Meeting the Other Crowd Read online

  But it didn’t stop there. One o’ the uncles or one o’ the neighbors said, “We’ll bring back that porter and the publican’ll take it back.”

  “You won’t stir a bit of it,” he said.

  It so happened that Garret Barry, the blind piper of Inagh, he was staying in a girl’s house not far away. They were home from America, a couple of the girls, and he used to be playing for ’em in the night when they were dancing. They sent for Garret—and the like o’ the dance that was there that night! All was welcome. He threw the doors open. The like of it was never before in the parish o’ Miltown. His own wife came back and she was a young woman all the time. She had two more children. She’s buried over in Ballard. She died at her natural span, eighty-three years.

  That’s the story o’ the sí-gaoith.

  We can date this story probably to the third quarter of the nineteenth century, for the man whose wife has been carried by the fairies decides to go to Biddy Early with his troubles. Biddy’s uncanny knowledge of his predicament frightens him, but after her consultation with her magic bottle, things become clearer, though no less intimidating. But, by obeying her instructions to the letter, he saves his wife.

  This is a story full of dark hints, which shows a world in which people are at the mercy of mysterious powers, where the simplest of mistakes can lead to tragedy, but where help is at hand if only it is asked for.

  Not too different, this, from our modern world, really, if we consider it, though all the surface points of reference may seem to be quite dissimilar.

  “They’d be another form o’ life. A spirit.

  They’re not physical. D’you remember I was telling you

  about the big field below where I was veered in the night?

  I wasn’t in any physical contact that I could see,

  but the pressure I could feel. But the pressure o’ what?”

  DRUMLINE, OCTOBER 22, 1999

  Strange Gravity

  ONE NIGHT this man was going to the fair o’Tulla. He used to have cattle to sell sometimes, but he had no cattle this night; he was going buying cattle. He got up and looked out, and ’twas so bright he thought ’twas all hours in the day. He didn’t even wait to put down the breakfast, only started out on his bicycle, out and down the road. Once he got out on the public road, he pulled the bicycle to the side to go up on it—and no chance in God’s earth could he go one yard! The bicycle wouldn’t stir. If he was walking ’twas all right, he could push it on, but any time he’d go to go up on it, ’twas held. No move! Oh, a big, courageous man—he often told it—the sweat was teeming down off o’ him.

  He had to go about a mile. He was going down with the fall, and no hope in God’s earth could he go up on that bicycle till he came down to where there was a little stream crossing the road. And the very minute he crossed the stream, he went up a little bit of a hill from it, got up on his bicycle, and into Tulla, no bother.

  When he arrived into Tulla ’twas only half past two in the night. He thought they’d all be gone home, and he discovered that ’twas only half past two. There was some friends he had in Tulla. He knocked at the door and they let him in. And he was sweating! His shirt was stuck to his back with what happened to him for a mile o’ the road, trying to push his bicycle—down the hill!

  But they always said if you meet the Good People, once you cross a stream you leave ’em after you. They can’t cross flowing water.

  What happens to this man would be explained today in terms of “time warp” or some such phenomenon, perhaps, but to the person telling the story it is all very clear: Here was a man out at the wrong time and place—very likely when the Good People were on the move and wanted no witnesses.

  By unbelievers, the disruption of time might be explained thus: People can sometimes wake suddenly and find themselves utterly confused (though rarely does the confusion last for as long as in this narrative). But how to explain the inability to cycle downhill as here described? A bicycle in a state of neglect? Hardly, since a while later the same bicycle is easily cycled uphill!—yet, significantly, only after a stream has been crossed.

  The teller of the tale is in no doubt why things have gone astray, and he says so clearly: The Good People have been at work.

  “A man was telling me that he was passing this place in the road one night where there was a fort, an’ the horse stood up. An’ whatever he’d do, he couldn’t get the horse to pass it. An’the horse was black with sweat. He had to turn around an’ go back. He couldn’t get him to pass it, whatever he seen. An’ he could see nothing.”

  TUBBER, NOVEMBER 30, 1984

  Man Prevented from Passing

  MY GRANDFATHER, my father’s father, he hurt his finger. ’Twas building a wall he was, and a stone fell back when he was putting it up, and it made faggot o’ the finger. He went over to old Hehir’s father, a mile and a half, to settle his finger. He had to put the finger together. And he put splints on it, you know; old Hehir was a great bonesetter.

  My grandfather took his stick, anyway, to go on home.

  But, “I don’t know would you go now, Paddy,” says old Hehir to him. “What time is it, Janie?” to his wife.

  “Just half twelve.”

  “You won’t go now.”

  “What’re you saying?!” he said, catching his stick. He was a hardy man, seventy-seven years of age.

  “I don’t know are you going now. But I’ll go as far as the door with you.”

  He’d come up the hill that time and he’d come out straight by the quarry, out to Kilcolum, a mile and a half.

  Faith, the cock crew.

  “Look, go on in, now, and sit down.” And he said to Janie, “Will you make a little drop o’ punch there? Make a drop o’ punch.”

  “I will, o’ course,” she said. “Come in.”

  “Don’t mind your punch!” says the grandfather, and off he goes, out by the end o’ the house, and back the end o’ the cowshed—an old puddly place—and up the hill. He was only gone up the hill a piece when he could go no farther. By God, he stopped, and he sat down on this rock.

  “What’s here?” he said, whispering. . . . “What’s here?”

  He was hard to frighten, but he could go no farther. He was held.

  He sat down, anyway, three times on the stone.

  “Is it myself that’s wrong, or what’s wrong? Sure, that man inside was only trying to frighten me,” he said.

  He got up the fourth time, to go. He only could get up about a foot. He couldn’t straighten himself.

  He turned and walked back. Tapped at the door.

  “Hah! We were expecting you. She has a drop o’ punch made. Sit down,” said old Hehir. “What did you see?”

  “Nothing in the world,” he said, “but I thought there was men hurling above on the hill. Or they’re hurling very near there.”

  “They are,” he said. “They’re over on the hill opposite. They’re hurling there.”

  ’Twas one o’clock! One o’clock. He was a half an hour in the stones.

  He sat down in a corner, and she made a drop o’ punch, and the shivering went out of him. He was shivering like the devil!

  Well, they started talking.

  “Oh, them things are nothing,” old Hehir said to him. “That’s nothing. ’Tisn’t long since I got blocked there myself.”

  God, he gave him great courage.

  It struck two o’clock.

  “Go now,” he said. “Go away now. You can go home now.”

  And he did. Walked out. He went in the same place, and he stood in the same place. And he saw nothing.

  By God, there was fun over on the other hill, beyond on Keane’s Hill, at the match.

  But there was no traveling that way while they were playing. That’s a fact.

  Here we see clearly that, at certain precise times, definite places belong to the Good People and they will brook no trespass by humans—as, indeed, why should they? Would we allow someone to stroll through one of our games in prog
ress without an attempt to restrain him, even if only for his own safety?

  The old man described here is inviting trouble by his stubbornness in ignoring a friendly warning by one who knows. That he is allowed to go in peace . . . could it be due to the fact that they were so engrossed in their game? Who knows. He did escape, though, obviously a wiser man, for the story has been passed down to his grandson (now in his late seventies), who showed me the very place where he was stopped in his tracks at half past twelve on that fateful night.

  “When a horse’ll sneeze three times they used say he sees something, something from the Other Side.”

  MILTOWN, JUNE 27, 1999

  Latoon Dead Hunt

  D’YOU EVER HEAR tell o’ the hunt in the middle o’ the night? Delmege’s Mountain was the famous place for that, sure.

  There was a man, Mac, he was coming from Ennis after paying the rent. He had a few pints, and he went to sleep at the side o’ the road, above at Latoon bridge—there beside Lane-Joynt’s place.

  In the middle o’ the night—he didn’t know what time—the hunt came. He was a great horseman himself, Mac was. And there was all the gentry and they woke him up and invited him to join ’em. He woke, said he had no way o’ joining ’em. So they got him on some kind of an animal—he made out ’twas a bullock—and he hunted all night with ’em, until daylight in the morning.

  When he got dropped in the morning, he was below on Delmege’s Mountain, thirty miles away. And he didn’t cross the river, couldn’t cross the Fergus.

  He went to the priest after coming home, and he told the priest his story.

  “Ah, my good man,” the priest said to him, “you’re in the deliriums. You have drink taken. You’re imagining things.”

  “Oh, God, no, Father,” he said. “There’s no way I could walk it. And there was no means o’ transport, one way or another,” he said. “But I got up on that animal, and I steered that animal after the hunt all night.”

  And he named all the gentry. They were dead, all of ’em. He was positive that he followed that hunt.

  The priest said to him, “I might be wrong, and you might be right, but don’t ever be there, in that area, after dark again. After nightfall, make sure and certain that you don’t be there. On no account.”

  “Right,” says the man.

  The following year, at paying the rent time, he went to Ennis again, had his few pints, and he was making good sure that he was coming home this time, that he wasn’t going sleeping. He was killed, at the same spot.

  He didn’t take the priest’s advice. And that’s the rock he perished on.

  Them hunts were seen in several places. There was one of ’em come from Quin, down across the country. They used have a stag hunt there at one time. It used to assemble around Fitzy Blood’s in Ballykilty and hit off for Ballygireen—dogs, horses, the lot—full cry down across the country after the stag. Passed people out. No stag! Nothing there. Frighten the life out o’ you. And the funny thing about that is, I might see it and hear it, and you could be with me, and you’d be wondering was I gone queer.

  There’s something like this to it: Whatever star you’re born under, or whatever hour o’ the night you’re born, that’s what causes it.

  Here we have a story that demonstrates how closely the fairy and ghost worlds are associated in the Irish mind. Take the fairy elements in it first: Very often the fairies are known as “the Gentry”; they are excellent horsemen, often given to night riding (cf. A Midnight Ride); they do not cross running water; they often provide a human companion with a mount that later disappears; this episode occurs very close to where the Latoon sceach stands.

  The ghostly elements are less obvious, but present nonetheless. The man is able to name each of the companions he rode with that night, and he is sure they were all dead.

  The teller then digresses to describe other such ghost/fairy hunts seen, and why, and his explanation is perhaps as plausible as any for those who need to know why these phenomena torment some while leaving others quite unimpressed.

  “There was a man out late one night, an’ a woman. They had no clocks

  in them days. They’d only get up an’ go away to the town, the way they’d

  be there early. An’this lake, anyway, when they came as far as where

  ’twas, d’you know what was in it? A big city, or a big town—

  all houses, where the lake was. They went about their business.

  An’ when they were coming home, ’twas all right.

  The lake was there. No houses.”

  BALLINRUAN, AUGUST 17, 1999

  A Fairy Mansion

  NOW, Seán Maguire had a man working for him called Mick Gallagher—he’s only dead a few years. And, his match was made, Seán Maguire’s, and he was to be married in Tulla on a Saturday morning. But the papers had to come from the canon o’ this area in Killaloe. Now, Jack McCarthy was a relation of Seán Maguire’s. By God, Friday morning came, and no certificate came in the post. Maguire was getting married on Saturday, and I don’t know if there was post on a Saturday, but ’twas leaving it a bit late, anyway.

  He said, “I’ll be in a show if I have to go up to Tulla in the morning with all the people, and I have no certificate to get married. They’ll say there’s something queer, that maybe I was married before. I’ll be disgraced,”—which you would be at that time.

  Jack decided he’d cycle down to Killaloe and collect the certificate from the canon and bring it back. Struck away on a bike. Begod, evening came, and dark came, and no account o’ Jack coming back. He was very fond o’ the drop, you know.

  Seán Maguire knew enough. He says to Mick, “Begod, Mick,” he says, “Jack is gone on the booze.”

  “There’s only one thing for it,” says Mick. “I’ll hit away down, and if I search all the pubs I’ll surely find him in one of ’em. He’ll have the certificate in his pocket.”

  He struck away on his bike. I s’pose it was nine o’clock in the night when he went into Killaloe. Every pub he went into Jack had been there, but he was gone. Had drank enough in each one of ’em.

  So, the last pub he went into, the man o’ the pub said, “He’s gone about an hour.” You see, Jack’s mother was from Ogonnelloe. “He’s gone down to Ogonnelloe to the mother’s place to stay the night,” says he, “because he’s too drunk to go home.”

  Now, you know where Ogonnelloe is, halfway between Killaloe and Scarriff, along the shore o’ Lough Derg. Begod, Mick Gallagher didn’t know where the house was, but he knew the general direction, and he said he’d hit away out—’twas getting late at this time, up to twelve o’clock.

  He struck away on the bike. Driving out along the road, past Ballyvally, where Sarsfield17 crossed the Shannon that time, Lough Derg at his right, the mountain at his left. He arrived, anyway, at Ogonnelloe. So he said to himself, “I’ll call, now, at some house and I’ll inquire where his house is.”

  He didn’t like to knock at a house that there was no light in and get the people up out o’ bed, you know. So, he said, “The first house, now, that I’ll see a light still on, I’ll knock there and inquire my way.”

  He was only gone a small bit farther when he spotted this light halfway between the road and the shore of Lough Derg, away down in the fields. Left his bike up against the fence. He couldn’t find a gate or an avenue into it, but it seemed to be a big place.

  “Begod,” he said, “I’ll take the shortest route.”

  Hopped in over the fence and on towards the light that he could see, through the fields.

  He wasn’t traveling very long when he came out in front o’ the house.

  Oh, ’twas a big mansion, blazing with light, all the windows in it. Went up and knocked at the front door. There was no answer. Knocked again. No answer. He gave the door a push. It went in in front o’ him, went into this magnificent hallway—chandeliers and everything hanging off o’ the ceiling.

  He said, “God save all here,” and there was no answer.

/>   There was doors to the right and to the left. He opened a door and went in. And he was in this most beautiful room with a big long table in it, and the table set for dinner. There was every type o’ food that a person could imagine on the table, and wine. He was hungry and he was thirsty, and he got this terrible temptation to take a sup o’ the wine. And the same man was fond of a drop, himself. But he resisted it, somehow—all the stories he heard I s’pose about not taking any food or drink in a place like that. Because if you did, you were finished. If you ate a bite or drank a drop, there was no coming back. All the old lads had that. And they believed it.

  But all of a shot, he started to get afraid. He knew things weren’t right. And he turned, and out. And he made his way across the fields again and he never looked back till he found where he left his bike—up on it, and off.

  The first house he came to on the side o’ the road, he knocked, and he said, “Am I far from—?” and he named Jack’s mother’s place.

  They looked at him. The man o’ the house said, “A couple o’ hundred yards up the road, the first house you’ll come to.”

  He went up. Jack was in bed, sleeping off the effects o’ the booze. The family got up, though, and had great welcome for him, made tea for him. ’Twas in the summertime, and I s’pose the daylight would be three or four o’clock. The old man there was over eighty years of age. He got up, and he was drinking his tea, and Gallagher told him about the house that he saw down near the banks o’ the lake, which was only maybe a quarter of a mile down the road, how he got into it, the things he saw there, and everything.

  “Begod,” the old man said, “I’m eighty years of age and my father before me was eighty when he died, and I never heard him talking about any kind of a house in that place. Or I never saw one.”