|
Yeats' The Celtic Twilight
KIDNAPPERS
A little north of the town of
Sligo, on the southern side of Ben Bulben, some
hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white square in the limestone. No
mortal has ever touched it with his hand; no sheep or goat has ever browsed
grass beside it. There is no more inaccessible place upon the earth, and few
more encircled by awe to the deep considering. It is the door of faery-land. In
the middle of night it swings open, and the unearthly troop rushes out. All
night the gay rabble sweep to and fro across the land, invisible to all, unless
perhaps where, in some more than commonly 'gentle' place--Drumcliff or
Drum-a-hair--the nightcapped heads of faery-doctors may be thrust from their
doors to see what mischief the 'gentry' are doing. To their trained eyes and
ears the fields are covered by red-hatted riders, and the air is full of shrill
voices--a sound like whistling, as an ancient Scottish seer has recorded,
and wholly different from the talk of the
angels, who 'speak much in the throat, like the Irish,' as Lilly, the
astrologer, has wisely said. If there be a new-born baby or new-wed bride in the
neighbourhood, the nightcapped 'doctors' will peer with more than common care,
for the unearthly troop do not always return empty-handed. Sometimes a new-wed
bride or a new-born baby goes with them into their mountains; the door swings to
behind, and the new-born or the new-wed moves henceforth in the bloodless land
of Faery; happy enough, but doomed to melt out at the last judgment like bright
vapour, for the soul cannot live without sorrow. Through this door of white
stone, and the other doors of that land where geabheadh tu an sonas aer
pighin ('you can buy joy for a penny'), have gone kings, queens, and
princes, but so greatly has the power of Faery dwindled, that there are none but
peasants in these sad chronicles of mine.
Somewhere about the beginning of last century appeared at the western corner
of Market Street, Sligo, where the butcher's shop now is, not a palace, as in
Keats's Lamia, but an apothecary's shop, ruled over by a certain
unaccountable Dr. Opendon. Where he came from, none ever knew. There also was in
Sligo, in those days, a woman, Ormsby by name, whose husband had fallen
mysteriously sick. The doctors could make nothing of him. Nothing seemed wrong
with him, yet weaker and weaker he grew. Away went the wife to Dr. Opendon. She
was shown into the shop parlour. A black cat was sitting straight up before the
fire. She had just time to see that the side-board was covered with fruit, and
to say to herself, 'Fruit must be wholesome when the doctor has so much,' before
Dr. Opendon came in. He was dressed all in black, the same as the cat, and his
wife walked behind him dressed in black likewise. She gave him a guinea, and got
a little bottle in return. Her husband recovered that time. Meanwhile the black doctor cured
many people; but one day a rich patient died, and cat, wife, and doctor all
vanished the night after. In a year the man Ormsby fell sick once more. Now he
was a goodlooking man, and his wife felt sure the 'gentry' were coveting him.
She went and called on the 'faery-doctor' at Cairnsfoot. As soon as he had heard
her tale, he went behind the back door and began muttering, muttering,
muttering-making spells. Her husband got well this time also. But after a while
he sickened again, the fatal third time, and away went she once more to
Cairnsfoot, and out went the faery-doctor behind his back door and began
muttering, but soon he came in and told her it was no use--her husband would
die; and sure enough the man died, and ever after when she spoke of him Mrs.
Ormsby shook her head saying she knew well where he was, and it wasn't in heaven
or hell or purgatory either. She probably believed that a log of wood was
left behind in his place, but so bewitched that it seemed the
dead body of her husband.
She is dead now herself, but many still living remember her. She was, I
believe, for a time a servant or else a kind of pensioner of some relations of
my own.
Sometimes those who are carried off are allowed after many years--seven
usually--a final glimpse of their friends. Many years ago a woman vanished
suddenly from a Sligo garden where she was walking with her husband. When her
son, who was then a baby, had grown up he received word in some way, not handed
down, that his mother was glamoured by faeries, and imprisoned for the time in a
house in Glasgow and longing to see him. Glasgow in those days of sailing-ships
seemed to the peasant mind almost over the edge of the known world, yet he,
being a dutiful son, started away. For a long time he walked the streets of
Glasgow; at last down in a cellar he saw his mother working. She was happy,
she said, and had the best of good eating, and
would he not eat? and therewith laid all kinds of food on the table; but he,
knowing well that she was trying to cast on him the glamour by giving him faery
food, that she might keep him with her, refused and came home to his people in
Sligo.
Some five miles southward of Sligo is a gloomy and tree-bordered pond, a
great gathering-place of water-fowl, called, because of its form, the Heart
Lake. It is haunted by stranger things than heron, snipe, or wild duck. Out of
this lake, as from the white square stone in Ben Bulben, issues an unearthly
troop. Once men began to drain it; suddenly one of them raised a cry that he saw
his house in flames. They turned round, and every man there saw his own cottage
burning. They hurried home to find it was but faery glamour. To this hour on the
border of the lake is shown a half-dug trench--the signet of their impiety.
A little way from this lake I heard a beautiful and mournful history of faery
kidnapping. I heard it from a little old woman in a white cap, who sings to
herself in Gaelic, and moves from one foot to the other as though she remembered
the dancing of her youth.
A young man going at nightfall to the house of his just married bride, met in
the way a jolly company, and with them his bride. They were faeries, and had
stolen her as a wife for the chief of their band. To him they seemed only a
company of merry mortals. His bride, when she saw her old love, bade him
welcome, but was most fearful lest be should eat the faery food, and so be
glamoured out of the earth into that bloodless dim nation, wherefore she set him
down to play cards with three of the cavalcade; and he played on, realizing
nothing until he saw the chief of the band carrying his bride away in his arms.
Immediately he started up, and knew that they were faeries; for slowly all
that jolly company melted into shadow and
night. He hurried to the house of his beloved. As he drew near came to him the
cry of the keeners. She had died some time before he came. Some noteless Gaelic
poet had made this into a forgotten ballad, some odd verses of which my
white-capped friend remembered and sang for me.
Sometimes one hears of stolen people acting as good genii to the living, as
in this tale, heard also close by the haunted pond, of John Kirwan of Castle
Hacket. The Kirwans1 are a family much rumoured of in peasant stories, and
believed to be the descendants of a man and a spirit. They have ever been famous for beauty,
and I have read that the mother of the present Lord Cloncurry was of their
tribe.
John Kirwan was a great horse-racing man, and once landed in Liverpool with a
fine horse, going racing somewhere in middle England. That evening, as he walked
by the docks, a slip of a boy came up and asked where he was stabling his horse.
In such and such a place, he answered. 'Don't put him there,' said the slip of a
boy; 'that stable will be burnt to-night.' He took his horse elsewhere, and sure
enough the stable was burnt down. Next day the boy came and asked as reward to
ride as his jockey in the coming race, and then was gone. The race-time came
round. At the last moment the boy ran forward and mounted, saying, 'If I strike
him with the whip in my left hand I will lose, but if in my right hand bet all
you are worth.' For, said Paddy Flynn, who told
me the tale, 'the left arm is good for nothing. I might go on making the sign of
the cross with it, and all that, come Christmas, and a Banshee, or such like,
would no more mind than if it was that broom.' Well, the slip of a boy struck
the horse with his right hand, and John Kirwan cleared the field out. When the
race was over, 'What can I do for you now?' said he. 'Nothing but this,' said
the boy: 'my mother has a cottage on your land--they stole me from the cradle.
Be good to her, John Kirwan, and wherever your horses go I will watch that no
ill follows them; but you will never see me more.' With that he made himself
air, and vanished.
Sometimes animals are carried off--apparently drowned animals more than
others. In Claremorris, Galway, Paddy Flynn told me, lived a poor widow with one
cow and its calf. The cow fell into the river, and was washed away. There
was a man thereabouts who went to a red-haired woman--for such are supposed
to be wise in these things--and she told him to take the calf down to the edge
of the river, and hide himself and watch. He did as she had told him, and as
evening came on the calf began to low, and after a while the cow came along the
edge of the river and commenced suckling it. Then, as he had been told, he
caught the cow's tail. Away they went at a great pace across hedges and ditches,
till they came to a royalty (a name for the little circular ditches, commonly
called raths or forts, that Ireland is covered with since Pagan times). Therein
he saw walking or sitting all the people who had died out of his village in his
time. A woman was sitting on the edge with a child on her knees, and she called
out to him to mind what the red-haired woman had told him, and he remembered she
had said, Bleed the cow. So he stuck his knife into the cow and drew blood. That
broke the spell, and he was able to turn her homeward. 'Do not forget the spancel,'
said the woman with the child on her knees; 'take the inside one.' There were
three spancels on a bush; he took one, and the cow was driven safely home to the
widow.
There is hardly a valley or mountainside where folk cannot tell you of some
one pillaged from amongst them. Two or three miles from the Heart Lake lives an
old woman who was stolen away in her youth. After seven years she was brought
home again for some reason or other, but she had no toes left. She had danced
them off. Many near the white stone door in Ben Bulben have been stolen
away.
It is far easier to be sensible in cities than in many country places I could
tell you of. When one walks on those grey roads at evening by the scented
elder-bushes of the white cottages, watching the faint mountains gathering the
clouds upon their heads, one all too readily discovers, beyond the thin cobweb veil of
the senses, those creatures, the goblins, hurrying from the white square stone
door to the north, or from the Heart Lake in the south.
  
Footnotes
1. I have since heard that it was not the Kirwans, but their predecessors at Castle
Hacket, the Hackets themselves, I think, who were descended from a man and a
spirit, and were notable for beauty. I imagine that the mother of Lord Cloncurry
was descended from the Hackets. It may well be that all through these stories
the name of Kirwan has taken the place of the older name. Legend mixes
everything together in her cauldron.
|
 |
