Part 16

"That's a good sign," said Teig to himself. "Maybe he's getting quiet," and he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood up in the grave, and shouted an awful shout. "Hoo! hoo!! hoo!!! Go! go!! go!!! or you're a dead, dead, dead man!" And then he fell back in the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things he saw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off his face, and then came a tremor over all his bones, until he thought that he must fall.

But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse remained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and he smoothed it overhead, and he laid down the flags carefully as they had been before. "It can't be that he'll rise up any more," said he.

He went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door, and began raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the corpse on his back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside, and then he dug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more lively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the clay away from about her, when she sat up and began to cry, "Ho, you bodach (clown)! Ha, you bodach! Where has he been that he got no bed?"

Poor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was getting no answer, she closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and slowly under the clay. Teig did to her as he had done to the man--he threw the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.

He began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up more than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man's hand laid bare by the spade. "By my soul, I'll go no further, then," said he to himself; "what use is it for me?" And he threw the clay in again on it, and settled the flags as they had been before.

He left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough, but he shut the door and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat down on a tombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was in great doubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at this time that he never would come home alive. He made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as tight as if they were clamped; and the more he tried to loosen them, the tighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, "Carrick-fhad-vic-Oruis," and he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse with him to that place if he should be unable to bury it where he had been.

He rose up and looked about him. "I don't know the way," he said.

As soon as he had uttered the words, the corpse stretched out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road--not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.

Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood. "Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground," said the voice.

Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts--men, women, and children--sitting on the top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all.

He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in that they were. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and disspirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying "Teampoll-Ronáin," and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road.

As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronáin from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him up, and choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.

He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.

"You, corpse up on my back," said he, "shall I go over again to the churchyard?"--but the corpse never answered him. "That's a sign you don't wish me to try it again," said Teig.

He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said "Imlogue-Fhada."

"Oh, murder!" said Teig, "must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I'll fall under you."

He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, "There!"

Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.

"Is this Imlogue-Fhada? Shall I bury you here?" said Teig.

"Yes," said the voice.

"But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones," said Teig.

The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand, to show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place. He went on, "with his heart in his mouth," as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.

Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a soorawn in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning. As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, "Kill-Breedya"; and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.

At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, "Bury me there."

"This is the last burying-place," said Teig in his own mind; "and the little grey man said I'd be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this; it can't be but they'll let him in here."

The first faint streak of the ring of day was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.

"Make haste, make haste!" said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly--a newly-dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he thought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with a plop into the open coffin.

Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands; and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.

The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he did was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there, and slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in one night.

All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.

He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night. He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with; and it's at their wedding the sport was, and it's he was the happy man from that day forward, and it's all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.

TOMAUS O CAHAN AND THE GHOST.

Come hear my walking, my midnight walking, A cause of dread, and a cause of dread, With that corpse of faierie could get no stretching Amongst the dead men, amongst the dead.

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"Raise my dead body with no rejoicing And a beef I'll give thee, a beef I'll give,"

[TOMAUS ANSWERS.]

"If I should settle on that condition Where is the beef, and where is the beef?"

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"It's old Shaun Bingham and Shaun Oge Bingham My sureties be, my sureties be, In the crooked letter I wrote a ticket To Bél-in-Assan beside the sea."

"You will get a heaplet beneath the midden So green and gloomy, green and gloomy, Then take it with thee for thy provision Beneath thy armpit--against thy journey."

The corpse was raised on Tomaus his back, In the ways of night, in the ways of night, Through roads that were narrow and hard and crooked, By the pale moonlight, by the pale moonlight.

And long was the route, and the cross-track journey, Through miry bogs and through dripping glooms, Westward to Lugh-moy-more-na-mrauher[78] Of the grass green tombs, of the grass green tombs.

[78] = great Louth of the Friars.

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"At thy right hand is a spade for digging, Behind the door post it will be found, With a strong thrust, thrust; with a thrust not timid, And turn the ground, and turn the ground."

[TOMAUS SPEAKS.]

"At my right hand did I find the spade, 'Twas behind the door there, behind the door, And a strong thrust downward I quickly made Through the earthen floor, through the earthen floor."

"I struck it strongly, I drove it down, Through the upper earth, through the upper earth, Till I broke the thigh of the English clown, Who was sleeping there in his clay cold berth."

"'A thousand pililloos,' cries the trooper, 'Where is my pistol that I may slay?' Cries Mary O'Reilly, Lord Guido's wife, 'Come clear the way there, come clear the way!'"

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"Oro! oh Tomaus! oro! oh Tomaus! Do not leave me here I beseech of thee, I've a mother's relative's son in Craggan And it's buried there I shall have to be."

On Tomaus his back was the body hoisted, In the ways of night, in the ways of night, Through roads that were crooked and rough and narrow By the pale moonlight, by the pale moonlight.

"Going down of a race and in great disorder, To the Craggan More, to the Craggan More, I found a spade at my right hand lying Behind the door there, behind the door."

"I found a spade at my right hand laid, Behind the door there, behind the door, Two thrusts that were heavy and strong I made Through the earthen floor, through the earthen floor."

"'Til I broke the hip bone of Watson Harford Was beneath the ground and he raised a clamour, 'Hubbubboo,' cried the Gowa Dhu 'Where is my hammer, where is my hammer.'"

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"Oro! oh Tomaus; uch, uch, uch, oh! Do not leave me here I beseech of thee, For my father's brother's son is in Derry And it's buried there I shall have to be."

"On reaching the place all spent and lonely And I despairing, and I despairing, The gates were all strongly barred before me But I smote upon them with sudden daring."

"Said the Mayor of the place, in his grave clothes rising, In his winding sheet from his clay bed taken, 'Why knock so hard, each to his part; Come dead awaken, come dead awaken.'"

"Bodies and coffins came pouring upwards From the ground beneath in the pale moonlight, And they ranged themselves in a raging rabble On the bare wall's height, on the bare wall's height."

"'A hundred pililloos!' cried they all, 'What is the matter, where are we hurried?'"

[TOMAUS ANSWERS.]

"It is one of your friends who has died and here Is the place where he says that he must be buried. For his kindred are here and it's well they are, Then take him from me, and good's my riddance."

[THE GHOST ASKS.]

"Who of his people is buried here To claim admittance, claim admittance?"

[TOMAUS ANSWERS.]

"I know not myself of what tribe my man is On the ridge of earth if I'm not a liar, There's a stir and a voice in him, ask himself, Of himself inquire, himself inquire."

The corpse was raised on Tomaus his back, Than a gad more tight, than a gad more tight, Till he took a skreep to the Teampoll-Démuis, And he found it fastened that weary night.

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS.]

"Search for the key, you will find it lying Behind the door, or upon the wall."

He searched for the key and he found and opened And wide and silent and dark was all.

[THE CORPSE SPEAKS AGAIN.]

"Oro, oh, Tomaus! Oro, oh, Tomaus! Oh, bury me quick out of sight and sound, See yonder the spade forenenst you lying, And turn the ground, and turn the ground."

He took the spade in his hand, and quickly He turned the ground so black and bare, Till he broke the bones of an English bodach Who had long been there, who had long been there.

"Blood and owns, you broke my bones," That man kept crying with teeth that chatter, And then spoke Smiler, the wife of Simon, "What is the matter? What is the matter?"

"Where was he, or where did he pass his life, That he's got no bed where he now may go?"

[TOMAUS ANSWERS.]

"He's there before you who knows it best. You must ask him yourself, for I do not know."

Then Feeny arose and he took some snuff And he seized an alpeen and gripped it tight, And there was the slashing and noise and smashing Till the morning light, till the morning light.

The Corpse was raised on Tomaus his back, Like a tightened gad, like a tightened gad, And he brought it up, and he brought it down, And the way was long and the way was bad.

To Carrick-vic-oruis and Teampoll-Ronáin And Imlogue-Fhada the corpse was hurried, But in Kill-Vreedya the skreep was over The corpse was buried, the corpse was buried.

A STICK AND A STONE ON IT, AND BAD LUCK ON IT!

PRAYER AFTER TOBACCO.

PREFACE.

There is at times a certain connection between the use of tobacco and the solemn presence of the dead. Both snuff and tobacco for smoking are handed round at wakes. Pipes and tobacco are, in fact, the principal portion of the equipment of the corp-house. To the present moment when one accepts a pinch of snuff it is customary to say in Irish, "the blessing of God be with the souls of your dead." I have heard this a hundred times. But I never heard the tobacco prayer except once or twice from very old people; and, in spite of this story, I don't believe that it was ever in any way usual to say a prayer over tobacco except perhaps in some isolated parts of the country. All I can say is that I have never heard it said spontaneously. This story was written down word for word for me by my friend Mr. John Mac Neill from the recitation of Michael Mac Rury or Rogers, from Ballycastle, in the County Mayo. The tobacco prayer[79] translated, runs as follows:--

[79] For the original, see my "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. II. p. 66.

Eighteen fulls of the churchyard of Patrick, of the mantle[80] of Brigit, of the tomb of Christ, of the palace of Rome, of the church of God, be with thy soul (and with the soul of him above whose head was this tobacco),[81] and with the souls of the dead in Purgatory all together.

May not more numerous be The grains of sand by the sea, Or the blades of grass on the lea, Or the drops of dew on the tree, Than the blessings upon thy soul And the souls of the dead with thee, And my soul when the life shall flee.

It is for God to give shelter, light, and the glory of the heavens to the souls of the dead of Purgatory.

[80] The Mantle of Brigit is a common expression. Even in Scotland "St. Bride and her brat [mantle]" is a well-known saying.

[81] This obviously shows that the prayer was intended to be said at wakes.

The story was evidently invented with the didactic intention of encouraging the use of prayer, and of inculcating the truth that just as we ought to be thankful to God for our meals, so ought we to be thankful to Him for our tobacco, and for all the good things of life.

THE STORY.

There was a woman in it long ago, and she had an only son. When he came to age she sent him to college, and made a priest of him. After his coming from the college he was a short little while at home; and he was one day walking out in the garden when there came a saint [in the air] over his head, and spoke down to him, and told the priest that he himself and all who belonged to him were damned on account of his mother.

The priest asked him what was the crime his mother had committed, and the saint told him that she was smoking tobacco for twelve years and had never said the tobacco prayer all that time.

"Bad enough!" says the priest, "is there anything at all down from heaven to set that right?" says the priest.

"There's nothing but one thing alone," says he, "and this is it. When you go in to your mother tell her as I have told it to you. And unless she shall be prepared to suffer the death that I'll tell you, not a sight of the country of heaven will your mother or anyone of her family see for ever."

"What death is it?" said the priest to him.

"She must let you," says he, "carve every bit off her body as fine as sneeshin."

The priest went into the house and a heavy load on his heart. He sat upon a chair and there was a great grief to be seen in his face. His mother asked him what was on him, and what had happened to him since he went out.

"Ah, there's nothing on me but a little weariness," says he, "kindle the pipe for me mother," says he, "I'd like to get a blast of tobacco."

"I'll kindle it and welcome," says she, "I thought avourneen," says she, "that you were not using tobacco."

"Ah, maybe a whiff would take this weariness off me," said he.

True was the story. She put a coal in the pipe, and after smoking enough of the pipe herself she handed it to the priest, but she never said the prayer. And that was the reason the priest had told her to kindle the pipe, hoping that she would say the prayer, but she did not.

"Poor enough!" said the priest in his own mind.

The priest told her then as the saint had told him, and she threw herself on her two knees praying God and shedding tears, and, said she, "a hundred welcomes to the graces of God, and if it is the death that God has promised me, I am satisfied to suffer it; go out now my son," says she, "and when I'll be ready for you to get to your work I'll call you in."