Part 4

There is a deep dub, or pool, on Ballacoan stream, which the children of Laxey call Nikkesen's. It is the home of Nyker, the Water Goblin. It has no bottom; and brambles and ferns are growing round it, and fir trees and hazels are hiding it from sight. No child, no grown-up person even, will go near it after dark.

A great many years ago a beautiful girl living at Ballaquine was sent to look for the calves, which had gone astray. She had got as far as Nikkesen's, when she took a notion that she heard the calves over the river in Johnny Baldoon's nuts. At once she began to call to them:

'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!' so loud that you could hear her at Chibber Pherick, Patrick's Well. The people could hear her calling quite plainly, but, behold, a great mist came and rolled down the valley, and shut it from sight. The people on one side of the valley could hear her voice yet calling through the mist:

'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!'

Then came a little sweet voice through the mist and the trees in answer:

'Kebeg's here! Kebeg's here!'

And she cried:

'I'm comin'! I'm comin'!'

And that was all.

The Fairies who live in Nikkesen's had pulled her in, and carried her to their own home.

She was never heard of again.

THE FAIRY CHILD OF CLOSE NY LHEIY

One time there was a woman named Colloo, in Close ny Lheiy, near Glen Meay, and she had a child that had fallen sick in a strange way. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet crosser and crosser he grew, nying nyanging night and day. The woman was in great distress. Charms had failed, and she didn't know rightly what to do.

It seems that when about a fortnight old, the child, as fine a child for his age as you would see in a day's walk, was left asleep while the mother went to the well for water. Now Herself forgot to put the tongs on the cradle, and when she came back the child was crying pitifully, and there was no quieting for him. And from that very hour the flesh seemed to melt off his bones till he became as ugly and as wizened a child as you would see between the Point of Ayr and the Calf. He was that way, his whining howl filling the house, for four years, lying in his cradle without a motion on him to put his feet under him. Not a day's rest nor a night's sleep had the woman these four years with him. She was fairly scourged until there came a fine day in the spring, while Hom Beg Bridson, the tailor, was in the house sewing. Hom is dead now, but there's many alive that remember him yet. He was wise tremendous, for he was going from house to house sewing, and gathering wisdom as he was going.

Well, before that day the tailor was seeing lots of wickedness in the child. When the woman would be out feeding the cows and pigs, he would be hoisting his head up out of the cradle and making faces at the tailor, winking and slicking, and shaking his head, and saying 'What a lad I am!'

That day the woman wanted to go to the shop to sell some eggs that she had, and says she to the tailor: 'Hom, man, keep your eye on the chile that the bogh won't fall out of the criddle an' hurt himself, while I slip down to the shop.'

When she was gone the tailor began to whistle, low and slow, to himself, as he stitched, the tune of a little hymn.

'Drop that, Hom Beg,' said a little harsh voice.

The tailor, scandalised, looked round to see if it was the child that had spoken, and it was.

'Whush, whush, now; lie quate,' said the tailor, rocking the cradle with his foot, and as he rocked he whistled the hymn tune louder.

'Drop that, Hom Beg, I tell ye, an' give us something light an' handy,' said the little fella back to him, middling sharp.

'Aw, anything at all to plaze thee,' said the tailor, whistling a jig.

'Hom,' said my lad, 'can thou dance anything to that?'

'I can,' said the tailor. 'Can thou?'

'I can that,' said my lad. 'Would thou like to see me dance?'

'I would,' said the tailor.

'Take that oul' fiddle down, then, Hom, man,' he said; 'an' put "The tune of the Big Wheel" on it.'

'Aw, I'll do that for thee, an' welcome,' said the tailor.

The fiddle quits its hook on the wall, and the tailor tunes up.

'Hom,' said the little fella, 'before thou begin to play, clear the kitchen for me--cheers an' stools, everything away--make a place for me to step out to the music, man.'

'Aw, I'll do that for thee, too,' said the tailor. He cleared the kitchen floor, and then he struck up 'Tune y wheeyl vooar.'

In a crack the little fella bounced from his cradle on to the floor with a 'Chu!' and began flying round the kitchen.

'Go it, Hom--face your partner--heel an' toe does it. Well done, Hom--more power to your elba, man.'

Hom plays faster and faster, till my lad was jumping as high as the table. With a 'Chu!' up goes his foot on top of the dresser, and 'Chu!' then on top of the chimney piece, and 'Chu!' bang against the partition; then he was half flying, half footing it round the kitchen, turning and going that quick that it put a reel in Hom's head to be looking at him. Then he was whirling everything round for a clear space, even Hom himself, who by degrees gets up on the table in the corner, and plays wilder and faster, as the whirling jig grows madder and swifter.

'M'Yee!' said the tailor, throwing down the fiddle. 'I mus' run, thou're not the chile that was in the criddle! Are thou?'

'Houl' man! thou're right enough,' said the little fella. 'Strike up for me--make has'e, make has'e, man--keep joggin' your elba.'

'Whush!' said the tailor, 'here's Herself comin'.'

The dance suddenly ceased. The child gave a hop, skip, and jump into the cradle.

'Go on with thy sewing, Hom; don't say a word,' said the little fella, covering himself up in the clothes till nothing was left of him to be seen except his eyes, which keeked out like a ferret's.

When Herself came in the house, the tailor, all of a tremble, was sitting cross-legged on the round table and his spec's on his nose and letting on that he was busy sewing; the child in the cradle was grinning and crying as usual.

'What in all the earthly worl' ----! But it's the quare stitching, altogether, there's been goin' on here, an' me out. An' how thou can see the needle in that dark corner, Hom Bridson, let alone sew, it bates me,' said she, siding the place. 'Well, well--then, well, well--on the boghee millish. What is it at all, at all, that's doin' on the veen? Did he think Mammy had gone an' left him then, the chree? Mammy is goin' to feed him, though.'

The tailor had been thinking mighty with himself what he ought to do, so he said:

'Look here, woman, give him nothing at all, but go out an' get a creelful of good turf an' a whisp of feern.'

She brought the turf, and throws a bundle of fern on it.

The tailor gave a leap off the table down to the floor, and it wasn't long till he had the fine fire.

'Thou'll have the house put on fire for me, Hom,' said Herself.

'No fear, but I'll fire some of them,' said the tailor. The child, with his two eyes going out of his head watching to see what the tailor was going to do, was slowly turning his whining howl into a kind of call--to his own sort to come and fetch him, it's like.

'I'll send thee home,' said the tailor, drawing near the cradle, and he stretches out his two hands to take the child and put him on the big, red turf fire.

Before he was able to lay a hand on him, the little fella leaped out of the cradle and took for the door.

'The back of me han' an' the sole of me fut to you!' said he, 'if I would only a-had another night I could have showed thee a trick or two more than that yet.'

Then the door flew open with a bang, as though some one had thrown it open, and he took off with himself like a shot. A hullabaloo of laughing and making fun was heard outside, and the noise of many running little feet. Out of the door of the house goes Herself, and Hom after her; they see no one, but they caught sight of a flock of low-lying clouds shaped like gulls chasing each other away up Glen Rushen, and then came to their ears, as if afar off from the clouds, sharp whistles and wicked little laughs as if making mock of them. Then as they were turning round to come back, she suddenly sees right before her, her own sweet, rosy, smiling child, with thumb in mouth, lying on a mossy bank. And she took all the joy in the world of the child that he was back again safe and sound.

THE LITTLE FOOTPRINTS

Close to the Niarbyl, the great tail of rock that stretches into the sea at Dalby, is a little house on the strand. It is sheltered behind by the high rock which rises above its thatched roof. Before it lies Bay Mooar, the great bay, held by a chain of mountains purple with ling. Standing before its door and looking to the west, you may see the sun set behind the distant Mourne Mountains. At dawn you may see him rise over Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. Here lived Juan, the fisherman.

He knew, as well as any person, that the Little People were all around. When he was a boy he had many a time looked out of the door on moonlight nights to try if he could put sight on them dancing on the lonely shore. He had not seen them--they make themselves invisible when they know that mortal eyes are on them. But he had seen the tiny riding lights of their herring fleet in the bay, and had helped his father to draw in the nets full of good fish, which were sure to be caught the night after. Many a time he had wakened from his sleep in the dark, and, in the pauses of the wind and the lull of the great breakers, he had heard the sound of hammering. He knew it was the Little People hammering at their herring barrels in Ooig-ny-Seyir, the Coopers' Cave, under the hills, and that as the chips flew out on to the waves they became ships.

He had heard the story of the fisherman, a friend of his father's, who was fishing one night at Lag-ny-Keilley, when a dense grey mist rolled in. He thought he had best make for home while the footpath above the rocks was visible. When he was getting his things together he heard what sounded like a lot of children coming out of school. He lifted his head, and, behold, there was a fleet of fairy boats each side of the rock, their riding lights shining like little stars on a frosty night. The crews seemed busy preparing to come on shore, and he heard one little fellow shout:

'Hraaghyn boght as earish broigh, skeddan dy liooar ec yn mooinjer seihll shoh, cha nel veg ain!'

Poor times and dirty weather, herring enough at the people of this world, nothing at us!

'Then,' said the fisherman, 'they dropped off and went agate o' the flitters.'

When Juan was a big boy he himself saw a thing which he never forgot. One day he left a boat over at the farther side of Bay Mooar, and at night he had to go over to fetch it. It was a moonlight night and the bay was as smooth as glass as he rowed across. There was no sound but the lapping of the little waves on the shore, and now and again the cry of a gannet. Juan found his boat on the strand where he had left her and was setting to work to launch her, when he thought he saw a glimmering light, which was not the light of the moon, in one of the caves near him. He stood where he was, and listened, and he heard the sound of faint music. Then he went as silently as he was able to the cave, and looked in. No light was there but the dim light of the moon. The shadows in the corners of the cave were as black as pitch.

Juan was trembling all over, and at first he was blinking his eyes and could see nothing. But after some minutes he saw a great stone in the midst of the cave and the floor of fine white sand. And on the sand around that stone there were little footprints--marks of tiny clogs they were, no bigger than his thumb!

THE TALL MAN OF BALLACURRY

Tom Craine was going home at midnight from Bradda mine to his home at Colby. The road was lonely and he met no person, but the full moon was shining and it was as light as day. As he began to pass under the trees that grow round the house at Ballacurry, a little dog appeared suddenly from the black shadow at the roadside and followed at his heels. He whistled to it, but as he turned his head to look at it, it ran on in front of him, and for a minute he did not see it. When he came in sight of it again, he was terrified to see that it had grown larger--as big as a goat--and it grew bigger and bigger till it was the size of a donkey! It galloped before him and disappeared round the bend of the road where the gate of Ballacurry is. When Tom came to the gate he saw a very tall, thin man leaning on it, with his arms folded on the top of it. The beast was not there. As Tom reached the gate the tall thin man turned and walked up the long path that leads to the house. When he got to the door he turned again and walked back down the path towards Tom. By the bright moonlight Tom saw the lace ruffle round his neck, the satin of his knee breeches, the silk of his stockings, and the shining buckles on his shoes--the dress of bygone days. His face was white and dreadful. As Tom looked he was all at once taken with terror, and ran off as hard as he could go down the road to Colby.

He had not gone far when he met two of his friends, Ben Mylechreest and Bill Teare. He told them what he had seen, and they made fun of him and would not believe that he had seen any such thing. They said they would go back with him to the gate, so they all three turned back. When they got to the gate they saw the big man, as tall as two men, walking up the path with his back towards them. As before, when he reached the door, he turned--what they saw they never told any man!

They took to their heels, all three, and ran till they could run no longer. They were trembling from head to foot and the sweat pouring from them. They were too terrified to go home, so they turned in with Tom and they slept, all three, in one bed.

NED QUAYLE'S STORY OF THE FAIRY PIG

When I was a little boy, we lived over by Sloc. One day, when I was six years old, my mother and my grandmother went up the mountain to make hay and I was left by myself. It was getting rather late, and they had not come back, so I was frightened, and started off up the mountain to try and find them. I had not gone far when I saw running before me a little snow-white pig. At first I thought it was some neighbour's pig and I tried to catch it, but it ran from me and I ran after it. As it went I saw that it was not like an ordinary pig--its tail was feathery and spread out like a fan, and it had long lapping ears that swept the ling. Now and again it turned its head and looked at me, and its eyes were burning like fire. We went higher and higher up the mountain, and all of a sudden I found myself at the edge of a steep brow and was all but over. I turned just in time, and ran as hard as I could go down the mountain and the pig after me. When I looked back over my shoulder, I saw that it was jumping over the big stones and rocks on the mountain side as if they had been butts of ling. I thought it would catch me; it was close behind me when I ran in at our garden gate, but I was just in time, and I slammed the door upon it.

I told my mother and my grandmother what had happened, and my grandmother said it was a Fairy Pig. I was not like myself that night; I could not eat any supper, and I went soon to my bed; I could not sleep, but lay tossing about; and was burning hot. After a time my mother opened the door to see if I was asleep, and when she looked at me, HER EYES WERE LIKE THE PIG'S EYES. I felt a sharp pain go through my right leg like a stab. After that the pain never left me; it was so bad that I could not bear to be touched, and I could eat nothing. I grew worse and worse, and after some days my father said he would take me to a Charmer at Castletown. They lifted me in the sheet, four men taking the four corners, and carried me to a cart. Never will I forget the shaking and jolting I had in that cart. When we got to Castletown I was more dead than alive.

The Charmer lived in Arbory Street and they took me to his house. When he saw me he said that they must all go away and leave me alone with him, so my father and my mother went to wait for me at The George. The Charmer carried me to a room upstairs and sent his wife away, and laid me on the floor and locked the door. Then he took down a big book and placed it on the floor beside me. He opened it at the picture of a little plant--I can see the plant to this day--and he pointed with his left hand to the picture, and with his right hand he made the sign of the cross on my leg, where the stab went through me, and said:

'Ta mee skeaylley yn guin shoh ayns ennym yn Ayr, as y Vac, as y Spyrryd Noo, Ned Quayle. My she guin, ayns ennym y Chiarn, ta mee skealley eh ass yn eill, ass ny fehyn, as ass ny craueyn,' which means in English--I spread this fairy shot in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Ned Quayle. If it is a fairy shot, in the name of the Lord, I spread it out of the flesh, out of the sinews, and out of the bones. That minute the pain left me. I felt very hungry, and the Charmer's wife set me at a table and gave me dinner. The Charmer went to fetch my father and my mother, and when they came in I was eating like two.

The Charmer told my mother I must not go on the mountain alone between the lights again. The pain never came back. I have been sound from that day to this, but I have the mark on my leg where the stab went through as clear as glass to the bone.

SCENE: A VILLAGE

Blackbird sings to Innkeeper's pretty daughter.

Kione jiarg, kione jiarg, Apyrn doo, Apyrn doo, Vel oo cheet? Vel oo cheet? Skee fieau, skee fieau, Lhondoo, Lhondoo.

Red head, red head, Black apron, black apron, Are you coming? Are you coming? Tired waiting, tired waiting, Blackbird, Blackbird.

KITTERLAND

It was more than eight hundred years ago, in the days of Olaf Goddardson, that Baron Kitter, the Norwegian, lived in Mann. He had his castle on the top of Barrule, and he spent all his time in hunting the bisons and elks that were on the island then, until he had killed them all. Then the people began to be afraid that he would chase their cattle and the purrs of the mountains, and leave them no beasts at all, so they went to the wisest witches of the island, to see what they could do.

One day Baron Kitter had gone over to the Calf to hunt the red deer there, leaving his cook, Eaoch of the Loud Voice, in the castle to cook his dinner. Eaoch set the pot on the fire and then fell asleep over his work. While he was sleeping the witch-wife Ada put a spell on the pot, and the fat boiled over into the fire. Soon the house was in flames. Eaoch woke and shouted for help at the top of his voice, and his cries were so loud that they reached the ears of Kitter and his fellow-huntsmen, ten miles away on the Calf.

When Kitter heard the cries and saw the flames on the top of Barrule, he made for the beach as hard as he could, and put out in a small currach for the island, with most of his friends. When they were in the strong current about half way across the channel, the boat struck on a rock and they were all drowned, and the rock has ever since been called Kitterland. The rest of Kitter's friends, who had stayed on the Calf and so saved their lives, believed that Eaoch, the cook, had made a plot with the witches of the island to do away with all the Norwegians in Mann, so they brought him before King Olaf to be judged, and he was condemned to death. But according to the custom of Norway, he was allowed to choose how he would die.

Then he said:

'I wish my head to be laid across one of your Majesty's legs, and there cut off by your Majesty's sword Macabuin, which was made by Loan Maclibuin, the Dark Smith of Drontheim!'

It was known to every person there that the king's sword could cut the hardest granite, only by touching it with its edge, and they all begged Olaf not to do as crafty Eaoch asked. But the king would not break his word and gave orders that all should be done as the cook had said.

But the witch Ada was there and she told them to take toads' skins, twigs of the cuirn tree, and adders' eggs, nine times nine of each, and put them between the king's leg and the cook's head. They did this, and then the great sword Macabuin, made by Loan Maclibuin, was lifted with the greatest care by one of the king's faithful servants and laid gently on the cook's neck, but before it could be stopped Eaoch's head was cut from his body and the adders' eggs and the cuirn twigs were also cut through--only the toads' skins saved the king's leg.

When the Dark Smith heard how the power of the great sword Macabuin had been stayed by witchcraft, he was very angry, and called for his Hammer-man, Hiallus-nan-urd, who had lost one leg when he was helping to make the sword. He sent him off at once to Peel Castle to challenge King Olaf, or any of his men, to a walking race from Peel to Drontheim. King Olaf himself took up the challenge, and off they set. Over mountains and through gills they walked, as fast as they could go, and the one-legged man as fast as the king. When they had crossed the island they each put out to sea in a sailing boat, and each came in sight of Drontheim at the same moment. When they drew near to the smithy, the Hammer-man, who was ahead, called out to Loan to open the door, and Olaf called to him to shut it, and then, pushing past Hiallus, got into the smithy first.

To show that he was not at all weary after his walk Olaf took up the great hammer of the forge and struck the anvil such a mighty blow that he split it through, and the block beneath it, too. When Emergaid, the daughter of Loan, saw the strength and power of Olaf, she loved him; and while her father was putting back the block and anvil, she whispered to the king:

'My Father is doing that, so that he may finish the sword he is making. It has been foretold that the first blood it shall shed shall be royal blood, and he has sworn that that blood shall be yours.'

'But is not your father the seventh son of Old Windy Cap, King of Norway?' cried Olaf.

'He is,' said Emergaid.

'Then the prophecy shall be fulfilled,' said Olaf, and he thrust the sword into the heart of Loan, and afterwards slew with it the Hammer-man also.

He made Emergaid his queen and they ruled together, and from them came a long line of Kings of Mann.

TEEVAL, PRINCESS OF THE OCEAN

In the old days Culain, the smith of the gods, was living in the Isle of Mann. It was the time when Conchubar was at the court of the King of Ulster, and had nothing but the sword in his hand. He was a fine handsome young man, and he had made up his mind to make himself a king. So he went one day to the Druid of Clogher to ask him what he had best do.

'Go thy way,' said the Druid, 'to the Isle of Mann. There thou wilt find the great smith Culain. Get him to make thee a sword and a spear and a shield, and with these thou shalt win the kingdom of Ulster.'

Conchubar went away, and hired a boat and put out to sea. He landed in Mann and made straight for Culain's smithy. It was night when he got there, and the red glow of the furnace shone out into the dark. He could hear from inside the smithy the roar of the bellows and the clanging of the hammer on the anvil. When he came near, a great dog, as large as a calf, began to bay and to growl like thunder, and brought his master out.

'Who art thou, young man?' said he.

'Oh Culain!' cried Conchubar, 'it is from the Druid of Clogher that I come, and he bade me ask thee to make me a sword and a spear and a shield, for only with weapons of thy making can I win the Kingdom of Ulster.'

Culain's face grew black at first, but after he had gazed for a while at Conchubar, he saw that he had the look about him of one who would go far, and he said:

'It shall be done for thee, but thou must wait, for the work is long.'