Meeting the Other Crowd Read online

  If, up to now, what we have seen of the banshee has been benign—she going about her business of death-warning and people accepting that respectfully and resignedly—we would do well to remember that there is another side to her, just as there is to the Good People. Interfere with any of them and they will retaliate. We might think that her punishment of Seán here for what, on the face of it, was a fairly harmless and unintended piece of aggression, is far too severe—permanent scarring, both physical and mental.

  But at our peril we forget, in our dealings with the otherworldly, that its inhabitants do not accept insults lightly, just as their appreciation of favors done them can also be of a lasting nature.

  PART THREE

  “ Their Own Way of Collecting”

  GIFTS, PUNISHMENT, AND OTHER OUTCOMES OF FAIRY ENCOUNTERS

  “I knew these three or four brothers that done a dig

  one night in a fort . . . an’ they collected heaps o’ gold.

  An’they bought all around ’em—property.

  An’ anyone they gave the gold to, it melted. . . .

  They throve. They prospered. But the gold melted.”

  DRUMLINE, SEPTEMBER 24, 1999

  A Transaction with the Other Crowd

  THERE WAS several big horse fairs in Ireland long ago, like Ballinasloe in Galway, Cahiramee in Cork, but the biggest of ’em all was here in Clare, in Spancilhill. ’Twas a three-day fair, and the British Army even used to come to it buying horses. That’s how important ’twas. And ’tis still going on, but there’s only one day for it now. For a while there, about twenty years ago, they thought ’twouldn’t last at all, but it did, and ’tis going strong again now.

  But wait till I tell you about what happened to a man living only about ten miles from here one time when he was going to the same fair o’ Spancilhill.

  ’Twas during the landlord times, and this man was from above at the upper end o’ Tulla Parish. Brian O’Rourke was his name, a married man, a farmer—an honest man, too, trying to make ends meet any way he could, like the rest o’ the neighbors. And it wasn’t easy to do that with the farm they had; most of it was only rushes and bog. Whatever way they worked, himself and his wife, they were always only one step ahead o’ the hunger.

  At that time the rent used to have to be paid twice a year, on the gale day—April and October, or June and December; it used to vary from place to place. But for Brian ’twas in June.

  So, the gale day was coming up, anyway, and he says to his wife, Máire, “What’ll we do?”

  They hadn’t the money. And if they faced the landlord’s agent with their hands hanging to ’em, well, you know what’d happen. They could be thrown out on the road if he was in a bad humor the same day.

  “We’ll have to sell the horse,” says he.

  “Sure, that’s no kind o’ talk. If we sell the horse, how’ll we manage?”

  And ’twas true for her, o’ course. If there was no horse, who was going to do the plowing and the rest o’ the work? Himself? Or her?

  “What’ll we do, so?”

  They argued it out and there was nothing to be done. ’Twas either the horse that had to go, or themselves.

  So, he says to Máire, “Call me early in the morning and I’ll get what I can for him below at Spancilhill. I can do no more than that.”

  So she did. Called him up at the break o’ day, and he hit off. You know yourself, now, that ’tis about six miles from the upper end o’ Tulla Parish down to Spancilhill. Well, he was making good time, going on along down below Tulla, there where the bit of a castle is at Lisofinn. ’Twas well day at this stage, when all of a sudden the horse reared up and nearly threw him. By God, he held on, somehow, and when he quietened him again and looked down to see what it was that made him shy—maybe a rat or a badger or something like that—he got the fright of his life. ’Cause there on the road, looking up at him, was a small little man, oh, maybe two foot high, and a look o’ poison in his face.

  “O’Rourke,” says he, “get down off o’ that horse! Were you trying to trample me, or what?”

  Sure, Brian was looking at him, stupid, with his mouth open.

  “Get down,” says he. “Or I’ll make you get down.”

  So Brian got off o’ the horse and faced him on the road.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry,” says he. “I never even saw you. I was half sleeping.”

  “All right,” says the small lad, “but tell me this. Where are you going with that grand horse?”

  “To the fair o’ Spancilhill, sir,” says Brian. “And I wouldn’t be going there only I have to. The rent is due and we haven’t the money to pay it. This horse is our only hope.”

  “And tell me, now, how much d’you expect to get for him at the fair?”

  “Seven or eight pounds, I hope,” says Brian, “if I’m lucky.”

  “Hah!” The small man laughed at him. “Why would you give away a fine horse the like o’ that for eight pounds? I know someone that’ll give you thirty pounds for him.”

  Lord God, thirty pounds was a fortune o’ money in them days. A poor man wouldn’t see the like of it together in his lifetime.

  “Well, if you do, sir, I’d like to meet him,” says Brian.

  “Follow me, so,” says the small lad. And he walked out in front o’ Brian, off along that road, the main road between Ennis and Tulla.

  They were only gone about a quarter of a mile when they came to this big old gateway, like the gate into a landlord’s place. And the funny thing was, Brian didn’t know it at all, even though he was walking that road all his life.

  But the small man, he stepped in between the piers and says to Brian, “Come on. Your thirty pounds is ready.”

  So, Brian, he followed him in. He couldn’t refuse that kind o’ money, sure. And they went on, up along an avenue, until they came to the mouth of a tunnel. ’Twas dark, o’ course, inside it, and he got afraid.

  “I’ll go no farther,” says he.

  “You won’t?” says the small lad. “You’d rather eight pounds than thirty pounds? All right, so.”

  He turned, and off with him, into the tunnel.

  And d’you think Brian didn’t follow him? Indeed he did! Thirty pounds was a lot o’ money.

  But to follow him . . . that was the bother. ’Twas dark, you see, and Brian had the horse, leading him by the reins. He had to, even though he could see nothing in front of him, only hear the pitter-patter o’ the small lad’s feet. And he was getting more afraid, but he couldn’t go back. The tunnel was too narrow. He’d never be able to turn the horse. So he had to keep going.

  Then, after a lot o’ walking, up ahead of him he saw this light, a green kind o’ light, and when he came near it there was the small man standing in it beckoning him. The light was shining down out o’ the roof o’ the tunnel. There was no window there, or nothing. ’Twas just shining down through the stones o’ the roof, and the small lad standing there calling him.

  “Come on,” says he. “This way.”

  They went on, down the tunnel, past the light, until they came to a crossroads.

  “Now,” says he, and he pointed to the left, “go down there and you’ll come to a yard. You’ll see three doors facing you. The one in the middle is the one you’ll pick. Open that. ’Tis a stable. Put your horse in that stable. Take off the bridle and the reins, hang ’em on the peg on the wall, close the door after you, and come back here to me and I’ll take you to where you’ll get thirty pounds for your horse.”

  So Brian did as he was told, went down that passage until he came to the yard. And there was the three doors. So he put the horse in the middle stable, hung up the bridle and the reins on the peg on the wall, and came back to where the small lad was waiting for him.

  “Now,” says he to Brian, “come with me and you’ll get your money.”

  Off they went, back to the tunnel again, and down along it in the dark until Brian saw more light up ahead. They came to another crossroads and turned left agai
n. And the nearer they were getting, the brighter the light was getting, until they came to a second yard—a big, big yard this time. And there, at the far side of it, was a castle with lights in every window up to the top of it.

  “Come on,” says the small lad. “Thirty pounds, remember.”

  They crossed the yard and went up three steps to the door o’ the castle. He knocked, and after a couple o’ minutes the door was opened by this grand-looking girl in a long white dress. She smiled at ’em and welcomed ’em in. But what Brian was watching was her hands, ’cause she had a ring on every finger. He never saw the like before. His wife at home had no ring at all. Even when they were getting married they only got the loan o’ one for the day.

  She brought ’em into the hall, anyway, and there was a carpet in it. Brian was tripping over it, ’twas so high. But if he was, no one else was, even the small man. He couldn’t understand it.

  They came to this door.

  “In here,” says the small lad.

  Brian was brought in.

  “Now,” says the lad. “How much for your horse?”

  There was no one else there, only themselves. The girl was gone.

  “Well,” says Brian, “you said thirty pounds, sir.”

  “And thirty pounds it’ll be. Sit down there, Brian, and I’ll get it for you.”

  Brian sat in this comfortable chair—you wouldn’t get the like of it in an old landlord’s place—and the lad took a key out of his pocket, a small key, and went to the wall. Next thing, he opened up a door in the wall—’twas a safe, o’ course, but, sure, Brian never saw the like in his life. ’Twas little use he had for safes!

  He took out this box that was inside it, put it up on the table, and opened it up. ’Twas full up o’ gold.

  “Now,” says he, “you’ll get paid for your horse, Brian.”

  And he started counting. “One, two, three . . . nineteen . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. There you are, now. All yours.”

  You may say, Brian hadn’t to be told twice. He stuck it down in his pockets as quick as he could, and he knew by the weight of it that ’twas the real thing, all right.

  “Thanks very much,” says he. “My wife’ll be delighted to see me coming with this.”

  “I’m sure she will,” says the lad. “Why wouldn’t she! But, look, before you go, you’ll have a bite to eat. You must be starved.”

  And ’twas true. ’Cause all Brian had that morning before he started out was a cup o’ buttermilk and a crust o’ bread. Anyway, after being treated like this, how could he refuse the hospitality o’ the house?

  “All right,” says he. “I will. And thanks.”

  The small man led him out into the hall again, down along to another room.

  When the door was opened and he looked in, he saw the like o’ what he never saw before. There was a room—’twas very near as big as the field at the back o’ his house at home—and a big long table down the middle of it, covered with food and drink in gold and silver plates and dishes and cups. There was chandeliers hanging off o’ the ceiling. ’Twas all lit up beautiful. And people sitting down at the table. And behind every chair there was a young person standing to attention, with a kind of uniform on him—servants, I s’pose. And not a move out of anyone.

  Brian stopped at the door, looking in.

  “Go on,” says the small lad. “There’s your place,” and he showed him where to sit. “I’ll be back in a minute with your dinner.”

  One o’ the lads with the uniforms pulled a chair for Brian and he sat down, and off went the small lad and shut the door.

  By God, the more Brian was looking around him, the more he was thinking to himself, There’s something wrong here, ’cause there was no sound, no move. No one was eating, or talking, or anything. And still, they were fine-looking people. But just when he was wondering what would he do, he heard the door opening behind him. He looked back, and there was the girl who opened the door o’ the castle for ’em. She hurried over to him, and just when he was going to say something, she put up her finger.

  “Shh,” she says. “Listen to me. Whatever else you do, don’t eat their food. If you do, you’re doomed. You’ll never again see your home.”

  Before he could even get up she was gone the same way, and the door closed behind her. Gave him something to be thinking about, I can tell you!

  But he was only there a couple o’ minutes when he smelt cooking. He didn’t know what in the hell ’twas, but it smelt good—and getting better. Next thing, the door opened again and there was the small man, weighed down under a big heavy plate. ’Twas huge, nearly as big as himself. You could barely see him behind it.

  He staggered across the floor with it, planked it up on the table in front o’ Brian, and said, “Now, Brian, there’s your dinner. You won’t get better in Ireland.”

  And ’twas true. Brian had no doubt about that, even from the smell of it. But he remembered what the girl said, and bad and all as Tulla was, he’d rather be there than here for the rest of his time.

  “Well, d’you know something, sir,” says he. “I have so many strange things seen since I came in here that my appetite is gone. But thanks, anyway. I appreciate it.”

  The small lad’s face changed.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Ah, I’m not hungry no more.”

  “After all my trouble? Come on, Brian. Eat it up.”

  “Look, I won’t bother,” says he. “Thanks all the same, but won’t I be able to eat whatever I like with this much money in my pocket.”

  The lad looked at him.

  “I’d advise you,” says he, “eat. Now.” There was poison in his voice. “Or if you don’t—”

  Brian stood up and looked at him, straight in the eye. He was like a lot of Irishmen. He didn’t like to be threatened.

  “No,” says he, “I won’t.”

  And the very minute he refused the third time, everything inside that hall changed. The lights quenched; there was a crash o’ thunder and a flash o’ lightning and by the light of it Brian saw that the beautiful young servants down along the table were gone into ugly things like skeletons. And worse again, they were making for him—their bony hands reaching out to catch him.

  He did what anyone’d do—jumped out o’ the way and made for the door as fast as he could, down along the hall (and to hell with the carpet!), out the front door, jumped the steps, and ran across that yard like it wasn’t there at all! He got as far as the tunnel. But behind him . . . he looked over his shoulder and there, out the door o’ the castle, came the things like skeletons, after him, their bones rattling on the stones.

  He turned to the tunnel, nearly frightened out o’ his life, and tried to run. But he couldn’t. He fainted. Fright, o’ course. Would you blame him! But, just as he collapsed, he could feel strong arms catching him up. He knew no more until he found himself back at the first crossroads in the tunnel. And there beside him, holding him, was the girl dressed in white, the girl who opened the castle door, the girl with all the rings.

  He looked up at her, stupid. “Uh, uh . . . what are you—?”

  “Shh!” She put her finger up to her lips. “Say nothing. Only go in there, quick, quick, to where you left your horse. Leave him. He’s paid for. But take the bridle and the reins and bring ’em back here. Hurry!”

  And he did—in and out like that!

  When he arrived back, “Come on,” says she. “We haven’t a minute to lose if you want to get out safe.”

  Poor Brian had no clue what was going on, but he ran. He knew by the look of her that she was in earnest. And when they came back to the crossroads and turned right they kept running, off into the darkness, and never stopped until they came to the mouth o’ the tunnel.

  That’s where she says to him, “Listen to me, Brian, and listen well. D’you see that avenue there in front o’ you? Go. Run. As fast as ever you can. Keep the reins and the bridle tight in your hand. And don’t look back. What
ever you do, don’t look back. If you do, they have you, and there’s nothing more I can do for you. Remember that, will you? And don’t stop until you’re out below on the public road.”

  He looked at her, wondering who in the name o’ God was she, o’ course. Was she this world or the next? He said he would, except he couldn’t go until she’d tell him who she was.

  “Don’t mind that,” says she. “Only go, while you’re still able.”

  You’d know by her voice that she was afraid o’ something.

  “I will, surely,” says he, “only tell me, why did you help me, and I a complete stranger? How’ll I ever rest easy if I don’t know that?”

  “Go, will you?! At once! They’re coming. Listen!”

  He did. And down along the tunnel in the darkness he could hear the sound, like bones rattling. ’Twas coming nearer and nearer all the time.

  “No, I won’t stir out o’ this,” says he, “until you tell me who you are and why did you help me.” He was a stubborn man.

  When she saw that he wouldn’t stir, “All right,” says she. “I’m your mother’s grandaunt. I was carried by the Good People when I was sixteen years of age. But I had no one there to tell me not to eat their food. I ate it, inside that big room where you were tonight. I can never leave this place, but you can. But only if you go this very minute. Go on! I’ll hold ’em back.”

  The noise was only a small bit away now, and she hadn’t to tell him again. He ran, as fast as his two legs’d carry him. He didn’t look back, either.

  When he came to the two big gate piers he took one buck leap out between ’em, like the devils in hell were after him, out into the middle o’ the road. Wasn’t he the lucky man that there was no traffic in them times? Wouldn’t it be a poor story to escape from the fairies and be run over by a truck or a car instead!

  But when he gathered himself a bit, and looked out from under his elbow, he got the surprise of his life. Because . . . there was no gates, and no piers! He sat up and looked around him. Nothing, only the cows grazing in the fields.