Part 8

“Tá súil agam go dtig liom,” ar san Prionnsa, “air ṁóḋ air biṫ déanfaiḋ mé mo ḋíṫċioll air do ṡon, mar ṫáinig tu ċoṁ fada sin le m’ḟeicsint-se. B’olc an ceart dam gan mo ḋíṫċioll ḋeunaṁ. Tar suas annsa bpárlúis. Is fíor an rud a duḃairt an sean duine atá ann sin leat. Shluig tu alp-luaċra, no rud éigin eile. Tar suas ’sa’ bpárlúis liom.”

Ṫug sé suas leis é, agus is é an béile a ḃí aige an lá sin giota mór de ṁairtḟeóil ṡaillte. Ghearr sé greim mór agus ċuir sé air ṗláta é, agus ṫug sé do’n duine boċt le n-íṫe é.

“Óró! Créad atá d’ onóir ag déanaṁ ann sin anois,” ars an duine boċt, “níor ṡluig mé oiread agus toirt uiḃe d’ḟeóil air biṫ le ráiṫċe, ni’l aon ġoile agam, ní ṫig liom dadaṁ iṫe.”

“Bí do ṫost a ḋuine,” ars an Prionnsa, “iṫ é sin nuair a deirim leat é.”

D’iṫ an fear boċt an oiread agus d’ḟeud sé, aċt nuair leig sé an sgian agus an ġaḃlóg as a láiṁ ċuir an Prionnsa iaċ (d’ḟiaċaiḃ) air iad do ṫógḃáil arís, agus do ṫosuġaḋ as an nuaḋ. Ċongḃuiġ sé ann sin é ag iṫe, go raiḃ sé réiḋ le pleusgaḋ, agus níor ḟeud sé faoi ḋeire aon ġreim eile ṡlugaḋ dá ḃfáġaḋ se ceud púnta.

Nuair ċonnairc an Prionnsa naċ dtiucfaḋ leis tuilleaḋ do ṡlugaḋ, ṫug sé amaċ as an teaċ é, agus duḃairt sé leis an inġin agus leis an t-sean-déirceaċ iad do leanaṁaint, agus rug sé an fear leis, amaċ go móinḟéur breáġ glas do ḃí os coinne an tiġe, agus sróṫán beag uisge ag riṫ tríd an móinḟeur.

Ṫug sé go bruaċ an t-sroṫáin é, agus duḃairt sé leis, luiḋe síos air a ḃolg agus a ċeann ċongḃáil os cionn an uisge, agus a ḃeul d’ḟosgailt ċoṁ mór agus d’ḟeudfaḋ sé, agus a ċongḃáil, beag-naċ, ag baint leis an uisge, “agus fan ann sin go ciúin agus na corruiġ, air d’anam,” ar sé, “go ḃfeicfiḋ tu creud éireóċas duit.”

Gheall an fear boċt go mbeiḋeaḋ sé socair, agus ṡín sé a ċorp air an ḃfeur, agus ċongḃuiġ sé a ḃeul fosgailte os cionn an t-sroṫáin uisge, agus d’ḟan sé ann sin gan corruġaḋ.

Chuaiḋ an Prionnsa timċioll cúig slata air ais, air a ċúl, agus ṫarraing sé an inġean agus an sean-ḟear leis, agus is é an focal deireannaċ a duḃairt sé leis an ḃfear tinn, “bí cinnte” ar sé, “agus air d’anam na cuir cor asad, cia bé air biṫ rud éireóċas duit.”

Ni raiḃ an duine boċt ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire ’nna luiḋe mar sin nuair ṫosuiġ rud éigin ag corruġaḋ taoḃ astiġ ḋé agus ṁoṫaiġ sé rud éigin ag teaċt suas ann a sgornaċ, agus ag dul air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé suas, agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais trí no ceiṫre uaire anḋiaiġ a ċéile. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire go dtí a ḃeul, agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga aċt sgannruiġ sé agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais arís, aċt i gceann tamaill ḃig ṫáinig sé suas an dara uair, agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus léim sé síos faoi ḋeire annsan uisge Bhi an Prionnsa ag breaṫnuġaḋ go geur air, agus ġlaoḋ sé amaċ, “na corruiġ fós,” mar ḃí an fear dul ag éiriġe.

B’éigin do’n duine boċt a ḃeul ḟosgailt arís agus d’ḟan sé an ċaoi ċeudna, agus ní raiḃ sé móimid ann, no go dtáinig an dara rud suas ann a sgornaċ an ċaoi ċeuḋna, agus ċuaiḋ sé air ais arís cúpla uair, aṁail a’s mar ḃí sé sgannruiġṫe, aċt faoi ḋeire ṫáinig seisean mar an ċeud-ċeann suas go dti an beul agus ṡeas sé air ḃárr a ṫeanga, agus faoi ḋeire nuair ṁoṫuiġ sé bolaḋ an uisge faoi, léim sé síos annsan tsroṫán.

Chogair an Prionnsa, agus duḃairt sé “Nois tá ’n tart ag teaċt orra, d’oibriġ an salann a ḃí ’sa’ mairtḟeóil íad; nois tiucfaiḋ siad amaċ.” Agus sul do ḃí an focal as a ḃeul ṫuit an tríoṁaḋ ceann le “plap” annsan uisge, agus mómid ’nna ḋiaiġ sin, léim ceann eile síos ann, agus ann sin ceann eile, no gur ċóṁairiġ siad, cúiġ, sé, seaċt, oċt, naoi, deiċ g-cinn, aon ċeann deug, dá ċeann deug.

“Sin duisín aca anois,” ar san Prionnsa, “Sin é an t-ál, níor ṫáinig an t-sean-ṁáṫair fós.”

Bhí an fear ḃoċt dul ’g eíriġe arís, aċt ġlaoḋ an Prionnsa air. “Fan mar a ḃfuil tu, níor ṫáinig an ṁáṫair.”

D’ḟan sé mar do ḃí sé, aċt níor ṫáinig aon ċeann eile amaċ, agus d’ḟan sé níos mó ná ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire. Bhí an Prionnsa féin ag éirige mí-ṡuaimneaċ, air eagla naċ g-corróċaḋ an sean-Alt-pluaċra ċor air biṫ. Bhí an duine boċt ċoṁ sáruiġṫe sin agus ċoṁ lag sin go m’ b’ḟearr leis éiriġe ’ná fanaṁaint mar a raiḃ sé, agus ann ainḋeóin gaċ ruid a duḃairt an Prionnsa ḃí sé ag seasaṁ suas, nuair rug an Prionnsa air a leaṫ-ċois agus an déirceaċ air an g-cois eile, agus do ċongḃuiġ siad síos é gan ḃuiḋeaċas dó.

D’ḟan siad ceaṫraṁaḋ uaire eile, gan ḟocal do ráḋ, agus i g-ceann an ama sin ṁoṫuiġ an duine boċt rud éigin ag corruġaḋ arís ann a ṫaoiḃ, aċt seaċt n-uaire níos measa ’na roiṁe seó, agus is air éigin d’ḟeud sé é féin do ċongḃáil o sgreadaċ. Bhí an rud sin ag corruġaḋ le tamall maiṫ ann, agus ṡaoil sé go raiḃ a ċorp reubṫa an taoḃ astíġ leis. Ann sin ṫosuiġ an rud ag teaċt suas, agus ṫáinig sé go dtí a ḃeul agus cuaiḋ sé air ais arís. Ṫáinig sé faoi ḋeire ċoṁ fada sin gur ċuir an duine boċt a ḋá ṁeur ann a ḃeul agus ṡaoil sé greim ḟáġail uirri. Aċt má’s obann ċuir sé a ṁeura ’steaċ is luaiṫe ’ná sin ċuaiḋ an tsean alt-pluaċra air ais.

“’Ór! a ḃiṫeaṁnaiġ!” ar san Prionnsa, “cad ċuige rinn’ tu sin? Naċ duḃairt mé leat gan cor do ċur asad. Má ṫig sé suas arís fan go socair.” B’ éigin dóiḃ fanaṁaint le leaṫ-uair mar do ḃí sean-ṁáṫair na n-alp-luaċra sgannruiġṫe, agus ḃí faitċios urri ṫeaċt amaċ. Aċt ṫáinig sí suas arís, faoi ḋeire; b’éidir go raiḃ an iomarcuiḋ tart’ urri agus níor ḟeud sí bolaḋ an uisge a ḃí ag cur caṫuiġṫe uirri ṡeasaṁ, no b’éidir go raiḃ sí uaigneaċ ’r éis a clainne d’imṫeaċt uaiṫi. Air ṁóḋ air biṫ ṫáinig sí amaċ go bárr á ḃéil agus ṡeas sí air a ṫeanga ċoṁ fad agus ḃeiṫeá ag cóṁaireaṁ ceiṫre fiċiḋ, agus ann sin léim sí mar do léim a h-ál roimpi, asteaċ ’san uisge, agus buḋ ṫruime toran a tuitim’ seaċt n-uaire, ’ná an plap a rinne a clann.

Bhí an Prionnsa agus an ḃeirt eile ag breaṫnuġaḋ air sin, go h-iomlán, agus buḋ ḃeag naċ raiḃ faitċios orra, a n-anál do ṫarraing, air eagla go sgannróċaḋ siad an beiṫiḋeaċ gránna. Ċoṁ luaṫ agus léim sí asteaċ ’san uisge ṫarraing siad an fear air ais, agus ċuir siad air a ḋá ċois arís é.

Bhí se trí huaire gan ḟocal do laḃairt, aċt an ċeud ḟocal a duḃairt sé, buḋ h-é “is duine nuaḋ mé.”

Ċongḃuiġ an Prionnsa ann a ṫeaċ féin le coicíḋeas é, agus ṫug se aire ṁór agus beaṫuġaḋ maiṫ ḋó. Leig sé ḋó imṫeaċt ann sin, agus an inġean agus an déirceaċ leis, agus ḋiúltuiġ sé oiread agus píġin do ġlacaḋ uaṫa.

“B’ḟearr liom ’ná deiċ bpúnta air mo láiṁ féin,” ar sé, “gur ṫionntuiġ mo leiġeas amaċ ċoṁ maiṫ sin; nár leigfiḋ. Dia go nglacfainn piġin no leiṫ-ṗi’n uait. Chaill tu go leór le doċtúiriḃ ċeana.”

Ṫáinig siad a ḃaile go sáḃálta, agus d’éiriġ sé slán arís agus raṁar. Bhí sé ċoṁ buiḋeaċ de’n deirceaċ boċt gur ċongḃuiġ sé ann a ṫeaċ féin go dtí a ḃás é. Agus ċoṁ fad a’s ḃí sé féin beó níor luiḋ sé síos air an ḃfeur glas arís. Agus, rud eile; dá mbeiḋeaḋ tinneas no easláinte air, ní h-iad na doċtúiriḋ a ġlaoḋaḋ sé asteaċ.

Búḋ ḃeag an t-iongnaḋ sin!

THE ALP-LUACHRA.

There was once a wealthy farmer in Connacht, and he had plenty of substance and a fine family, and there was nothing putting grief nor trouble on him, and you would say yourself that it’s he was the comfortable, satisfied man, and that the luck was on him as well as on e’er a man alive. He was that way, without mishap or misfortune, for many years, in good health and without sickness or sorrow on himself or his children, until there came a fine day in the harvest, when he was looking at his men making hay in the meadow that was near his own house, and as the day was very hot he drank a drink of buttermilk, and stretched himself back on the fresh cut hay, and as he was tired with the heat of the day and the work that he was doing, he soon fell asleep, and he remained that way for three or four hours, until the hay was all gathered in and his workpeople gone away out of the field.

When he awoke then, he sat up, and he did not know at first where he was, till he remembered at last that it was in the field at the back of his own house he was lying. He rose up then and returned to his house, and he felt like a pain or a stitch in his side. He made nothing of it, sat down at the fire and began warming himself.

“Where were you?” says the daughter to him.

“I was asleep a while,” says he, “on the fresh grass in the field where they were making hay.”

“What happened to you, then?” says she, “for you don’t look well.”

“Muirya,[24] musha, then,” says he, “I don’t know; but it’s queer the feeling I have. I never was like it before; but I’ll be better when I get a good sleep.”

He went to his bed, lay down, and fell asleep, and never awoke until the sun was high. He rose up then and his wife said to him: “What was on you that you slept that long?”

“I don’t know,” says he.

He went down to the fire where the daughter was making a cake for the breakfast, and she said to him:

“How are you to-day, father; are you anything better?”

“I got a good sleep,” said he, “but I’m not a taste better than I was last night; and indeed, if you’d believe me, I think there’s something inside of me running back and forwards.”

“Arrah, that can’t be,” says the daughter, “but it’s a cold you got and you lying out on the fresh grass; and if you’re not better in the evening we’ll send for the doctor.”

He was saying then that there was a pain on him, but that he did not know rightly what place the pain was in. He was in the same way in the evening, and they had to send for the doctor, and when the doctor was not coming quickly there was great fright on him. The people of the house were doing all they could to put courage in him.

The doctor came at last, and he asked what was on him, and he said again that there was something like a _birdeen_ leaping in his stomach. The doctor stripped him and examined him well, but saw nothing out of the way with him. He put his ear to his side and to his back, but he heard nothing, though the poor man himself was calling out: “Now! now! don’t you hear it? Now, aren’t you listening to it jumping?” But the doctor could perceive nothing at all, and he thought at last that the man was out of his senses, and that there was nothing the matter with him.

He said to the woman of the house when he came out, that there was nothing on her husband, but that he believed himself to be sick, and that he would send her medicine the next day for him, that would give him a good sleep and settle the heat of his body. He did that, and the poor man swallowed all the medicines and got another great sleep, but when he awoke in the morning he was worse than ever, but he said he did not hear the thing jumping inside him any longer.

They sent for the doctor again, and he came; but he was able to do nothing. He left other medicines with them, and said he would come again at the end of a week to see him. The poor man got no relief from all that the doctor left with him, and when he came again he found him to be worse than before; but he was not able to do anything, and he did not know what sort of sickness was on him. “I won’t be taking your money from you any more,” says he to the woman of the house, “because I can do nothing in this case, and as I don’t understand what’s on him, I won’t let on[25] to be understanding it. I’ll come to see him from time to time, but I’ll take no money from you.”

The woman of the house could hardly keep in her anger. Scarcely ever was the doctor gone till she gathered the people of the house round her and they took counsel. “That doctor _braduch_,” says she, “he’s not worth a _traneen_; do you know what he said—that he wouldn’t take any money from me any more, and he said himself he knew nothing about anything; _suf_ on him, the _behoonuch_, he’ll cross this threshold no more; we’ll go to the other doctor; if he’s farther from us, itself, I don’t mind that, we must get him.” Everybody in the house was on one word with her, and they sent for the other doctor; but when he came he had no better knowledge than the first one had, only that he had knowledge enough to take their money. He came often to see the sick man, and every time he would come he would have every name longer than another to give his sickness; names he did not understand himself, nor no one else, but he had them to frighten the people.

They remained that way for two months, without anyone knowing what was on the poor man; and when that doctor was doing him no good they got another doctor, and then another doctor, until there was not a doctor in the county, at last, that they had not got, and they lost a power of money over them, and they had to sell a portion of their cattle to get money to pay them.

They were that way for half a year, keeping doctors with him, and the doctors giving him medicines, and the poor man that was stout and well-fed before, getting bare and thin, until at last there was not an ounce of flesh on him, but the skin and the bones only.

He was so bad at last that it was scarcely he was able to walk. His appetite went from him, and it was a great trouble to him to swallow a piece of soft bread or to drink a sup of new milk, and everyone was saying that he was better to die, and that was no wonder, for there was not in him but like a shadow in a bottle.

One day that he was sitting on a chair in the door of the house, sunning himself in the heat, and the people of the house all gone out but himself, there came up to the door a poor old man that used to be asking alms from place to place, and he recognised the man of the house sitting in the chair, but he was so changed and so worn that it was hardly he knew him. “I’m here again, asking alms in the name of God,” said the poor man; “but, glory be to God, master, what happened to you, for you’re not the same man I saw when I was here half a year ago; may God relieve you!”

“Arrah, Shamus,” said the sick man, “it’s I that can’t tell you what happened to me; but I know one thing, that I won’t be long in this world.”

“But I’m grieved to see you how you are,” said the beggarman. “Tell me how it began with you, and what the doctors say.”

“The doctors, is it?” says the sick man, “my curse on them; but I oughtn’t to be cursing and I so near the grave; _suf_ on them, they know nothing.”

“Perhaps,” says the beggarman, “I could find you a relief myself, if you were to tell me what’s on you. They say that I be knowledgable about diseases and the herbs to cure them.”

The sick man smiled, and he said: “There isn’t a medicine man in the county that I hadn’t in this house with me, and isn’t half the cattle I had on the farm sold to pay them. I never got a relief no matter how small, from a man of them; but I’ll tell you how it happened to me first.” Then he gave him an account of everything he felt and of everything the doctors had ordered.

The beggarman listened to him carefully, and when he had finished all his story, he asked him: “What sort of field was it you fell asleep in?”

“A meadow that was in it that time,” says the sick man; “but it was just after being cut.”

“Was it wet,” says the beggarman.

“It was not,” says he.

“Was there a little stream or a brook of water running through it?” said the beggarman.

“There was,” says he.

“Can I see the field?”

“You can, indeed, and I’ll show it to you.”

He rose off his chair, and as bad as he was, he pulled himself along until he came to the place where he lay down to sleep that evening. The beggarman examined the place for a long time, and then he stooped down over the grass and went backwards and forwards with his body bent, and his head down, groping among the herbs and weeds that were growing thickly in it.

He rose at last and said: “It is as I thought,” and he stooped himself down again and began searching as before. He raised his head a second time, and he had a little green herb in his hand. “Do you see this?” said he. “Any place in Ireland that this herb grows, there be’s an alt-pluachra near it, and you have swallowed an alt-pluachra.”

“How do you know that?” said the sick man. “If that was so, sure the doctors would tell it to me before now.”

“The doctors!” said the beggarman. “Ah! God give you sense, sure they’re only a flock of _omadawns_. I tell you again, and believe me, that it’s an alt-pluachra you swallowed. Didn’t you say yourself that you felt something leaping in your stomach the first day after you being sick? That was the alt-pluachra; and as the place he was in was strange to him at first, he was uneasy in it, moving backwards and forwards, but when he was a couple of days there, he settled himself, and he found the place comfortable, and that’s the reason you’re keeping so thin, for every bit you’re eating the alt-pluachra is getting the good out of it, and you said yourself that one side of you was swelled; that’s the place where the nasty thing is living.”

The sick man would not believe him at first, but the beggarman kept on talking and proving on him that it was the truth he was saying, and when his wife and daughter came back again to the house, the beggarman told them the same things, and they were ready enough to believe him.

The sick man put no faith in it himself, but they were all talking to him about it until they prevailed on him at last to call in three doctors together until he should tell them this new story. The three came together, and when they heard all the _boccuch_ (beggarman) was saying, and all the talk of the women, it is what they laughed, and said they were fools altogether, and that it was something else entirely that was the matter with the man of the house, and every name they had on his sickness this time was twice—three times—as long as ever before. They left the poor man a bottle or two to drink, and they went away, and they humbugging the women for saying that he had swallowed an alt-pluachra.

The boccuch said when they were gone away: “I don’t wonder at all that you’re not getting better, if it’s fools like those you have with you. There’s not a doctor or a medicine-man in Ireland now that’ll do you any good, but only one man, and that’s Mac Dermott the Prince of Coolavin, on the brink of Lough Gara, the best doctor in Connacht or the five provinces.”

“Where is Lough Gara?” said the poor man.

“Down in the County Sligo,” says he; “it’s a big lake, and the prince is living on the brink of it; and if you’ll take my advice you’ll go there, for it’s the last hope you have; and you, Mistress,” said he, turning to the woman of the house, “ought to make him go, if you wish your man to be alive.”

“Musha!” says the woman, “I’d do anything that would cure him.”

“If so, send him to the Prince of Coolavin,” says he.

“I’d do anything at all to cure myself,” says the sick man, “for I know I haven’t long to live on this world if I don’t get some relief, or without something to be done for me.”

“Then go to the Prince of Coolavin,” says the beggarman.

“Anything that you think would do yourself good, you ought to do it, father,” says the daughter.

“There’s nothing will do him good but to go to the Prince of Coolavin,” said the beggarman.

So they were arguing and striving until the night came, and the beggarman got a bed of straw in the barn, and he began arguing again in the morning that he ought to go to the prince, and the wife and daughter were on one word with him; and they prevailed at last on the sick man, and he said that he would go, and the daughter said that she would go with him to take care of him, and the boccuch said that he would go with them to show them the road; “and I’ll be on the pinch of death, for ye, with anxiety,” said the wife, “until ye come back again.”

They harnessed the horse, and they put him under the cart, and they took a week’s provision with them—bread, and bacon, and eggs, and they went off. They could not go very far the first day, for the sick man was so weak, that he was not able to bear the shaking he was getting in the cart; but he was better the second day, and they all passed the night in a farmer’s house on the side of the road, and they went on again in the morning; but on the third day, in the evening, they came to the dwelling of the prince. He had a nice house, on the brink of the lake, with a straw roof, in among the trees.

They left the horse and the cart in a little village near the prince’s place, and they all walked together, until they came to the house. They went into the kitchen, and asked, “Couldn’t they see the prince?” The servant said that he was eating his meal, but that he would come, perhaps, when he was ready.

The prince himself came in at that moment, and asked what it was they wanted. The sick man rose up and told him, that it was looking for assistance from his honour he was, and he told him his whole story. “And now can your honour help me?” he said, when he had finished it.

“I hope I can,” said the prince; “anyhow, I’ll do my best for you, as you came so far to see me. I’d have a bad right not to do my best. Come up into the parlour with me. The thing that old man told you is true. You swallowed an alt-pluachra, or something else. Come up to the parlour with me.”

He brought him up to the parlour with him, and it happened that the meal he had that day was a big piece of salted beef. He cut a large slice off it, and put it on a plate, and gave it to the poor man to eat.

“Oro! what is your honour doing there?” says the poor man; “I didn’t swallow as much as the size of an egg of meat this quarter,[26] and I can’t eat anything.”

“Be silent, man,” says the prince; “eat that, when I tell you.”

The poor man eat as much as he was able, but when he left the knife and fork out of his hand, the prince made him take them up again, and begin out of the new (over again). He kept him there eating until he was ready to burst, and at last he was not able to swallow another bit, if he were to get a hundred pounds.

When the prince saw that he would not be able to swallow any more, he brought him out of the house, and he said to the daughter and the old beggarman to follow them, and he brought the man out with him to a fine green meadow that was forenent[27] the house, and a little stream of water running through it.

He brought him to the brink of the stream, and told him to lie down on his stomach over the stream, and to hold his face over the water, to open his mouth as wide as he could, and to keep it nearly touching the water, and “wait there quiet and easy,” says he; “and for your life don’t stir, till you see what will happen to you.”

The poor man promised that he would be quiet, and he stretched his body on the grass, and held his mouth open, over the stream of water, and remained there without stirring.

The prince went backwards, about five yards, and drew the daughter and the old man with him, and the last word he said to the sick man was: “Be certain, and for your life, don’t put a stir out of you, whatever thing at all happens to you.”

The sick man was not lying like that more than a quarter of an hour, when something began moving inside of him, and he felt something coming up in his throat, and going back again. It came up and went back three or four times after other. At last it came to the mouth, stood on the tip of his tongue, but frightened, and ran back again. However, at the end of a little space, it rose up a second time, and stood on his tongue, and at last jumped down into the water. The prince was observing him closely, and just as the man was going to rise, he called out: “Don’t stir yet.”

The poor man had to open his mouth again, and he waited the same way as before; and he was not there a minute until the second one came up the same way as the last, and went back and came up two or three times, as if it got frightened; but at last, it also, like the first one, came up to the mouth, stood on the tongue, and when it felt the smell of the water below it, leaped down into the little stream.