Meeting the Other Crowd Page 8

  THERE WAS A HOUSE down there one time—’tis gone now. There isn’t even a trace of it there; all the stones were sold and took away. But ’twas a great house for cuaird one time. All the crowd around used to go in there at night.

  ’Twas the time o’ Biddy Early, anyway, and the man o’ the house, his cattle were dying, one after another. And his wife said, in the finish, “Wouldn’t you go over to Biddy Early? She might do something for you.”

  “Ah,” he says, “no. ’Tis some old plague on the cattle. And, sure, one that isn’t able to do anything for her own daughter, she could hardly do anything for me.”

  She was a bit handicapped, Biddy’s daughter, you see.

  But, anyway, there was a few old lads in that night, and they all advised him to go over to her, that he couldn’t be worse than he was. So, after a couple o’ more dying, he decided he’d go over—off on his horse and saddle.

  But when she saw him coming, she says, before ever he opened his mouth, “I know what you’re coming for. And I know what you said about my daughter, too.”

  Nearly stuck him to the road, she did. Frightened the life out o’ him!

  “But notwithstanding what you said about us, I’ll do what I can for you.”

  It transpired, anyway, that when he was going away she gave him a bottle. She told him to throw this bottle into Kilbarron Lake and all his troubles’d go.

  And he did.

  And she also asked him, “Have you an ash pit”—or an ash hole, as they call it—“in your house?”

  He says, “I have.”

  “Open the back door and the front door,” says she. “Stick down your spade into the ash pit and you’ll see.”

  So, he went home and he did what she told him, stuck down the spade. And ’twas a lucky thing he had the doors opened, ’cause up came two big rats out o’ the hole, and out the door with ’em. They were as big as a tomcat, each of ’em.

  And them people never saw a poor day after.

  But surely be to God, them were no ordinary kind o’ rats—if they were rats at all. ’Twas something else that Biddy was putting out o’ the place, you can be sure.

  Human nature being what it is—proud, defensive, stubborn, and much more—we need not be surprised that the farmer in question here is reluctant to go to Biddy Early with his problem. It would be an admission of failure, perhaps incompetence, on his part. But when imminent ruin forces him at last to make a reluctant move, he finds that his problems are being caused by . . . by what?

  The use of steel in Biddy’s remedy suggests that the Good People are involved. But why? What did he do to deserve this treatment from them? As in so many tales, we will never know what that, perhaps smallest of mistakes, is that makes—even today—the critical difference between living a life of peace or turmoil.

  During Biddy’s final illness in 1874 the local parish priest, Father Andrew Connellan, before he would give her the Last Sacrament, is reputed to have demanded from her her famous blue bottle (a gift from the fairies) and thrown it into Kilbarron Lake, a short distance from her house. In the 1970s the lake was dredged in hopes of discovering this bottle but, alas, dozens of bottles were brought to the surface. So the mystery remains.

  “There’s bad fairies, an’there’s good fairies.

  Just like people. Take now, for instance, people seeing

  a dog, now. He’s the evil spirit, you know.

  An’ a pig is dynamite altogether. You might as well

  pack it altogether if you meet a pig at night.”

  DRUMLINE, OCTOBER 17, 1992

  A Strange Pig

  THE MAN NEXT DOOR was coming one night, and he was frightened. There was a long house abroad there. As a matter o’ fact ’twas a lot longer than my house, and there was a platform o’ flagstones, a footpath, up to it at the front—the ground was low, you know. And he’d have an awful length to go around the house if he went around it.

  A pig followed him over the road there, after he came round that crossroads over there. The pig was grunting and running.

  Instead o’ going around to the back door, with fright, he put all the force that was in his body against the front door. He pushed it in and shoved it out again. The pig didn’t get to come in. He put the table against it.

  The hens used to be in the houses at that time, inside in timber coops. They were made out o’ laths and a space o’ two or three inches between ’em. And the hens’d have their heads out. They were double-decker coops. There was a low partition and a high partition. And there was a special peg in the wall for hanging up the horse’s straddle.8 And the cock used to never go in the coop. He’d be above on top o’ that.

  The cock crew three times, above on that perch that night, and fell down and died. What d’you think o’ that?

  That was no ordinary pig. Not at all! If the cock didn’t die, your man would.

  Here we can see the fear—no, mortal terror—even familiar animals could inspire in unfamiliar circumstances, and the close attention paid to details that a present-day, modern-minded observer would see as mere coincidence.

  Why were certain animals associated with the otherworldly, e.g., the hare, the black dog, the pig, an broc sidhe (the fairy badger)? And which of these were evil spirits, which fairies in animal shape?

  An extraordinarily difficult question to answer, this, especially since the Good People can take whatever shape they please, though they prefer some to others.

  “There was a path, a fairy path there, into Ralahine, an’there was always a dog on that.”

  DRUMLINE, SEPTEMBER 19, 2001

  Meeting the Black Dog

  MYSELF AND MY BROTHER—we were barely going to school at the time—we had an uncle up in Doora, up in Kilbreckan. He had a little limestone farm and lived inside in a nice thatched house in the middle of it. He never kept a horse—he had only a small area o’ ground—but he kept a small little dexter cow, with big wide horns. And she’d follow you to bed, nearly, she was so tame. He was very thrifty. He’d have his own little dexter calves, and they’d be sold to special people, people like himself. He had a grand little shed made for the cow with hazel wattles and covered with grass. Lovely! And the big old grandfather clock with the weights, inside the kitchen. He had a grand orchard at the back o’ the house and he’d dig a grand kitchen garden and he’d have spuds and cabbage and strawberries. Oh, we used to love him for the strawberries.

  You’d love to meet him and talk to him. He was a great man to explain to you, and trace, and go back on old times—a real old-timer.

  By God, didn’t he give us this calf, a heifer calf, to keep for ourselves in the house in the small little farm at home. So, we minded this calf, o’ course, like you’d mind a baby. And the calf grew up and became a cow. And when she’d be going to have a calf—you see, she was very small; she was a little dwarfy breed of an animal—we’d have to stay up for a couple o’ days or a couple o’ nights. She’d have to be attended to all the time. You know the old people, what they were like, now. There’s no way they’d say, “Let her calve herself, and she’ll be all right.” That little cow was minded from once she showed signs o’ going to have the calf until she had the calf.

  So, myself and the brother was anxious to see this little calf. We hadn’t a clue. But my father used to go up in the night. He had a setup under the hedge and he used to stay with the cow all night, for two or three nights, until she’d calve. And, sure, she might calve in the day, for that matter. But he’d be always there, anyway.

  So, we’d be commissioned to make tea and provisions and bring it to the farm to him. And o’ course, we were only delighted to be going up and down with the donkey. The donkey knew the road so well, man, that she’d trot flying up along and in. We’d deliver the tea and examine the cow and rub her and talk to her, and come home again.

  But, when we were coming down, there was a big dog sitting up on his backside at this particular gate. He was two feet and a half high, sitting up—a big black dog. So, o�
� course, we were young lads and as far as we were concerned he was only a black dog. We were clever enough, though: Who owned him? Because we’d bring the eye out o’ that dog with the throw of a rock, or a belt of a stick, if we didn’t like him. But who owned him? That’s what we were trying to figure out.

  So, at ten or eleven o’clock the dog was there. We went again at midnight—and coming back, the dog was there. The dog was there till daylight in the morning for the two or three nights we were going up and down. And faith, I was smarter than the brother. You see, I was a year or two older. I was putting two and two together about the way he was sitting in the one spot all the time, and the size of him, that he was a bit unusual. But, right! We passed within feet of him, anyway. He didn’t molest us and we didn’t molest him.

  The years rolled by and I discovered that the dog was there, and that he was no ordinary dog. There’s a big fort forty yards from the gate, a mighty fort, and a farmhouse just under it. The farmer and his family were after eating the supper, and when they looked out at about six o’clock in the evening of a summer’s evening, wasn’t this big animal, like a bear, abroad, and he rooting around the yard. He frightened ’em, faith. One o’ the workmen didn’t come to work for a month after it. It frightened the life out of him, this big dog.

  And that farmer and all his family, and his people before him, that came in and out o’ that gate, they’d never admit to him being there. “No! He’s not there. For sure!”

  Well, they had seen that dog—and the whole country besides ’em—as often as there was fingers and toes on ’em, as the saying is.

  O’ course, they denied it for fear ’twould be a kind of stigma, that their place was haunted or something.

  As an indicator of the otherworldly, the Black Dog is known in many lands, and in Ireland is regarded as a frequenter and protector of fairy sites such as their dwellings and pathways. Normally, the same dog is seen over several generations in the same location, huge, often immobile, watching menancingly, though rarely dangerous if left in peace. Few of those who encounter this creature choose, after their experience, to investigate more closely!

  “Provided that you didn’t interfere with ’em, they wouldn’t say or do anything to you.”

  DRUMLINE, OCTOBER 17, 1992

  The Eel

  YOU KNOW YOURSELF, that when the landlords were in charge here times were tough. Well, there was two days that people were afraid of more than all the others in the year. They were the gale days, the days when the rent had to be paid to the landlord’s agent. It varied from place to place—April and October, maybe, or June and December. But if you hadn’t that money in your fist for the vulture when the time arrived, you could be thrown out on the side o’ the road. And he had the police and the courts behind him, so there was very little you could do, only pay.

  Now, in them times there was a man and his wife living down the road there, not too far away from the next lake below. Decent people they were, too. Hard-working. And they had a bit more comfort than their neighbors. The reason was simple enough—because he was a thatcher. Remember now, thatching at that time was a trade as big as the blacksmith’s. Every parish had one at least, because nearly all o’ the houses were thatched, as well as all the stables and outhouses.

  But, this man, he was good at his trade, and well liked ’cause he’d always give you a choice o’ the kind o’ reeds when he came to you to thatch: freshwater or saltwater. The difference between ’em? ’Tis a big one, I can tell you. Saltwater reeds, they’ll only last above on a roof for about eight years, but freshwater reeds will last the most of fifteen years. That’s the reason why nearly everyone wanted the freshwater ones. And ’twas the reason why he was so popular, ’cause he never charged anything extra for that type.

  But they had to be cut, o’ course. And even today, if you’re cutting reeds there’s only two ways to do it—either with a reaping-hook or a scythe. It’d take forever to cut ’em with a hook, so naturally he used the scythe. But the bother with a scythe is that you need the ground clear in front o’ you. If you strike a rock you’ll make bits o’ your blade—and that was a dear enough item in them days.

  But, sure, he knew all the lake shores like the back o’ his hand, and year after year he used to go back to this grand, level sandy beach, a couple o’ hundred yards long, no rocks there and plenty reeds.

  So, this particular year ’twas in the month of October, fine frosty weather, ideal for cutting—he was there, working away at the side o’ the lake. And ’twas shoving on to evening. He had enough done, he said to himself. Tomorrow was another day. So he began to bind up the reeds into sheaves, then into bundles, and carry ’em home. Now, he was only about a quarter of a mile from his house, so between home and back, home and back, it wasn’t long before he was down to the last bundle. He was pleased with himself, too. A good day’s work done and nearly finished. So he took his scythe, threw the bundle o’ reeds over his shoulder, and headed for the gap out onto the road.

  But he was only halfway across the field when he noticed something up in the field to his left. He stopped to look at it. And there, down out o’ the corner o’ that field, came a wheel! ’Twas the size of—d’you know the big wheel of a penny-farthing bicycle?—the size o’ that, rolling down the field towards him. He didn’t know what to make of it. What would you do yourself if you saw the like? But it rolled out along, about twenty feet from him, and as it passed him he saw that it was no wheel, but an eel or a snake with its tail inside in its mouth.

  It couldn’t be a snake—in Ireland?—so it had to be an eel. But it did him no harm, didn’t interfere with him in any way, only went off about its own business into the gloom.

  He stood there a while, wondering if he was dreaming. But ’twas getting dark, so he went away home. He was wondering, though, as he came near the house, should he tell his wife about what he saw, or not.

  He knew her well enough—why wouldn’t he, when they were married for over twenty-five years?—and he was full sure that if he mentioned it to her the first thing she’d do was attack him, accuse him o’ being up in the pub drinking porter when he should be working. So he decided, no. Maybe he was only imagining it; he’d say nothing.

  She was waiting for him at the yard gate.

  “Anything strange?” says she.

  “Nothing at all,” and he put away the scythe and his bundle.

  He went in then, had the supper, smoked his pipe by the fire awhile, and then went to bed.

  But he couldn’t go to sleep thinking about the strange-looking creature, wondering did he see it or didn’t he. He was turning and tossing, this way and that, until his wife sat up in the bed.

  “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” says she. “Is it fleas you have, or what?”

  That quietened him. He turned in to the wall, but he couldn’t put it out o’ his mind. And the last thing he said to himself before he closed his eyes was, “I’ll be there again tomorrow. We’ll see what we’ll see then.”

  And he was. In the same place, cutting, cutting away with the scythe. He had great work done by the time ’twas beginning to get dark.

  “Enough,” says he, and he began to gather the reeds up into sheaves, into bundles, then carry ’em home. And by the time he was down to the last one, the light was nearly gone. But he waited. Five minutes. Nothing. Ten minutes. Nothing moving. He gathered himself to go.

  “Wasn’t it just as well I didn’t tell her, and make a fool o’ myself. She’d be throwing it at me for the next month!”

  But just at that very minute he saw something moving, in the very same place as the day before, the same corner o’ the field. He stopped, watched it as it came closer and closer, in the very same path as the evening before. And as it passed by him—only about maybe ten feet from him—he saw that ’twas the same creature, a huge eel, or at least like one, with its tail inside in its mouth, rolling along. But this time he noticed something else: It had a big, long mane o’ hair down along its back
, just like a horse.

  “Well, by God,” says he, “that’s the queerest thing I ever saw,” as it went off into the gloom. Never did him one bit o’ harm, only off about its own business, whatever that was.

  He went home, anyway, and this time there was no doubt in his mind. He could tell his wife about it. He was sure o’ what he saw.

  She was there waiting for him, as usual.

  “Anything strange?” says she.

  He only smiled while he was putting away the scythe and his bundle.

  She knew there was something different this evening.

  “What happened?” says she. “Was there something—?”

  “Time enough for that later on. Where’s the supper?”

  That only made her more curious than ever. She kept on at him until he told her what he saw. But did she believe him?

  All she said was, “You’re drunk! Above in the pub drinking, when you were supposed to be working!”

  And, sure, if she had any eyes in her head she should know by all the bundles he brought home before that that couldn’t be true. But she had her mind made up!

  “Well, I knew it,” says he, “that I should have mentioned nothing!”

  And he breathed out, then—“Ha-aaagh! There now. Is there a smell o’ drink off me? Is there?”

  She had to admit there wasn’t. But she still wouldn’t believe him. And maybe ’tis hard to blame her. ’Tisn’t every day you’re asked to believe a story like that.

  Well, he went off to bed by himself, straight after eating. No smoke, no more talk. He was in a temper with himself for mentioning anything to her about it. But he swore to himself that if the eel was there the following day he’d do something about it. He wasn’t going to be treated like a fool in his own house!

  He made full sure to be back at the same place the next evening. He was working away like before with the scythe, cutting away before him, and by the time the light was fading he had enough done, so he started making up his sheaves, then bundles, and bringing ’em home.