Irish Gothic Fairy Stories

by Steve Lally

  Now back to our story…

  Archibald Hamilton Rowan was never told about the strange goings-on at night, after all the merriment was over and all the crockery and cooking ware was left in the kitchen to be washed. Oh no! The staff never dared mention how none of them had risked entering the kitchen after midnight as they were all scared out of their wits by the sound of banging and clattering coming from within, and all this cacophony was accompanied by the sound of hysterical laughter and whistling. And every morning to their amazement the kitchen was always found spotless and everything clean and in its place. You could have eaten your dinner off the floor it was so well scrubbed.

  Now, there was a young scullery boy who lived and worked at the castle and he was a very lazy boy – he was so lazy that the only time he would lift his hand to do something was when he wished to scratch his head or pick his nose. He was so lazy that he made his Mammy cry. Rathcoffey Castle was a great place for a boy like this to work in as he never had to do a stroke. Sure it was heaven altogether, and why should he do anything when whoever it was coming to the kitchen at night was doing such a fine job, far better than he could ever do himself.

  Well, one night out of curiosity and boredom he decided to see who or what was making all the noise and doing all the cleaning. He waited till all the ware was brought into the kitchen and left piled high to the ceiling with the mice eating away at the leftovers. He decided to build himself a nice big fire in the fireplace and he knew that no one would bother him as they were all too frightened to go into the kitchen after dark. He lay down on some cushions before the hearth. Ah! It was a grand fire indeed. He could feel the warmth of the flames against his face, smell the aromatic smoke as it curled up the chimney. The flames threw shadows on the walls like dancing demons and he was eased into a deep sleep by the gentle sound of the wood crackling.

  Then, all of a sudden, he was woken by the most terrible howling and shrieking. He could hear the words ‘I’ve got ya now ya boy ya! I’ve got ya now!’ bellowing into his face. The boy looked up in terror and standing above him was a great black horse with red eyes like burning coals and steam hissing out of its flared nostrils.

  ‘Who-o-o are you?’ stammered the boy, his heart pounding with fear. The horse grinned at him, revealing two rows of ivory white teeth, and there was a glint of menace in the creature’s eye that sent a shiver down the boy’s spine.

  The horse pulled over a chair, sat down in it and crossed his legs. He then reached in to his big black mane and produced a large clay pipe. He lit the pipe, took a deep drag on it, exhaled the thick smoke out of his nostrils then cleared his throat and spat onto the fire, causing it to hiss like an angry serpent. And then the horse began…

  ‘I am the Pooka Horse, I dwell amongst the ruins and the hilltops, I have been driven monstrous by much solitude and they say I am of the race of the Nightmare! But I was once a boy like you, a lazy boy just like you!’ The pooka horse looked ever so pleased with himself as he went on to tell the poor boy his story. ‘I was so lazy, I made my Mammy cry and the fairies were so angry with me they sent a big black pooka horse, who threw me on his back and ran the full length and breadth of Ireland with me holding on for dear life. He ran to the South, where he took me to the top of Mount Carrantuohill in the County Kerry and he howled like wolf, then he took me to the West, where my teeth chattered as his hooves clattered across the mighty Burren in the County Clare, then he took me to the North, where we jumped across Maggie’s Leap in the County Down, and finally he brought me to the East, where my heart pounded as he bounded across the plains of the Curragh of Kildare. He came to a sudden halt and I was sent flying into the furze bushes, and when I came to I was no longer a boy but the great black pooka horse that you see before you now.’

  The creature went on to explain that there was a curse upon him. ‘I would remain a pooka horse and travel the land seeking out lazy people and when I found them, I would have to carry out all their chores and labour. The only way to break the spell is to find a boy or a girl lazier than I was, and catch them sleeping when they should be working.’ The pooka grinned menacingly at the boy and took a deep drag from his pipe. ‘I found you a long time ago boy, dossing about, skiving off your duties and playing truant. All I had to do was to catch you sleeping. I waited and worked here doing all your chores and now I got ya! Ha!’ roared the pooka horse.

  ‘Please!’ begged the boy. ‘Please give me one last chance, I promise I will never be lazy again and do all that is asked of me and more.’ The pooka horse leered down at the boy, his lips curled back in a snarl, and hissed, ‘We’ll see, we’ll see…’ With that the pooka put out his pipe, pushed it back into his mane, and turned to the door. The boy heard him galloping across the plain outside, crying, ‘We’ll see! We’ll see!’

  The poor lad jumped up and began to scrub, mop and wash everything in the kitchen. He did this every day and night for a brave long while. And there was no sign of the pooka horse. The people of Rathcoffey Castle were very pleased with their scullery boy and they rewarded him well, giving him a day off every week to do as he pleased. And they were no longer full of fear at night with all that strange commotion going on in the kitchen.

  As time went on the boy began to think that the pooka horse was a thing of the past; in fact, he started to believe that he imagined the whole experience. And he had been working so hard, far harder than anyone else in the castle, and he deserved a night off. He was due a holiday the following week, but he could not wait.

  So one night after the festivities were over and all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen, he built himself a large fire. Ah! How lovely it was! He needed a rest and this was well-deserved.

  It was not long before he drifted off to sleep, snoring away contentedly…

  ‘Ahhhhhhh! Ha! Ha! I got you now for sure, ya boy ya!’ The lad jumped out of his sleep absolutely terrified, his heart beating in his breast.

  Standing above him was the pooka horse. The boy gawked in disbelief as the monster turned back into human form and he watched as his own body began to cover with hair and his hands turn to hooves. Standing before him was a young man looking ever so pleased with himself, then he turned and ran from the house singing out ‘I’m Free! I’m Free!’

  The scullery boy had become a pooka horse and was doomed to search the land for a boy or a girl lazier than himself to lift the terrible curse. But he could not bring himself to punish a child in such a dreadful way. So instead he went about helping the poor, the weak and the sick. He helped wherever he could and never slacked on any job he started. He did all this without anyone knowing who did it or receiving any thanks. Then one day many years later the curse was lifted and he was no longer a boy but a young man. And he then travelled from house to house, school to school, telling young people his story and warning them of what might happen if they were lazy. And somewhere out there roams a pooka horse who is keen to pass the curse on to someone else, so be wary and diligent in your work, for he might come looking for you…

  Co. Kilkenny: From the Irish Chill Chainnigh. Chainnigh, or Canice, was the saint who founded the town, so it literally means ‘Canice’s Church’. Kilkenny is a county full of ancient castles, forts, passage graves and round towers. It is also renowned for witches, the most famous being Dame Alice Kyteler (1263–c.1325), who was born into a noble family. She was married four times; each husband died and she was accused of their deaths and dealings with the Devil himself. Outside the townland of Owning in Co. Kilkenny you will find Kilmogue Portal Dolmen, known locally as Leac na Scail, which means the stone of the shadow or ghost. It is the tallest dolmen in Ireland. Freestone Hill Fort and cairn in the townland of Coolrange is home to a large hillfort that surrounds the hill. In its centre stands a lone fairy tree, which is treated with great respect by the locals, for it is believed to hold great power.

  THE BANSHEE WELCOMING PARTY (CO. KILKENNY)

  We found this story in the Dúchas archive at University College Dublin. I
t is part of The Schools’ Collection, Vol. 0856, pp.112–15. It was written and related by Stephen Dwyer from Greenridge, Co. Kilkenny. The school it was recorded at was Naomh Eoin, Cill Choinnigh on 3 November 1937. This story is about a family banshee and is part of The Schools’ Collection, Vol. 0856, pp.112–15. It was handed down from Dwyer’s great-grandfather, who went by the name Holohan. Dwyer remembered his own father telling him the story when he was a child; he wrote down the words his father told him.

  So, settle down and prepare to be enchanted and startled by this magnificent tale of the banshee.

  ‘Everybody has heard of the banshee, a female fairy of Ireland, who makes herself known by wailing and shrieking before a death and usually within a particular family. The banshee is known in Irish as the “Woman of the Fairies” (fairy woman). There is a tradition in our family handed down by my great-grandfather, whose name was Holohan, he lived at a place called Sugarstown near Thomastown, Co. Kilkenny.

  ‘He met the banshee, and the terrifying experience he had on that winter’s night long ago is remembered with awe by the family, as if it were only yesterday, and that it actually happened to themselves. It is one of the fireside stories which I have often heard my father relate to us. It is a true story because it is preserved in in our family. Here is the story told to me by my father and handed down to him in the exact words of his own father.’

  When Stephen Dwyer’s great-grandfather Holohan was a child, times were very hard in Ireland as the Famine was in full swing with death and despair at every turn. His own father had died when he was still a baby and his mother had to work very hard to rear the family. They were desperate times, with starvation and poverty crushing the souls of all those who came in the wake of the Great Hunger. But God was good to them and they survived. As soon as Holohan was old enough to work, he went out to make himself a living whatever way he could to take care of his poor mother and his younger brothers and sisters. But there was no work to be had in Ireland and Holohan was left destitute. So he decided that he would do what so many of his fellow countrymen and women had done, he emigrated to America.

  Holohan made it to America and he got on well over there, making plenty of money and sending what he could back to his family in Kilkenny. He spent a long time in the States, but after many years he missed home. This is what he said on the matter: ‘After many years I, like other exiles, got a longing to return to the old home. My mother and brothers and sisters were overjoyed at the news, and on the very morning on which I sailed from New York, I received a letter of welcome from my poor mother.’

  He went on to say that the notepaper from his mother was be-dewed in tears, but they were tears of joy. His mother was beside herself with delight knowing that her eldest son was arriving home after so many years away from her. She told Holohan in the letter that they had a great spree in store for him and his brothers and sisters would be there to greet him too.

  Shortly afterwards he set sail from New York to take the long voyage home to Ireland. After almost a month at sea he arrived at the harbour of Cork City, and from there he got a mail coach to Kilkenny – this was another long journey of almost 100 miles. Eventually he arrived in Kilkenny town at around 9 p.m. The coach was putting up for the night in an inn there, but Holohan was keen to get home so he set off on foot to Sugarstown, Co. Kilkenny. This was over a 10-mile walk but he did not mind and was determined to see the old homestead. After about 5 miles he arrived at Bennetsbridge, where he met some old friends from his childhood. He spent a few hours with them playing cards and having a sing-a-long. At midnight he bid them farewell and resumed his journey home. In the distance he could hear the sound of music and merrymaking, he knew that this was the spree that his mother had talked about in her letter to him and was excited about seeing them all.

  Just as he turned a bend in the road he heard a woman’s voice calling out, ‘Mother bids thee come, she is waiting too long!’

  That particular night the stars were shining bright but the moon was pale in the sky above him. Holohan knew that this was no ordinary mortal woman who was wailing in the night wind, he knew that it was the banshee, the woman of the fairies, and he knew what her keening meant too.

  He heard her call out again with a bloodcurdling shriek and wasted no time. He quickly ran across the slope of the hill, passing the grove or the fairy mound that he knew so well from his boyhood days. He was out of breath and full of fear. He glanced around, ‘Mother of Mercy!’ he yelled as he watched the banshee swirl in circles above in the night sky, her long silver hair flowing and her snow-white dress trailing after her.

  Then she descended from the sky and gracefully sat down on a rock before him, her hair was streaming down onto the damp moss and her face was bowed on her bosom. Holohan called out to her, ‘Tell me quick, is there anything wrong at home?’

  ‘Mother and brothers and sisters bid thee come!’ she answered in a low and mournful moan.

  Then she threw her head back, showing her terrible face and burning eyes that turned Holohan’s blood to ice, and shrieked so loud that he thought his ears might burst.

  She flew away from him crying and shrieking, the sound of her wailing was all around him and it haunted Holohan right up to his death.

  He ran as fast as he could over the hills and mounds until at last he was at his own house. He expected to hear the sound of music and laughter and see his family ready to welcome him into their arms.

  The cottage was silent and there was no sign or sound of any sort of celebration. Holohan threw open the door and to his horror he saw his brothers and sisters kneeling around his poor mother lying dead in her bed. He fell to his knees and as he kissed the icy cold lips of his mother, he could hear the faint wailing of the banshee being carried on the night wind. She called out over the land, the hills, the trees and the mounds, ‘Dying! Dying! Dying! Dying!’

  Co. Laois: From the Irish laoise, meaning light. It also comes from the word Laoighsigh, which was the name of an ancient tribe descended from Conall Cearnach, a mighty warrior and leader of the Red Branch Knights. Co. Laois was formerly known as ‘Queen’s County’ after Queen Mary I, who was better known as Bloody Mary. The Rock of Dunamase lies between Stradbally and Portlaoise, where the ruins of Dún Másc, meaning ‘Fort of the Mask’, stands. It is guarded by a great hound called Bandog, who spews fire from its massive jaws at anyone approaching. The town of Ballyfin, which means ‘Finn’s Town’, is named after the great Celtic hero Fionn or Finn Mac Cumhaill. The Revd John Canon O’Hanlon (1821–1905) was a well-regarded writer and folklorist from Stradbally, Co. Laois.

  THE FAIRY GLEN OF MOUNTRATH (CO. LAOIS)

  Steve’s late father Patrick Lally was a native of Co. Laois – he grew up in the town of Mountrath, a small town right between Dublin and Limerick. (‘Mountrath’ comes from the Irish Moin Ratha; meaning ‘fort of the bog’.) Steve remembers his father telling stories about his childhood in Mountrath, his time in school at Ballyfin, and his own father, who was the local Garda Sergeant. Steve’s father went on to study science at University College Dublin (where the National Folklore Collection is housed). He both worked and was highly regarded in the world of science and medicine up until his death in 1993. Although Pat Lally was a man of learning and logic, he was always aware of powers that exist far beyond our basic human understating that not even science itself can explain. He also loved a good story and this one is for him.

  The following tale features two accounts from a strange world that lies beyond the ethereal wall between the human and fairy worlds. It was collected by a student called Nora Phelan from Scoil Briscula, Mountrath, Co. Laois, in February 1938. It is part of the National Folklore Collection, UCD. The stories came from Kathleen McCarthy (The Schools’ Collection, Vol. 0833, pp.77–9) and Denis Keenan (The Schools’ Collection, Vol. 0833, pp.80–2).

  Many stories are told locally about numerous peoples’ adventures in the Fairy Glen of Mountrath when they pass by it at night.

  Kathleen Mc
Carthy collected this story from her grandmother, Catherine Holland, from the townland of Upper Sconce, Co. Laois. She gave a brief description of the story and we took it upon ourselves to embellish it.

  One night long ago when Catherine Holland was a slip of 17, she was coming from a dance in Clonrare, just outside of Mountrath. She was with two of her young male friends from the neighbourhood, one being her cousin.

  They were laughing and having great craic altogether as they were coming around by the fairy glen when they suddenly heard the most beautiful music coming out of the darkness. It sounded like a harp being played with exquisite tenderness.

  Although it was a fine harvest night, with the moon shining in the sky above them like a big silver dollar, the glen was dark. Even in daylight with the trees growing so thickly on all sides around it, the fairy glen was always a place of shadows and darkness.

  The three young people went over to the wall to listen and see where this enchanting music was coming from. Then out of the shadows came a beautiful woman, a shining vision as Catherine described it, and although the night was dark they could see her perfectly. She was tall with golden-brown hair and eyes that shone like pools of blue sapphire. Her dress was green and it rustled in the wind, she had a silver belt around her waist, silver leaves in her golden-brown hair and silver streamers fluttered like wings from her shoulders. She stretched out her slender arms and said to Catherine’s cousin with the brightest smile and in the sweetest voice, ‘Come and dance with me a stór’ (stór is Irish for my love/my darling).