Irish Folk Tales (56 page)

“Take a hold on yourself, now, and a drink of this water and I will see you home myself,” I said.

We were hardly clear of the place here when, troth, I began to feel not so comfortable myself. It was the quietness. It would have put you in mind of the room when the clock stops ticking. The sun was setting behind banks of cloud piled mountains on each other, like it was in Wicklow. Not a leaf stirred nor a bird. Over the shoulder of one of these clouds I saw an army marching. They were a great way off when I first saw them. On the opposite slope I saw another troop coming to meet them and they blacks. The Zulu War was on at the time, and I knew it was them—eighteen seventy-eight, was it? Well, no matter. On they came on each other, getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger. I could see now horsemen and footmen on the one side, and on the other great blacks with shields and pikes in their hands. Then, all of a sudden, they were at it. I could hear the cries and the men cursing; I could hear the roar of the galloping horses; I could hear the clank and crash of accoutrements. Bugles blowing, there was, and the rattle of arms. Rifles barked; then men falling, and screaming as they fell. And blood—it gushed from them and drenched the cloud.

The lad beside me was whimpering like a dog closed out in the rain. I think he would have fallen but for my hand on him. Nor did I blame him.

At last, someway I got Brian Leavy home; bedad, and he took his door like a rabbit its burrow.

Putting on the best face I could muster I turned for home. As I walked I tried closing my eyes; I went over a prayer; I tried turning my back on it. But I could not shut it out. The battle roared nearer to me than ever, till I
thought they must leave their dead on the slopes of Cruachan. I felt demented with the noise. So close now were the soldiers I could see their uniforms. They were the Scots Greys, I think. I faced them then, for it does be doing a man harm to turn his back to what is frightening him.

At last, sometime, some way, I made my own door. I went into the kitchen where my sister was cleaning up after the supper.

“Let you go out,” I told her, “and tell me what you see in the sky.” She went to the corner of the haggard, and I heard her running as she returned. She slammed the door after her and barred it too.

Troth, we said our prayers better that night than ever before—or perhaps since.

I heard after that that many a one saw what we saw. There is many an old person still about this country who minds it well. They will not forget it till the day they die.

T
HE OLD TIMES IN IRELAND

The first man ever lived in Ireland was Partholan, and he is buried and his greyhound along with him at some place in Kerry. The Nemidians came after that and stopped for a while and then they all died of some disease. And then the Firbolgs came, the best men that ever were in Ireland, and they had no law but love, and there was never such peace and plenty in Ireland. What religion had they? None at all. And there was a low-sized race came that worked the land of Ireland a long time. They had their time like the others.

Tommy Niland was sitting beside me one time the same as yourself, and the day warm as this day, and he said, “In the old times you could buy a cow for one and sixpence, and a horse for two shillings. And if you had lived in those days, Padraic, you’d have your cow and your horse.” For there was a man in those times bought a cow for one and sixpence, and when he was driving her home he sat down by the roadside crying, for fear he had given too little. And the man that sold him as he was going home he sat down by the roadside crying, for fear he had taken too much. For the people were very innocent at that time and very kind. But Columcille laid it down in his prophecy that every generation would be getting smaller and more liary; and that was true enough.

And in the old days if there was a pig killed, it would never be sent to the saltery but everyone that came in would get a bit of it. But now, a pig to be killed, the door of the house would be closed, and no one to get a bit of it at all.

In the old times the people had no envy, and they would be writing down the stories and the songs for one another. But they are too venomous now to do that. And as to the people in the towns, they don’t care for such things now, they are too corrupted with drink.

T
HE BATH OF THE WHITE COWS

A great many years ago, when this county was so thick with woods that a very light person might walk on the tops of trees from Kilmeashal to the Lady’s Island, a little king, or a great chief, had a fortification on the hillside, from the Duffrey gate in Enniscorthy, down to near the old abbey—but I don’t know if there were any abbeys at the time.

This chief had three beautiful daughters, and all were married, and themselves and their husbands lived inside of the fort, for the young families in old times were not fond of removing far away from the old stock.

One fine morning in harvest, the watchman on the big ditch that ran round the fort struck his shield, for down below was the river covered with curraghs, all full of foreigners, and all with spears, swords, shields, and helmets, ready to spring out and attack the dun.

But my brave chief, and his son, and his son-in-laws had no notion of waiting an attack within their ditches and palisades. Out themselves and their kith, kin, and following, rushed, and attacked the Welshmen, or Woodmen, as they were called. And a bloody fight went on till the sun was near going behind the White Mountain.

At last the captain of the strangers blew a great blast on his bugle-horn, and asked the Irish chief to lay aside the fight till next morning. He consented, and both sides separated, one party moving up to the great rath, and the other down to the boats that brought them up from the Bay of Wexford, that was called Lough Garman in old times.

Well, just as they separated, a flight of arrows came from the hill on the far bank, and struck several of the Wexford men. No matter how small a scratch was made, the flesh around it began to itch, and smart, and turn purple, and burn, till the man dropped, crying out for water, and twisting himself in the greatest agony. Those that were untouched hung their shields behind their backs, and carried all that were not yet dead inside the gates.

The three son-in-laws were dead before they could cross the drawbridges, and in the chief’s family there was nothing but lamentation. One of the married daughters fell on the dead body of her husband in a faint, after striving to pull out an arrowhead that had pierced into his side. But the beard of the arrow scratched her nice white wrist, and she was soon roused from her faint with the purple spreading round the mark, and the pain going to her very heart.

Well, they were bad enough before, but now they didn’t know which way to turn. The poor father and the mother and brothers and sisters looking on, and no one able to do a single thing. While they were expecting every moment to be her last, three strangers walked in—an old and a young warrior, and a Druid. The young man came at once to the side of the dying princess, took hold of her arm, and fastened his lips to the wound. The Druid cried out to bring a large vessel, and fill it with the milk of a white cow and water from the Slaney; and to get all the milk from all the white cows they could lay hands on, fill vessels with it and Slaney water, and dip every wounded man that still had a breath of life in him. The young man sucked away until the bath was ready, and she was hardly lain in it till the pain left her, and in half an hour she was out of danger. All the still living men recovered just the same. And after a great deal of bustle and trouble, things got a little quieter, and it’s a wonder if they weren’t grateful to the strangers.

Just as the armies were parting in the evening, these men crossed the river about where the island is now. They left a hundred men at the other side. And when they all sat down in the rath to their supper, you may be sure there was
cead mile failthe
for these three.

The chief and his people were eager enough to know something about their welcome visitors, but were too well-bred to ask any questions till supper was over. Then the old man began without asking, and told all that were within hearing that himself and his son, and all their people, were descendants of a tribe that was once driven out of Ireland by enchanters and pirates, and sailed away to Greece, where their own ancestors once ruled. They were badly treated by their relations, and made to carry clay in leather bags to the tops of hills. “And even my own daughter,” said he, “was carried away from her home by the wicked young prince while I was away fighting for his father. My son, at the head of some of our people, overtook and killed him. And when word was brought to me I quitted the army at once. We seized some ships and sailed away, searching for the old island where our forefathers once dwelt. My daughter fell sick on the voyage. But our wise Druid foretold that a draught of water from the Slaney would bring her to health, and that on our reaching its banks we should save hundreds of lives.”