Chapter III: Part 3

CIARAN. I have sought truth.

DAIRE. And have you found truth? (_Ciaran bows his head in dejection._) Ciaran, was it worth your while to give up all goodly life to follow that mocking phantom? I do not say that a man should not renounce ease. I have not loved ease. But I have loved power, and victory, and life, and men, and women, and the gracious sun. He who renounces these things to follow a phantom across a world has given his all for nothing.

CIARAN. Is not the mere quest often worth while, even if the thing quested be never found?

DAIRE. And so you have not found your quest?

CIARAN. You lay subtle traps for me in your speeches, Daire. It was your way at school when we disputed.

DAIRE. Kings must be subtle. It is by craft we rule.... Ciaran, for the shadow you have pursued I offer you a substance; in place of vain journeying I invite you to rest.... If you make your peace with me you shall be the second man in my kingdom.

CIARAN (_in scorn and wrath_). The second man!

DAIRE. There speaks your old self, Ciaran. I did not mean to wound you. I am the King, chosen by the people to rule and lead. I could not, even if I would, place you above me; but I will place you at my right hand.

CIARAN. You would bribe me with this petty honour?

DAIRE. No. I would gain you for the service of your people. What other service should a man take upon him?

CIARAN. I told you that you did not understand the difference between you and me. May one not serve the people by bearing testimony in their midst to a true thing even as by feeding them with bread?

DAIRE. Again you prate of truth. Are you fond enough to think that what has not imposed even upon your pupils will impose upon me?

CIARAN. My pupils believe. You must not wrong them, Daire.

DAIRE. Are you sure of them?

CIARAN. Yes, I am sure. (_Aside._) Yet sometimes I thought that that gibing Maine did not believe. It may be--

DAIRE. Where are your pupils? Why are they not here to stand by you in your bitter need?

CIARAN. You enticed them from me by guile.

DAIRE. I invited them; they came. You could not keep them, Ciaran. Think you my young men would have left me, in similar case? Their bodies would have been my bulwark against a host.

CIARAN. You hint unspeakable things.

DAIRE. I do but remind you that you have to-day no disciples; (_smiling_) except, perhaps, this little lad. Come, I will win him from you with an apple.

CIARAN. You shall not tempt him!

DAIRE (_laughing_). Ciaran, you stand confessed: you have no faith in your disciples; methinks you have no faith in your religion.

CIARAN. You are cruel, Daire. You were not so cruel when we were lads.

DAIRE. You have come into my country preaching to my people new things, incredible things, things you dare not believe yourself. I will not have this lie preached to men. If your religion be true, you must give me a sign of its truth.

CIARAN. It is true, it is true!

DAIRE. Give me a sign. Nay, show me that you yourself believe. Call upon your God to reveal Himself. I do not trust these skulking gods.

CIARAN. Who am I to ask that great Mystery to unveil Its face? Who are you that a miracle should be wrought for you?

DAIRE. This is not an answer. So priests ever defend their mysteries. I will not be put off as one would put off a child that asks questions. Lo, here I bare my sword against God; lo, here I lift up my shield. Let one of his great captains come down to answer the challenge!

CIARAN. This the bragging of a fool.

DAIRE. Nor does that answer me. Ciaran, you are in my power. My young men surround this house. Yours are at an ale-feast.

CIARAN. O wise and far-seeing King! You have planned all well.

DAIRE. There is a watcher at every door of your house. There a tracker on every path of the forest. The wild boar crouches in his lair for fear of the men that fill this wood. Three rings of champions ring round the tent in which your pupils feast. Your God had need to show Himself a God!

CIARAN. Nay, slay me, Daire. I will bear testimony with my life.

DAIRE. What will that prove? Men die for false things, for ridiculous things, for evil things. What vile cause has not its heroes? Though you were to die here with joy and laughter you would not prove your cause a true one. Ciaran, let God send down an angel to stand between you and me.

CIARAN. Do you think that to save my poor life Omnipotence will display Itself?

DAIRE. Who talks of your life? It is your soul that is at stake, and mine, and this little boy’s, and the souls of all this nation, born and unborn.

CIARAN (_aside_). He speaks true.

DAIRE. Nay, I will put you to the proof. (_To Iollann._) Come hither, child. (_Iollann Beag approaches._) He is daintily fashioned, Ciaran, this last little pupil of yours. I swear to you that he shall die unless your God sends down an angel to rescue him. Kneel boy. (_Iollann Beag kneels._) Speak now, if God has ears to hear. _He raises his sword._

CIARAN (_aside_). I dare not speak. My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?

IOLLANN BEAG. Fear not, little Master, I remember the word you taught me.... Young Michael, stand near me!

_The figure of a mighty Warrior, winged, and clothed in light, seems
to stand beside the boy. Ciaran bends on one knee._

DAIRE. Who art thou, O Soldier?

MICHAEL. I am he that waiteth at the portal. I am he that hasteneth. I am he that rideth before the squadron. I am he that holdeth a shield over the retreat of man’s host when Satan cometh in war. I am he that turneth and smiteth. I am he that is Captain of the Host of God.

_Daire bends slowly on one knee._

CIARAN. The Seraphim and the Cherubim stand horsed. I hear the thunder of their coming.... O Splendour! _He falls forward, dead._

CURTAIN

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IOSAGAN

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CHARACTERS

IOSAGAN OLD MATTHIAS THE PRIEST

BOYS:--DARAGH, PADRAIC, COILIN, CUIMIN, FEICHIN, EOGHAN

_Daragh and Padraic are a little older than the other boys_

_PLACE--A sea-strand beside a village in Iar-Connacht_

_TIME--The present_

IOSAGAN, loving diminutive of Íosa; “Jesukin” (“Ísuccán”) is the name
of the Child Jesus in the exquisite hymn attributed to St. Ita, b.
470, d. 580, A.D.--_Author’s Note._

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IOSAGAN

SCENE I

_A sea-strand beside a village in Iar-Connacht. A house on the
right-hand side. The sound of a bell comes east, very clearly. The
door of the house is opened. An aged man, old Matthias, comes out on
the door-flag and stands for a spell looking down the road. He sits
then on a chair that is outside the door, his two hands gripping a
stick, his head bent, and he listening attentively to the sound of the
bell. The bell stops ringing. Daragh, Padraic and Coilin come up from
the sea and they putting on their share of clothes after bathing._

DARAGH (_stretching his finger towards the sea_). The flowers are white in the fisherman’s garden.

PADRAIC. They are, _muise_.

COILIN. Where are they?

DARAGH. See them out on the sea.

COILIN. Those are not white flowers. Those are white horses.

DARAGH. They’re like white flowers.

COILIN. No; Old Matthias says those are the white horses that go galloping across the sea from the Other Country.

PADRAIC. I heard Iosagan saying they were flowers.

COILIN. What way would flowers grow on the sea?

PADRAIC. And what way would horses travel on the sea?

COILIN. Easy, if they were fairy horses would be in them.

PADRAIC. And wouldn’t flowers grow on the sea as easy, if they were fairy flowers would be in them? Isn’t it often you saw the water-lilies on Loch Ellery? And couldn’t they grow on the sea as well as on the lake?

COILIN. I don’t know if they could.

PADRAIC. They could, _muise_.

DARAGH. The sea was fine to-day, lad.

COILIN. It was, but it was devilish cold.

PADRAIC. Why wouldn’t you be cold when you’d only go into your knees?

COILIN. By my word, I was afraid the waves would knock me down if I’d go in any further. They were terrible big.

DARAGH. That’s what I like, lad. Do you mind yon terrible big one that came over our heads?

PADRAIC. Aye, and Coilin screaming out he was drowned.

COILIN. It went down my throat; it did that, and it nearly smothered me.

PADRAIC. Sure, you had your mouth open, and you shouting. It would be a queer story if it didn’t go down your throat.

COILIN. Yon one gave me enough. I kept out of their way after that.

DARAGH. Have the other lads on them yet?

PADRAIC. Aye. Here they are.

COILIN. Look at Feichin’s hair!

_Feichin, Eoghan and Cuimin come up from the sea and they drying their
hair._

CUIMIN. What’ll we play to-day?

COILIN. “Blind Man’s Buff!”

PADRAIC. Ara, shut up, yourself and your “Blind Man’s Buff.”

COILIN. “High Gates,” then!

PADRAIC. No. We’re tired of those “High Gates.”

DARAGH. “Hide and Seek!”

FEICHIN. Away!

EOGHAN. “Fox and Chickens!”

COILIN. No. We’ll play “_Lúrabóg Lárabóg_.”

PADRAIC. I’ll make a _lúrabóg_ of you!

COILIN. You do be always at me, Padraic. (_Padraic catches hold of him._) Listen to me, will you?

CUIMIN. Ara, listen to him, Padraic.

DARAGH. Listen to him. _Padraic lets him go._

COILIN. Speak yourself, Padraic, if you won’t give leave to anyone else.

PADRAIC. Let’s jump!

EOGHAN. Let’s jump! Let’s jump!

DARAGH. I’ll bet I’ll beat you, Padraic.

PADRAIC. At jumping, is it?

DARAGH. Aye.

PADRAIC. Didn’t I beat you the day before yesterday at the School Rock?

DARAGH. I’ll bet you won’t beat me to-day. Will you try?

PADRAIC. I won’t. My feet are sore. (_The other boys begin laughing; Padraic speaks with a shamed face._) I’d rather play ball.

EOGHAN. Ball! Ball!

DARAGH. Has anybody a ball?

CUIMIN. And if they had, itself, where would we play?

PADRAIC. Against Old Matthias’s gable-end. There’s no nicer place to be found.

COILIN. Who has the ball?

CUIMIN. My soul, I haven’t it.

DARAGH. No, nor I.

PADRAIC. You yourself, Coilin, had it on Friday.

COILIN. By my word, didn’t the master grab it where I was hopping it in the school at Catechism?

FEICHIN. True for you, lad.

CUIMIN. My soul, but I thought he’d give you the rod that time.

COILIN. He would, too, only he was expecting the priest to come in.

DARAGH. It’s the ball he wanted. He’ll have a game with the peelers to-day after Mass.

PADRAIC. My soul, but he will, and it’s he can beat the peelers, too.

DARAGH. He can’t beat the sergeant. The sergeant’s the best man of them all. He beat Hoskins and the red man together last Sunday.

FEICHIN. Ara, stop! Did he beat them?

DARAGH. He did, _muise_. The red man was raging, and the master and the peelers all laughing at him.

PADRAIC. I bet the master will beat the sergeant.

DARAGH. I’ll bet he won’t.

PADRAIC. Do ye hear him?

DARAGH. I’ll bet the sergeant can beat any man in this country.

PADRAIC. Ara, how do you know whether he can or not?

DARAGH. I know well he can. Don’t I be always watching them?

PADRAIC. You don’t know!

DARAGH. I do know! It’s I that know it!

_They threaten each other. A quarrel arises among the boys, a share of
them saying, _“The sergeant’s the best!”_ and others, _“The master’s
best!”_ Old Matthias gets up to listen to them. He comes forward,
twisted and bent in his body, and barely able to drag his feet along.
He speaks to them quietly, laying his hand on Daragh’s head._

MATTHIAS. O! O! O! My shame ye are!

PADRAIC. This fellow says the master can’t beat the sergeant playing ball.

DARAGH. By my word, wouldn’t the sergeant beat anybody at all in this country, Matthias?

MATTHIAS. Never mind the sergeant. Look at that lonesome wild goose that’s making on us over Loch Ellery! Look! _All the boys look up._

PADRAIC. I see it, by my soul!

DARAGH. Where’s she coming from, Matthias?

MATTHIAS. From the Eastern World. I would say she has travelled a thousand miles since she left her nest in the lands to the north.

COILIN. The poor thing. And where will she drop?

MATTHIAS. To Aran she’ll go, it’s a chance. See her now out over the sea. My love you are, lonesome wild goose!

COILIN. Tell us a story, Matthias.

_He sits on a stone by the strand-edge, and the boys gather round
him._

MATTHIAS. What story shall I tell?

FEICHIN. “The Adventures of the Grey Horse!”

CUIMIN. “The Hen-Harrier and the Wren!”

PADRAIC. “The Two-Headed Giant!”

COILIN. “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle!”

EOGHAN. Aye, by my soul, “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle!”

THE BOYS (_with one voice_). “The Adventures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle!”

MATTHIAS. I’ll do that. “There was a Snail in it long ago, and it’s long since it was. If we’d been there that time, we wouldn’t be here now; and if we were, itself, we’d have a new story or an old story, and that’s better than to be without e’er a story at all. The Castle this Snail lived in was the finest that man’s eye ever saw. It was greater entirely, and it was a thousand times richer than Meave’s Castle in Rath Cruachan, or than the Castle of the High-King of Ireland itself in Tara of the Kings. This Snail made love to a Spider--”

COILIN. No, Matthias, wasn’t it to a Granny’s Needle he made love?

MATTHIAS. My soul, but you’re right. What’s coming on me?

PADRAIC. Go on, Matthias.

MATTHIAS. “This Nettle-Worm was very comely entirely--”

FEICHIN. What’s the Nettle-Worm, Matthias?

MATTHIAS. Why, the Nettle-Worm he made love to.

CUIMIN. But I thought it was to a Granny’s Needle he made love.

MATTHIAS. Was it? The story’s going from me. “This Piper was in love with the daughter of the King of Connacht--”

EOGHAN. But you didn’t mention the Piper yet, Matthias!

MATTHIAS. Didn’t I! “The Piper...” yes, by my soul, the Piper--I’m losing my memory. Look here, neighbours, we won’t meddle with the story to-day. Let’s have a song.

COILIN. “Hi diddle dum!”

MATTHIAS. Are ye satisfied?

THE BOYS. We are.

MATTHIAS. I’ll do that. (_He sings the following rhyme_):

“Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother,
That went to Galway riding a drake.”

THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum!

MATTHIAS.
“Hi diddle dum, the rain came pelting,
And drenched to the skin the cat and his mother.”

THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum!

MATTHIAS.
“Hi diddle dum, ’twas like in the deluge
The cat and his mother would both be drownded.”

THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum!

MATTHIAS.
“Hi diddle dum, my jewel the drake was,
That carried his burden--”

COILIN. Swimming--

MATTHIAS. Good man, Coilin.
“That carried his burden swimming to Galway.”

THE BOYS. And hi diddle dum!

_Old Matthias shakes his head wearily; he speaks in a sad voice._

MATTHIAS. My songs are going from me, neighbours. I’m like an old fiddle that’s lost all its strings.

CUIMIN. Haven’t you the “_Báidín_” always, Matthias?

MATTHIAS. I have, my soul; I have it as long as I’m living. I won’t lose the “_Báidín_” till I’m stretched in the clay. Shall we have it?

THE BOYS. Aye.

MATTHIAS. Are ye ready to go rowing?

THE BOYS. We are!

_They order themselves as they would be rowing. Old Matthias sings
these verses._

MATTHIAS.
“I will hang a sail, and I will go west.”

THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_

MATTHIAS.
“And till St. John’s Day I will not rest.”

THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_
_Oró, mo churaichín, O!_
_’S óró, mo bháidín!_

MATTHIAS.
“Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the bay.”

THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_

MATTHIAS. “The oars pulling--”

_He stops suddenly, and puts his hand to his head._

PADRAIC. What’s on you, Matthias?

EOGHAN. Are you sick, Matthias?

MATTHIAS. Something that came on my head. It’s nothing. What’s this I was saying?

COILIN. You were saying the “_Báidín_,” Matthias, but don’t mind if you don’t feel well. Are you sick?

MATTHIAS. Sick? By my word, I’m not sick. What would make me sick? We’ll start again:

“Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the bay.”

THE BOYS. _Oró, mo churaichín, O!_

MATTHIAS. “The oars pulling strongly--” (_He stops again._) Neighbours, the “_Báidín_” itself is gone from me. (_They remain silent for a spell, the old man sitting and his head bent on his breast, and the boys looking on him sorrowfully. The old man speaks with a start._) Are those the people coming home from Mass?

CUIMIN. No. They won’t be free for a half hour yet.

COILIN. Why don’t you go to Mass, Matthias?

_The old man rises up and puts his hand to his head again. He speaks
angrily at first, and after that softly._

MATTHIAS. Why don’t I go?... I’m not good enough. By my word, God wouldn’t hear me.... What’s this I’m saying?... (_He laughs._) And I have lost the “_Báidín_,” do ye say? Amn’t I the pitiful object without my “_Báidín_!”

_He hobbles slowly across the road. Coilin rises and puts his shoulder
under the old man’s hand to support him. The boys begin playing
“jackstones” quietly. Old Matthias sits on the chair again, and Coilin
returns. Daragh speaks in a low voice._

DARAGH. There’s something on Old Matthias to-day. He never forgot the “_Báidín_” before.

CUIMIN. I heard my father saying to my mother, the other night, that it’s not long he has to live.

COILIN. Do you think is he very old?

PADRAIC. Why did you put that question on him about the Mass? Don’t you know he hasn’t been seen at Mass in the memory of the people?

DARAGH. I heard Old Cuimin Enda saying to my father that he himself saw Old Matthias at Mass when he was a youth.

COILIN. Do you know why he doesn’t go to Mass now?

PADRAIC (_in a whisper_). It’s said he doesn’t believe there’s a God.

CUIMIN. I heard Father Sean Eamonn saying it’s the way he did some terrible sin at the start of his life, and when the priest wouldn’t give him absolution in confession there came a raging anger on him, and he swore an oath he wouldn’t touch priest or chapel for ever again.

DARAGH. That’s not how I heard it. One night when I was in bed the old people were talking and whispering by the fireside, and I heard Maire of the Bridge saying to the other old women that it’s the way Matthias sold his soul to some Great Man he met once on the top of Cnoc-a’-Daimh, and that this Man wouldn’t allow him to go to Mass.

PADRAIC. Do you think was it the devil he saw?

DARAGH. I don’t know. A “Great Man,” said Maire of the Bridge.

CUIMIN. I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Sure, if Matthias sold his soul to the devil it must be he’s a wicked person.

PADRAIC. He’s not a wicked person, _muise_. Don’t you mind the day Iosagan said that his father told him Matthias would be among the saints on the Day of the Mountain?

CUIMIN. I mind it well.

COILIN. Where’s Iosagan from us to-day?

DARAGH. He never comes when there does be a grown person watching us.

CUIMIN. Wasn’t he here a week ago to-day when old Matthias was watching us?

DARAGH. Was he?

CUIMIN. He was.

PADRAIC. Aye, and a fortnight to-day, as well.

DARAGH. There’s a chance he’ll come to-day, then.

_Cuimin rises and looks east._

CUIMIN. O, see, he’s coming.

_Iosagan enters--a little, brown-haired boy, a white coat on him, and
he without shoes or cap like the other boys. The boys welcome him._

THE BOYS. God save you, Iosagan!

IOSAGAN. God and Mary save you!

_He sits among them, a hand of his about Daragh’s neck; the boys begin
playing again, gently, without noise or quarrelling. Iosagan joins in
the game. Matthias rises with a start on the coming of Iosagan, and
stands gazing at him. After they have played for a spell he comes
towards them, and then stands again and calls over to Coilin._

MATTHIAS. Coilin!

COILIN. What do you want?

MATTHIAS. Come here to me. (_Coilin rises and goes to him._) Who is that boy I see among you this fortnight back--he, yonder, with the brown head on him--but take care it’s not red he is; I don’t know is it black or is it fair he is, the way the sun is burning on him? Do you see him--him that has his arm about Daragh’s neck?

COILIN. That’s Iosagan.

MATTHIAS. Iosagan?

COILIN. That’s the name he gives himself.

MATTHIAS. Who are his people?

COILIN. I don’t know, but he says his father’s a king.

MATTHIAS. Where does he live?

COILIN. He never told us that, but he says his house isn’t far away.

MATTHIAS. Does he be among you often?

COILIN. He does, when we do be amusing ourselves like this. But he goes from us when grown people come near. He will go from us now as soon as the people begin coming from Mass.

_The boys rise and go, in ones and twos, when they have finished the
game._

COILIN. O! They are going jumping.

_He runs out after the others. Iosagan and Daragh rise and go.
Matthias comes forward and calls Iosagan._

MATTHIAS. Iosagan! (_The Child turns back and comes towards him at a run._) Come here and sit on my knee for a little while, Iosagan. (_The Child links his hand in the old man’s hand, and they cross the road together. Matthias sits on his chair and draws Iosagan to him._) Where do you live, Iosagan?

IOSAGAN. Not far from this my house is. Why don’t you come to see me?

MATTHIAS. I would be afraid in a royal house. They tell me that your father’s a king.

IOSAGAN. He is High-King of the World. But there’s no call for you to be afraid of Him. He’s full of pity and love.

MATTHIAS. I fear I didn’t keep His law.

IOSAGAN. Ask forgiveness of Him. I and my Mother will make intercession for you.

MATTHIAS. It’s a pity I didn’t see You before this, Iosagan. Where were You from me?

IOSAGAN. I was here always. I do be travelling the roads and walking the hills and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when they gather into My house. I do be among the children they do leave behind them playing on the street.

MATTHIAS. I was too shy, or too proud, to go into Your house, Iosagan: among the children, it was, I found You.

IOSAGAN. There isn’t any place or time the children do be making fun to themselves that I’m not with them. Times they see Me; other times they don’t see Me.

MATTHIAS. I never saw You till lately.

IOSAGAN. All the grown people do be blind.

MATTHIAS. And it has been granted me to see You, Iosagan.

IOSAGAN. My Father gave Me leave to show Myself to you because you loved His little children. (_The voices are heard of the people returning from Mass._) I must go now from you.

MATTHIAS. Let me kiss the hem of Your coat.

IOSAGAN. Kiss it. _He kisses the hem of His coat._

MATTHIAS. Shall I see You again, Iosagan?

IOSAGAN. You will.

MATTHIAS. When?

IOSAGAN. To-night.

_Iosagan goes. The old man stands on the door-flag looking after Him._

MATTHIAS. I will see Him to-night.

_The people pass along the road, returning from Mass._

CURTAIN

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SCENE II

_Old Matthias’s room. It is very dark. The old man lying on his bed.
Some one knocks outside the door. Matthias speaks in a weak voice._

MATTHIAS. Come in. (_The Priest enters. He sits down beside the bed and hears the old man’s confession. When they have finished, Matthias speaks._) Who told you I was wanting you, Father? I was praying God that you’d come, but I hadn’t a messenger to send for you.

PRIEST. But, sure, you did send a messenger for me?

MATTHIAS. No.

PRIEST. You didn’t? But a little boy came and knocked at my door, and he said you were wanting my help.

_The old man straightens himself back in the bed, and his eyes flash._

MATTHIAS. What sort of a little boy was he, Father?

PRIEST. A mannerly little boy, with a white coat on him.

MATTHIAS. Did you take notice if there was a shadow of light about his head?

PRIEST. I did, and it put great wonder on me.

_The door opens. Iosagan stands on the threshold, and He with His two
arms stretched out towards Matthias; a miraculous light about His face
and head._

MATTHIAS. Iosagan! You’re good, Iosagan. You didn’t fail me, love. I was too proud to go into Your house, but at the last it was granted me to see You. “I was here always,” says He. “I do be travelling the roads and walking the hills and ploughing the waves. I do be among the people when they gather into My house. I do be among the children they do leave behind playing on the street.” Among the children, it was, I found You, Iosagan. “Shall I see You again?” “You will,” says He. “You’ll see Me to-night.” _Sé do bheatha, a Iosagáin!_

_He falls back on the bed, and he dead. The Priest goes softly to him
and closes his eves._

CURTAIN

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THE MOTHER

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THE MOTHER

There was a company of women sitting up one night in the house of Barbara of the Bridge, spinning frieze. It would be music to you to be listening to them, and their voices making harmony with the drone of the wheels, like the sound of the wind with the shaking of the bushes.

They heard a cry. The child, it was, talking in its sleep.

“Some evil thing that crossed the door,” says Barbara. “Rise, Maire, and stir the cradle.”

The woman spoken-to got up. She was sitting on the floor till that, carding. She went over to the cradle. The child was wide awake before her, and he crying pitifully. Maire knelt down beside the cradle. As soon as the child saw her face he ceased from crying. A long, beautiful face she had; a brow, broad and smooth, black hair and it twisted in clusters about her head, and two grey eyes that would look on you slow, serious, and troubled-like. It was a gift Maire had, the way she would quieten a cross child or put a sick child to sleep, looking on that smooth, pleasant face and those grey, loving eyes of hers.

Maire began singing the “_Crónán na Banaltra_” (The Nurse’s Lullaby) in a low voice. The other women ceased from their talk to listen to her. It wasn’t long till the child was in a dead sleep. Maire rose and went back to where she was sitting before. She fell to her carding again.

“May you have good, Maire,” says Barbara. “There’s no wonder in life but the way you’re able to put children asleep. Though that’s my own heir, I would be hours of the clock with him before he would go off on me.”

“Maire has magic,” says another woman.

“She’s like the harpers of Meave that would put a host of men asleep when they would play their sleep-tunes,” says old Una ní Greelis.

“Isn’t it fine she can sing the _Crónán na Banaltra_?” says the second woman.

“My soul, you would think it was the Virgin herself that would be saying it,” says old Una.

“Do you think is it true, Una, that it was the Blessed Virgin (praise to her for ever) that made that tune?” says Barbara.

“I know it’s true. Isn’t it with that tune she used put the Son of God (a thousand glories to His name) asleep when He was a child?”

“And how is it, then, the people do have it now?” says Barbara.

“Coming down from generation to generation, I suppose, like the Fenian tales,” says one of the women.

“No, my soul,” says old Una. “The people it was heard the tune from the Virgin’s mouth itself, here in this countryside, not so long ago.”

“And how would they hear it?”

“Doesn’t the world know that the glorious Virgin goes round the townlands every Christmas Eve, herself and her child?”

“I heard the people saying she does.”

“And don’t you know if the door is left ajar and a candle lighting in the window, that the Virgin and her Child will come into the house, and that they will sit down to rest themselves?”

“My soul, but I heard that, too.”

“A woman of the Joyce country, it was, waiting up on Christmas Eve to see the Virgin, that heard the tune from her for the first time and taught it to the country. It’s often I heard discourse about her, and I a growing girl. ‘Maire of the Virgin’ was the name they gave her. It’s said that it’s often she saw the glorious Virgin. She died in the poor-house in Uachtar Ard a couple of years before I was married. The blessing of God be with the souls of the dead.”

“Amen, O Lord,” say the other women.

But Maire did not speak. She and her two big grey eyes were going, as you would say, through old Una’s forehead, and she telling the story. She spoke after a spell.

“Are you sure, Una, that the Virgin and her Child come into the houses on Christmas Eve?” says she.

“As sure as I’m living.”

“Did you ever see her?”

“I did not, then. But the Christmas Eve after I was married I waited up to see her, if it would be granted me. A cloud of sleep fell on me. Some noise woke me, and when I opened my eyes I thought I saw, as it would be, a young woman and a child in her arms going out the door.”

No one spoke for a long time. Nothing was heard in the house but the drone of the spinning-wheels and the crackling of the fire, and the chirping of the crickets. Maire got up.

“I’ll be shortening the road,” says she. “May God give you good night, women.”

“God speed you, Maire,” they answered together.

She drew-to the door on herself.

There was, as it would be, a blaze of fire in that woman’s heart, and she going the road home in the blackness of night. The great longing of her soul was plundering and desolating her--the longing for children. She had been married four years, and hadn’t clann. It’s often she would spend the hours on her knees, praying God to send her a child. It’s often she would rise from the bed in the night-time, and go on her two naked knees on the cold, hard stone making the same petition. It’s many a penance she used put on herself in hopes that the torture of her body would soften God’s heart. It’s often when her man would be from home, that she would go to sleep without dinner and without supper. Once or twice, when her man was asleep, she left the bed and went out and stood a long while under the dew of the night sending her prayer to the dark, lonesome skies. Once she drew blood from her shoulder-blades with blows she gave herself with a switch. Another time she stuck thorns into her flesh in memory of the crown of thorns that went on the brow of the Saviour. The penances and the heart-scald were preying on her health. Nobody guessed what was wrong with her. Her own husband--a decent, kindly man--didn’t understand the story right, though it’s often he would hear her in the night talking to herself as a mother would be talking to a child, when she would feel its hand or its mouth at her breast. Ah! it’s many a woman hugs her heart and whispers in the dead time of night to the child that isn’t born, and will not be.

Maire thought long until Christmas Eve came. But as there’s a wearing on everything, so there was a wearing on the delay of that time. The day of Christmas Eve was tedious to her until evening came. She swept the floor of the house, and she cleaned the chairs, and she made up a good fire before going to sleep. She left the door on the latch, and she put a tall, white candle in the window. When she stretched herself beside her man it wasn’t to sleep it was, but to watch. She thought her man would never sleep. She felt at last by the quiet breath he was drawing that he was gone off. Then she got up. She put on her dress, and she stole out to the kitchen. No one was there. Not even a mouse was stirring. The crickets themselves were asleep. The fire was in red ashes. The candle was shining brightly. She bent on her knees in the room door. It’s sweet the calm of the house was to her in the middle of the night, though, I tell you, it was terrible. There came a heightening of mind on her as it used to come betimes in the chapel, and she going to receive communion from the priest’s hands. She felt, somehow, that the Presence wasn’t far from her, and that it wouldn’t be long until she would hear a footstep. She listened patiently. The house itself, she thought, and what was in it both living and dead, was listening as well. The hills were listening, and the stones of the earth, and the starry stars of the sky.

She heard a sound. A footstep on the door-flag. She saw a young woman coming in and a child in her arms. The young woman drew up to the fire. She sat down on a chair. She began crooning, very low, to the child. Maire recognised the music. The tune that was on it was the “_Crónán na Banaltra_.”

A while to them like that. The woman hugging the child to her breast, and crooning, very sweetly, very softly. Maire on her two knees, under the shadow of the door. It wasn’t in her to speak nor to move. She was barely able to draw her breath.

At last the woman rose. It’s then Maire rose. She went hither to the woman.

“_A Mhuire_,” says she, whispering-like.

The woman turned her countenance towards her. A lovely, noble countenance it was.

“_A Mhuire_,” says Maire again. “I have a request of you.”

“Say it,” says the other woman.

“A child drinking the milk of my breast,” says Maire. “Don’t deny me, _a Mhuire_.”

“Come closer to me,” says the other woman.

Maire came closer to her. The other woman raised her child. The child stretched out its two little hands, and it laid a hand softly on each cheek of Maire’s two cheeks.

“That blessing will make you fruitful,” says the Mother.

“Its a good woman you are, _a Mhuire_,” says Maire. “It’s good your Son is.”

“I leave a blessing in this house,” says the other woman.

She squeezed her child to her breast again and went out the door. Maire fell on her knees.

* * * * *

It’s a year since that Christmas Eve. The last time I passed Maire’s house there was a child in her breast. There was that look on her that doesn’t be on living soul but a mother when she feels the mouth of her firstborn at her nipple.

“God loves the women better than the men,” said I to myself. “It’s to them He sends the greatest sorrows, and it’s on them He bestows the greatest joy.”

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THE DEARG-DAOL

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THE DEARG-DAOL

A walking-man, it was, come into my father’s house out of the Joyce Country, that told us this story by the fireside one wild winter’s night. The wind was wailing round the house, like women keening the dead, while he spoke, and he would make his voice rise or fall according as the wind’s voice would rise or fall. A tall man he was, with wild eyes, and his share of clothes almost in tatters. There was a sort of fear on me of him when he came in, and his story didn’t lessen my fear.

The three most blessed beasts in the world, says the walking-man, are the haddock, the robin redbreast, and God’s cow. And the three most cursed beasts in the world are the viper, the wren, and the _dearg-daol_ (“black chafer”). And it’s the _dearg-daol_ is the most cursed of them. ’Tis I that know that. Woman of the house, if a man would murder his son, don’t call him the _dearg-daol_. If a woman would come between yourself and the husband of your bed, don’t put her in comparison with the _dearg-daol_.

“God save us,” says my mother.

“Amen, Lord,” says the walking-man.

He didn’t speak again for a spell. We all listened, for we knew he was going to tell a story. It wasn’t long before he began.

When I was a lad, says the walking-man, there was a woman of our people that everybody was afraid of. In a little, lonely cabin in a gap of a mountain, it was, she lived. No one would go near her house. She, herself, wouldn’t come next or near any other body’s house. Nobody would speak to her when they met her on the road. She wouldn’t put word nor wisdom on anybody at all. You’d think a pity to see the creature and she going the road alone.

“Who is she,” I would say to my mother, “or why wouldn’t they speak to her?”

“Whisht, boy,” my mother would say to me. “That’s the _Dearg-Daol_. ’Tis a cursed woman she is.”

“What did she do, or who put the curse on her?” I would say.

“A priest of God that put the curse on her,” my mother would say. “No one in life knew what she did.”

And that’s all the knowledge I got of her until I was a grown chap. And indeed to you, neighbours, I never heard anything about her but that she committed some dreadful sin at the start of her life, and that the priest put his curse on her before the people on account of that sin. One Sunday, when the people were gathered at Mass, the priest turned round on them, and says he:--

“There is a woman here,” says he, “that will merit eternal damnation for herself and for every person that makes familiar with her. And I say to that woman,” says he, “that she is a cursed woman, and I say to you, let you not have intercourse or neighbourliness with that woman but as much as you’d have with a _dearg-daol_. Rise up now, _Dearg-Daol_,” says he, “and avoid the company of decent people henceforth.”

The poor woman got up, and went out the chapel door. There was no name on her from that out but the _Dearg-Daol_. Her own name and surname were put out of mind. ’Twas said that she had the evil eye. If she’d look on a calf or a sheep that wasn’t her own, the animal would die. The women were afraid to let their children out on the street if the _Dearg-Daol_ was going the road.

I married a comely girl when I was of the age of one-and-twenty. We had a little slip of a girl, and we had hopes of another child. One day when I was cutting turf in the bog, my wife was feeding the fowl on the street, when she saw--God between us and harm--the _Dearg-Daol_ making on her up the bohereen, and she with the little, soft _pataire_ of a child in her arms. An arm of the child was about the woman’s neck, and her shawl covering her. Speech left my wife.

The _Dearg-Daol_ laid the little girl in her mother’s breast. My woman took notice that her clothes were wet.

“What happened the child?” says she.

“Falling into Lochán na Luachra (the Pool of the Rushes), she did it,” says the _Dearg-Daol_. “Looking for water-lilies she was. I was crossing the road, and I heard her scream. In over the dyke with me. It was only by dint of trouble I caught her.”

“May God reward you,” says my wife. The other woman went off before she had time to say more. My wife fetched the little wee thing inside, she dried her, and put her to sleep. When I came in from the bog she told me the story. The two of us prayed our blessing on the _Dearg-Daol_ that night.

The day after, the little girl began prattling about the woman that saved her. “The water was in my mouth, and in my eyes, and in my ears,” says she. “I saw shining sparks, and I heard a great noise; I was slipping and slipping,” says she; “and then,” says she, “I felt a hand about me, and she lifted me up and she kissed me. I thought it was at home, I was, when I was in her arms and her shawl about me,” says she.

A couple of days after that my wife noticed the little thing away from her. We sought her for the length of two hours. When she came home she told us that she was after paying a visit to the woman that saved her. “She made a cake for me,” says she. “She has ne’er a one in the house at all but herself, and she said to me I should go visiting her every evening.”

Neither I nor my wife was able to say a word against her. The _Dearg-Daol_ was after saving our girl’s life, and it wouldn’t be natural to hinder the child going into her house. From that day out the little girl would go up the hill to her every day.

The neighbours said to us that it wasn’t right. There was a sort of suspicion on ourselves that it wasn’t right, but how could we help it?

Would you believe me, people? From the day the _Dearg-Daol_ laid eyes on the little girl, she began dwindling and dwindling, like a fire that wouldn’t be mended. She lost her appetite and her activity. After a quarter she was only a shadow. After another month she was in the churchyard.

The _Dearg-Daol_ came down the mountain the day she was buried. She wouldn’t be let into the graveyard. She went her road up the mountain again alone. My heart bled for the creature, for I knew that our trouble was no heavier than her trouble. I myself went up the hill the morning of the next day. I meant to say to her that neither my wife nor myself had any upbraiding for her. I knocked at the door. I didn’t get any answer. I went into the house. The ashes were red on the hearth. There was no one at all to be seen. I noticed a bed in the corner. I went over to the bed. The _Dearg-Daol_ was lying there, and she cold dead.

There wasn’t any luck on me or on my household from that day out. My wife died a month after that, and she in childbirth. The child didn’t live. There fell a murrain on my cattle the winter following. The landlord put me out of my holding. I am a walking man, and the roads of Connacht before me, from that day to this.

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THE ROADS

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THE ROADS

Rossnageeragh will mind till death the night the Dublin Man gave us the feast in the schoolhouse of Turlagh Beg. We had no name or surname for that same man ever but the “Dublin Man.” Peatin Pharaig would say to us that he was a man who wrote for the newspapers. Peatin would read the Gaelic paper the mistress got every week, and it’s a small thing he hadn’t knowledge of, for there was discourse in that paper on the doings of the Western World and on the goings-on of the Eastern World, and there would be no bounds to the information Peatin would have to give us every Sunday at the chapel gate. He would say to us that the Dublin Man had a stack of money, for two hundred pounds in the year were coming to him out of the heart of that paper he wrote for every week.

The Dublin Man would pay a fortnight’s or a month’s visit to Turlagh every year. This very year he sent out word calling poor and naked to a feast he was gathering for us in the schoolhouse. He announced that there would be music and dancing and Gaelic speeches in it; that there would be a piper there from Carrowroe; that Brigid ni Mhainin would be there to give _Conntae Mhuigheó_; that Martin the Fisherman would tell a Fenian story; that old Una ni Greelis would recite a poem if the creature wouldn’t have the asthma; and that Marcuseen Mhichil Ruaidh would do a bout of dancing unless the rheumatic pains would be too bad on him. Nobody ever knew Marcuseen to have the rheumatics but when he’d be asked to dance. “Bedam, but I’m dead with the pains for a week,” he’d always say when a dance would be hinted. But no sooner would the piper start on “Tatter Jack Walsh,” than Marcuseen would throw his old hat in the air, “hup!” he’d say, and take the floor.

The family of Col Labhras were drinking tea the evening of the feast.

“Will we go to the schoolhouse to-night, daddy?” says Cuimin Col to his father.

“We will. Father Ronan said he’d like all the people to go.”

“Won’t we have the spree!” says Cuimin.

“You’ll stay at home, Nora,” says the mother, “to mind the child.”

Nora put a lip on herself, but she didn’t speak.

After tea Col and his wife went into the room to ready themselves for the road.

“My sorrow that it’s not a boy God made me,” says Nora to her brother.

“_Muise_, why?” says Cuimin.

“For one reason better than another,” says Nora. With that she gave a little slap to the child that was half-asleep and half-awake in the cradle. The child let a howl out of him.

“_Ara_, listen to the child,” says Cuimin. “If my mother hears him crying, she’ll take the ear off you.”

“I don’t care if she takes the two ears off me,” says Nora.

“What’s up with you?” Cuimin was washing himself, and he stopped to look over his shoulder at his sister, and the water streaming from his face.

“Tired of being made a little ass of by my mother and by everybody, I am,” says Nora. “I working from morning till night, and ye at your ease. Ye going to the spree to-night, and I sitting here nursing this child. ‘You’ll stay at home, Nora, to mind the child,’ says my mother. That’s always the way. It’s a pity it’s not a boy God made me.”

Cuimin was drying his face meanwhile, and “s-s-s-s-s” coming out of him like a person would be grooming a horse.

“It’s a pity, right enough,” says he, when he was able to speak.

He threw the towel from him, he put his head to one side, and looked complacently at himself in the glass was hanging on the wall.

“A parting in my hair now,” says he, “and I’ll be first-class.”

“Are you ready, Cuimin?” says his father, coming out of the room.

“I am.”

“We’ll be stirring on then.”

The mother came out.

“If he there is crying, Nora,” says she, “give him a drink of milk out of the bottle.”

Nora didn’t say a word. She remained sitting on the stool beside the cradle, and her chin laid in her two hands and her two elbows stuck on her knees. She heard her father and her mother and Cuimin going out the door and across the street; she knew by their voices that they were going down the bohereen. The voices died away, and she understood that they were after taking the road.

Nora began making fancy pictures in her mind. She saw, she thought, the fine, level road and it white under the moonlight. The people were in groups making for the schoolhouse. The Rossnageeragh folk were coming out the road, and the Garumna folk journeying round by the mistress’s house, and the Kilbrickan folk crowding down the hill, and the Turlagh Beg’s crowding likewise; there was a band from Turlagh, and an odd sprinkling from Glencaha, and one or two out of Inver coming in the road. She imagined her own people were at the school gate by now. They were going up the path. They were entering in the door. The schoolhouse was well-nigh full, and still no end to the coming of the people. There were lamps hung on the walls, and the house as bright as it would be in the middle of day. Father Ronan was there, and he going from person to person and bidding welcome to everybody. The Dublin Man was there, and he as nice and friendly-like as ever. The mistress was there, and the master and mistress from Gortmore, and the lace-instructress. The schoolgirls sitting together on the front benches. Weren’t they to sing a song? She saw, she thought, Maire Sean Mor, and Maire Pheatin Johnny, and Babeen Col Marcus, and the Boatman’s Brigid, and her red head on her, and Brigid Caitin ni Fhiannachta, with her mouth open as usual. The girls were looking round and nudging one another, and asking one another where was Nora Col Labhras. The schoolhouse was packed to the door now. Father Ronan was striking his two hands together. They were stopping from talk and from whispering. Father Ronan was speaking to them. He was speaking comically. Everybody was laughing. He was calling on the schoolgirls to give their song. They were getting up and going to the head of the room and bowing to the people.

“My sorrow, that I’m not there,” says poor Nora to herself, and she laid her face in her palms and began crying.

She stopped crying, suddenly. She hung her head, and rubbed a palm to her eyes.

It wasn’t right, says she in her own mind. It wasn’t right, just, or decent. Why should she be kept at home? Why should they always keep her at home? If she was a boy she’d be let out. Since she was only a girl they would keep her at home. She was, as she had said to Cuimin that evening, only a little ass of a girl. She wouldn’t put up with it any longer. She would have her own way. She would be as free as any boy that came or went. It’s often before that she set her mind to the deed. She would do the deed that night.

It’s often Nora thought that it would be a fine life to be going like a flying hawk, independent of everybody. The roads of Ireland before her, and her face on them; the back of her head to home and hardship and the vexation of her people. She going from village to village, and from glen to glen. The fine, level road before her, fields on both sides of her, little, well-sheltered houses on the slopes of the hills. If she’d get tired she could stretch back by the side of a ditch, or she could go into some house and ask the good woman for a drink of milk and a seat by the fire. To make the night’s sleep in some wood under the shadow of trees, and to rise early in the morning and stretch out again under the lovely fresh air. If she wanted food (and it’s likely she would want it), she would do a day’s work here and a day’s work there, and she would be full-satisfied if she got a cup of tea and a crumb of bread in payment for it. Wouldn’t it be a fine life that, besides being a little ass of a girl at home, feeding the hens and minding the child!

It’s not as a girl she’d go, but as a boy. No one in life would know that it’s not a boy was in it. When she’d cut her hair and put on herself a suit of Cuimin’s bawneens, who would know that it’s a girl she was?