Celtic Fairy Tales (14 page)

"Next morning, when we were going away, the man of the house asked
me to stay a while; and going into the next room, he brought out
twelve loops of iron and one of wood, and said to me: 'Put the heads
of your twelve sons into the iron loops, or your own head into the
wooden one;' and I said: 'I'll put the twelve heads of my sons in
the iron loops, and keep my own out of the wooden one.'

"He put the iron loops on the necks of my twelve sons, and put the
wooden one on his own neck. Then he snapped the loops one after
another, till he took the heads off my twelve sons and threw the
heads and bodies out of the house; but he did nothing to hurt his
own neck.

"When he had killed my sons he took hold of me and stripped the skin
and flesh from the small of my back down, and when he had done that
he took the skin of a black sheep that had been hanging on the wall
for seven years and clapped it on my body in place of my own flesh
and skin; and the sheepskin grew on me, and every year since then I
shear myself, and every bit of wool I use for the stockings that I
wear I clip off my own back."

When he had said this, the Gruagach showed the cowboy his back
covered with thick black wool.

After what he had seen and heard, the cowboy said: "I know now why
you don't laugh, and small blame to you. But does that hare come
here still?"

"He does indeed," said the Gruagach.

Both went to the table to play, and they were not long playing cards
when the hare ran in; and before they could stop him he was out
again.

But the cowboy made after the hare, and the Gruagach after the
cowboy, and they ran as fast as ever their legs could carry them
till nightfall; and when the hare was entering the castle where the
twelve sons of the Gruagach were killed, the cowboy caught him by
the two hind legs and dashed out his brains against the wall; and
the skull of the hare was knocked into the chief room of the castle,
and fell at the feet of the master of the place.

"Who has dared to interfere with my fighting pet?" screamed Yellow
Face.

"I," said the cowboy; "and if your pet had had manners, he might be
alive now."

The cowboy and the Gruagach stood by the fire. A stork was boiling
in the pot, as when the Gruagach came the first time. The master of
the house went into the next room and brought out an iron and a
wooden pike, and asked the cowboy which would he choose.

"I'll take the wooden one," said the cowboy; "and you may keep the
iron one for yourself."

So he took the wooden one; and going to the pot, brought out on the
pike all the stork except a small bite, and he and the Gruagach fell
to eating, and they were eating the flesh of the stork all night.
The cowboy and the Gruagach were at home in the place that time.

In the morning the master of the house went into the next room, took
down the twelve iron loops with a wooden one, brought them out, and
asked the cowboy which would he take, the twelve iron or the one
wooden loop.

"What could I do with the twelve iron ones for myself or my master?
I'll take the wooden one."

He put it on, and taking the twelve iron loops, put them on the
necks of the twelve daughters of the house, then snapped the twelve
heads off them, and turning to their father, said: "I'll do the same
thing to you unless you bring the twelve sons of my master to life,
and make them as well and strong as when you took their heads."

The master of the house went out and brought the twelve to life
again; and when the Gruagach saw all his sons alive and as well as
ever, he let a laugh out of himself, and all the Eastern world heard
the laugh.

Then the cowboy said to the Gruagach: "It's a bad thing you have
done to me, for the daughter of the king of Erin will be married the
day after your laugh is heard."

"Oh! then we must be there in time," said the Gruagach; and they all
made away from the place as fast as ever they could, the cowboy, the
Gruagach, and his twelve sons.

They hurried on; and when within three miles of the king's castle
there was such a throng of people that no one could go a step ahead.
"We must clear a road through this," said the cowboy.

"We must indeed," said the Gruagach; and at it they went, threw the
people some on one side and some on the other, and soon they had an
opening for themselves to the king's castle.

As they went in, the daughter of the king of Erin and the son of the
king of Tisean were on their knees just going to be married. The
cowboy drew his hand on the bride-groom, and gave a blow that sent
him spinning till he stopped under a table at the other side of the
room.

"What scoundrel struck that blow?" asked the king of Erin.

"It was I," said the cowboy.

"What reason had you to strike the man who won my daughter?"

"It was I who won your daughter, not he; and if you don't believe
me, the Gruagach Gaire is here himself. He'll tell you the whole
story from beginning to end, and show you the tongues of the giant."

So the Gruagach came up and told the king the whole story, how the
Shee an Gannon had become his cowboy, had guarded the five golden
cows and the bull without horns, cut off the heads of the five-
headed giant, killed the wizard hare, and brought his own twelve
sons to life. "And then," said the Gruagach, "he is the only man in
the whole world I have ever told why I stopped laughing, and the
only one who has ever seen my fleece of wool."

When the king of Erin heard what the Gruagach said, and saw the
tongues of the giant fitted in the head, he made the Shee an Gannon
kneel down by his daughter, and they were married on the spot.

Then the son of the king of Tisean was thrown into prison, and the
next day they put down a great fire, and the deceiver was burned to
ashes.

The wedding lasted nine days, and the last day was better than the
first.

At the time when the Tuatha De Dannan held the sovereignty of
Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king, who was remarkably fond
of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the
island, he had a favourite story-teller, who held a large estate
from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every
night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the
stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age
without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was
the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other
annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, his story-teller was
sure to send him to sleep.

One morning the story-teller arose early, and as his custom was,
strolled out into his garden turning over in his mind incidents
which he might weave into a story for the king at night. But this
morning he found himself quite at fault; after pacing his whole
demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of
anything new or strange. He found no difficulty in "there was once a
king who had three sons" or "one day the king of all Ireland," but
further than that he could not get. At length he went in to
breakfast, and found his wife much perplexed at his delay.

"Why don't you come to breakfast, my dear?" said she.

"I have no mind to eat anything," replied the story-teller; "long as
I have been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down
to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening, but
this morning my mind is quite shut up, and I don't know what to do.
I might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be disgraced for ever
this evening, when the king calls for his story-teller."

Just at this moment the lady looked out of the window.

"Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she.

"I do," replied her husband.

They drew nigh, and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the
ground with a wooden leg placed beside him.

"Who are you, my good man?" asked the story-teller.

"Oh, then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame,
decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile."

"An' what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?"

"I am waiting here to see if any one will play a game with me,"
replied the beggar man.

"Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?"

"I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied
the old man.

"You may as well play with him," said the story-teller's wife; "and
perhaps you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their
throws.

It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of
his money.

"Much good may it do you, friend," said he. "What better hap could I
look for, fool that I am!"

"Will you play again?" asked the old man.

"Don't be talking, man: you have all my money."

"Haven't you chariot and horses and hounds?"

"Well, what of them!"

"I'll stake all the money I have against thine."

"Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I'd run
the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?"

"Maybe you'd win," said the bocough.

"Maybe I wouldn't," said the story-teller.

"Play with him, husband," said his wife. "I don't mind walking, if
you do, love."

"I never refused you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do
so now."

Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and
chariot.

"Will you play again?" asked the beggar.

"Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?"

"I'll stake all my winnings against your wife," said the old man.

The story-teller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.

"Accept his offer," said she. "This is the third time, and who knows
what luck you may have? You'll surely win now."

They played again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done
so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near
the ugly old beggar.

"Is that the way you're leaving me?" said the story-teller.

"Sure I was won," said she. "You would not cheat the poor man, would
you?"

"Have you any more to stake?" asked the old man.

"You know very well I have not," replied the story-teller.

"I'll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self,"
said the old man.

Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.

"Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?"

"I'll soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his
pocket a long cord and a wand.

"Now," said he to the story-teller, "what kind of animal would you
rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but
you may not have it later."

To make a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a
hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the
wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping
on the green.

But it wasn't for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set
them on him. The hare fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a
high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn't get out, and
mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.

In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again
to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and
with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the story-teller
stood before them again.

"And how did you like the sport?" said the beggar.

"It might be sport to others," replied the story-teller looking at
his wife, "for my part I could well put up with the loss of it."

"Would it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know
who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a
pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?"

"Oh!" replied the stranger, "I'm an odd kind of good-for-little
fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more
about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more
than you would make out if you went alone."

"I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a
sigh.

The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before
their eyes a well-looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as
follows:

"By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take
charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them
ready for me whenever I want them."

Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the story-
teller found himself at the Foxes' Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh
O'Donnell. He could see all but none could see him.

O'Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of
spirit were upon him.

"Go out," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see who or what may be
coming."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman;
half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold
road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out
through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant
tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.

"Save you, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman.

"And you likewise," said O'Donnell. "Whence come you, and what is
your craft?"

"I come from the outmost stream of earth,
From the glens where the white swans glide,
A night in Islay, a night in Man,
A night on the cold hillside."

"It's the great traveller you are," said O'Donnell.

"Maybe you've learnt something on the road."

"I am a juggler," said the lank grey beggarman, "and for five pieces
of silver you shall see a trick of mine."

"You shall have them," said O'Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman
took three small straws and placed them in his hand.