‘I hope I didn’t hear you right. The two-rooted briar! Is it so you want to bring the Devil into this house? My father warned me many a time about the same thing. I’ll have nothing to do with it, so I won’t, no matter what misfortune is down on me now.’

  ‘An’ what about the misfortune that’s down on me, watching you thrown there like an oul’ sick calf?’

  She rose, her fingers twitching. He knew better than to tempt her in such a mood and merely hung his head while she began a tirade: ‘Well I knew the first day I came to this side o’ the county that I was falling in with a crowd of weaklings. I could smell it off o’ the place! But take my word for it, if you don’t go under the briar I’ll do it myself. I’ll even go out an’ play the cards for you, if it comes to that. Then you’ll see what your so-called friends an’ neighbours think o’ you. If they’re only avoiding you now, you’ll find ’em a lot worse then. You might as well put on this skirt here now that I’m wearing. So come on. Shift yourself!’

  With a stark choice like that facing him what was there for Martin to do – though he did it grudgingly – except to go out there and then to seek such a briar?

  But as he shambled across the yard, he began to brighten. After all, it might take days, even weeks, to find one like that. But his spasm of optimism was cruelly and quickly dashed when Cáit joined him, the oil lamp rock-steady in her hand. She grasped his arm and led him firmly to the roughest corner of the Bull Field.

  She halted.

  ‘Look down there at your feet,’ she commanded. He did so, but all he could see was a tangle of scrubby grass.

  ‘What’s that in front o’ you?’ Her tone was dangerous.

  ‘Grass. What else?’

  ‘Men! Big stupid babies. God gimme patience!’

  She unhanded him, bent down and, by the light of the lamp, lovingly separated the weeds, as if this were her garden of nasturtiums and peonies behind the house. And sure enough, there was the briar, green and healthy, exactly where she knew it would be.

  ‘Now. Test that, an’ make sure you don’t root it up, or God knows when we’ll find a second one.’

  He did so absently, for he was vaguely conscious that she had already arranged everything.

  ‘You’ll stay here now,’ she said, ‘in this very place’ – emphasising the last three words – ‘until the light o’ the moon later on tonight. Don’t stir. I’ll bring out your supper to you.’

  ‘Sure it could be raining all night. There might be no moon.’

  ‘Look, I don’t care how long it’ll take. Stay here an’ be ready.’

  ‘But wouldn’t I be doing as much good sitting inside in front o’ the fire? This thing here isn’t going to go away, is it?’

  She paused, pondered a moment, then looked him squarely in the eye.

  ‘Have I your word before God that you’ll come out here an’ go under it by the light o’ the full moon the first chance you get?’ She said it unsmiling, not seeming to notice anything odd in bringing God into these proceedings.

  ‘Is it so you don’t trust me, or what?’

  ‘Don’
t mind that. Have I your word?’

  ‘You have. You have!’ he snapped, knowing that she would not be put off or sidetracked now that she had made up her mind as to how he must help himself.

  His wait was not as long as it might have been. Luckily for him there was a full moon that night, though it showed itself only very briefly. Cáit was there, though, to make sure that he took advantage of it.

  ‘Quick!’ she urged as the clouds cleared. ‘Now’s your chance. Go on!’

  And go he did, crossing himself as he squeezed under the briar – old habits die hard – and wishing aloud, ‘May my luck at the cards come back again to me, an’ multiply.’

  Cáit nodded her approval and watched while he dragged his legs after him and out the other side.

  ‘I hope you’re satisfied now,’ he said, ‘because ...’

  He stopped abruptly and snatched his hand from the ground as if he had been stung.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, stepping closer.

  No reply for a moment, then, ‘Look there.’

  His voice sounded distant, small.

  She did so and saw what he was staring at, a deck of cards lying on the grass. She hesitated only for a second.

  ‘Pick it up, will you, an’ come on out o’ this?’

  He grasped it cautiously, nervously, and they started for the house, walking at first but then breaking into a nervous trot.

  Safely inside, the door barred, they examined their prize more closely, not knowing quite what to expect. A deck of cards it was, certainly, and Martin fingered them very gingerly at first, but with more admiration as he felt their fine texture.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Cáit, unwilling to be impressed without proof that they were useful. ‘Deal ’em out an’ we’ll see are they any good.’

  That was done, and just how good they were soon became obvious. For Martin simply could not lose. It was as though he dealt himself five jokers each time. Out of twenty games Cáit won not even a single one and she was no bad player.