Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (29 page)

“And who was that, Tom?” asked Mr. Martin.

“I could not tell you that, sir,” said Bourke, with a mysterious look; “howsomever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, maybe I’d have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course, I did everything as he bid me. According to his order, I took the little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down
by his side in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great
impression
on his chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting it, and that was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls.

“Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you—I won’t belie my father, sir, he was a good father to me—I saw him standing at the bedside, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other on the stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, let me catch your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s. He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.”

“But I think, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “it appears as if you are more indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous; or do you suppose it was he who made favor with your enemies among the good people, and that then your father—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bourke, interrupting him; “but don’t call them my enemies. ‘Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. Here’s wishing you a good health and long life.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Martin, “I meant no offence, Tom; but was it not as I say?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir,” said Bourke; “I’m bound down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of and my father, and those they know, settled it between them.”

There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of Tom whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons, at the time of his son’s illness—circumstances often mysteriously hinted at by Tom.

“See that, now,” said he, turning to Mr. Martin, “how well she remembers it! True for you, ma’am. The goat I gave the mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered her goats’ whey?”

Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued, “Why, then, I’ll tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e’er goat ever was, for a month after she was sent to Killaan, to your father’s. The morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barnyard into the road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth off the church down toward her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir?”

“Certainly not, Tom,” returned Mr. Martin.

“Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to cry. ‘Whisht, you fool,’ says I; ‘’tis all for the better.’ ’Twas true for me. What do you think, ma’am; the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing why, before Jack’s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town, toward the Lismore road. ’Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.”

“ ’Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,” said Mr. Martin; “I wish you could give us some explanation of it.”

“I wish I could, sir,” was Tom Bourke’s answer; “but I’m bound down. I can’t tell but what I’m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds.”

“I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son,” said Mr. Martin.

“So I had, sir,” returned Bourke. “I had a trial of that man. But that’s neither here nor there. I can’t tell you anything about that, sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?”

“Oh! very much, indeed,” said Mr. Martin.

“But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him better through the story,” added Mrs. Martin.

Tom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition.

“Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow; his name is Patrick. He was always a smart, ’cute
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boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know
where to bury her. Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among the
good people
—had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanway-cross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbors wondered how long I was before I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my father’s people.”

“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so skilful.”

“So I will and welcome,” replied Bourke. “Your health, ma’am. I’m drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never tasted the like of it; it goes down one’s throat like sweet oil. But what was I going to say? Yes—well—Patrick, many a long year ago, was coming home from a
berrin
late in the evening, and walking by the side of a river, opposite the big inch,
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near Ballyhefaan ford. He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the fall of the water at the mill weir about a mile down the river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river. All at once there was a noise of a great number of people laughing as if they’d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through the mist
that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a glass, and that’s saying enough for him; so he whipped off his shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He thought, sir, that he’d show them better dancing than any of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and a good right he had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or treble with him. But pwah! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine would be to the mistress’ there. They did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire them. Patrick was ’shamed within himself, for he thought he had not his fellow in all the country round; and was going away, when a little old man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he did not like what was going on, came up to him. ‘Patrick,’ says he. Patrick started, for he did not think anybody there knew him. ‘Patrick,’ says he, ‘you’re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you have a friend near you. I’m your friend, and your father’s friend, and I think worse
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of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don’t be afeard. I tell you the best of them did not do it as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.’ Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best double he had. And sure enough, all that the others were able for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music answered by his steps, that beat time to every
turn of it, like the left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better than him or any other man that ever went the long journey.”

“And what was the cause of his great success?” inquired Mr. Martin.

“He could not help it, sir,” replied Tom Bourke. “They that could make him do more than that made him do it. How-somever, when he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly out of his mouth when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a white cow grazing by his side.”

“Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary powers in the dance, Tom?” said Mr. Martin.

“I’ll tell you that too, sir,” answered Bourke, “when I come to it. When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to bed; and the next day they found he had got the fever, or something like it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn’t make out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave him over. But it’s little they knew what ailed him. When he was, as you may say, about ten days sick, and everybody thought he was going, one of the neighbors came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can’t tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The
minute Darby saw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the ditch-side, talking to himself, like as if there was someone along with him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn’t be the man he is to-day.”

“I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,” said Mr. Martin.

“You have it all now, sir,” replied Bourke. “Darby told him his friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and though they couldn’t hinder the fever, they’d bring him over it, and teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see, all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a different faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he was a friend of Patrick’s family, and it went again his heart, you see, that the others were so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear ’em boasting how they’d dance with any set in the whole country round. So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterward gave him the skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure it was only learning he was at that time when he was wandering in his mind after the fever.”

“I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan ford,” said Mr. Martin. “ ’Tis a great place for the good people, isn’t it, Tom?”

“You may say that, sir,” returned Bourke. “I could tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by moonlight, at th’ other side of the river, looking at ’em playing goal as if they’d break their hearts over it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the
heads of one party, and red ones on th’ other, just as you’d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming’s big field. I saw ’em one night play till the moon set, without one party being able to take the ball from th’ other. I’m sure they were going to fight, only ’twas near morning. I’m told your grandfather, ma’am, used to see ’em there too,” said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin.

“So I have been told, Tom,” replied Mrs. Martin. “But don’t they say that the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just as favorite a place with the good people as Ballyhefaan inch?”

“Why, then, maybe you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin, added: “ ’Twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He was walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcumber, a little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer that he did not know a mother’s soul in the crowd but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and, faith, he went in and stayed with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about a piper that
come
along with ’em, and fell to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever he may now); but he was loth to begin, because they all seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. ‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy, ‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow to the
purtiest
girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. ’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you see, of all
that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according to custom. The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.”