Part 6

'Get into your lines there, my boys,' and the Maughold Lil Fellas put themselves in rows on the walls of the bridge, just under the big cherry trees, holding their coloured lanthorns on the points of their sticks to give light round that dirty turn; then when all had passed, they joined in and followed behind. Away they all went, down Slieu Lewaige, fit to break their necks. They slackened off a bit as they got to Folieu and then took their time as far as Ballure's Bridge, where there was a big lanthorn hanging up in a tree over the old mill. As soon as they saw this, two of Themselves blew horns and then a host of riders came out of the mill, blowing horns too. They turned up the gill and all of a sudden the whole crowd, with John among them, were right in the middle of a big camp of the Lil People. There were lights hanging all about in the trees, and fires blazing under the cowree pots, and musicians playing fine music. Oh, the taking joy there was! Some were going round, giving horn-spoons for the cowree and binjean, and then handing round the oatbread and cheese, and the tramman wine. Then the little fiddlers and fluters and reed-fellows and the drummers got upon the top of a big rock, and the Lil Fellas began to dance, till John's head took the reel watching them. It was a grand sight to see the nice little girls in their red petticoats, and white stockings and shoes with silver buckles on, and little bells all tinkling in their hair; and the Lil Men in their white knee breeches, loghtan stockings and spotted carranes. In the middle of it all, up came the Lil Captain and----

'John,' says he. 'What do you think of this sight, boy?'

'It's mortal grand,' says John. 'Far before any of the carnivals I've seen before; an' how long will it last?'

'Maybe a fortnight,' said he, laughing heartily. 'And maybe more, so you would better go back to your own people.'

'How'll I get back at all, at all, an' in the dark, too?' says John.

'Tchut, man,' he said, tipping John on the head with his little stick again.

John didn't remember any more till he wakened at the break of day close to his own house, and little the worse for his long journey.

A BAD WISH

May the chimney-hook and the pot-hooks Against thee rise in cruel war; The ladle, the dishes, and the pot-stick, For the dread attack prepare.

May the pot-stick and the round tables, Cresset, noggin, and hardware store, All help to tear, and flay, and skin thee When fell'd beneath them on the floor.

What if the spotted water-bull, And the Glashtan would thee take, for all And the Fynoderee of the glen, waddling, To make of thee a bolster against the wall.

The Fairy of the Glen and the Buggane, Finn MacCool and all his company; May they gather together about thy bed, And in a straw-rope creel run off with thee.

From an old Manx Ballad.

THE WITCH OF SLIEU WHALLIAN

It was Midsummer Day, and the Peel Herring Fleet, with sails half set, was ready for sea. The men had their barley sown, and their potatoes down, and now their boats were rigged and nets stowed on board and they were ready for the harvest of the sea. It was a fine day, the sky was clear and the wind was in the right airt, being from the north. But, as they say, 'If custom will not get custom, custom will weep.' A basinful of water was brought from the Holy Well and given to the Wise Woman that sold fair winds, as she stood on the harbour-side with the women and children to watch the boats off. They told her to look and tell of the luck of the Herring Fleet. She bent over the water and, as she looked, her face grew pale with fear, and she gasped: 'Hurroose, hurroose! An' do ye know what I'm seeing?'

'Let us hear,' said they.

I'm seeing the wild waves lashed to foam away by great Bradda Head, I'm seeing the surge round the Chicken's Rock an' the breaker's lip is red; I'm seeing where corpses toss in the Sound, with nets an' gear an' spars, An' never a one of the Fishing Fleet is riding under the stars.

There was a dead hush, and the men gathered close together, muttering, till Gorry, the Admiral of the Fishing Fleet, stepped forward, caught the basin out of her hands and flung it out to sea, growling:

'Sure as I'm alive, sure as I'm alive, woman, I've more than half a mind to heave you in after it. If I had my way, the like of you an' your crew would be run into the sea. Boys, are we goin' to lose a shot for that bleb? Come on, let's go an' chonce it with the help of God.'

'Aye, no herring, no wedding. Let's go an' chonce it,' said young Cashen.

So hoisting sails they left the port and when the land was fairly opened out, so that they could see the Calf, they headed for the south and stood out for the Shoulder. Soon a fine breeze put them in the fishing-ground, and every man was looking out for signs of herring--perkins, gannets, fish playing on the surface, oily water, and such like. When the sun was set and the evening was too dark to see the Admiral's Flag, the skipper of each lugger held his arm out at full length, and when he could no longer see the black in his thumb-nail he ordered the men to shoot their nets. And as they lay to their trains it all fell out as the witch had said. Soon the sea put on another face, the wind from westward blew a sudden gale and swelled up the waves with foam. The boats were driven hither and thither, and the anchors dragged quickly behind them. Then the men hoisted sail before the wind and struggled to get back to land, and the lightning was all the light they had. It was so black dark that they could see no hill, and above the uproar of the sea they could hear the surges pounding on the rocky coast. The waves were rising like mountains, breaking over the boats and harrying them from stem to stern. They were dashed to pieces on the rocks of the Calf, and only two men escaped with their lives.

But there was one boat that had got safe back to port before the storm, and that was the boat of the Seven Boys. She was a Dalby boat and belonged to seven young men who were all unmarried. They were always good to the Dooinney Marrey, the Merman, and when they were hauling their nets they would throw him a dishful of herring, and in return they had always good luck with their fishing. This night, after the Fleet had shot their nets sometime, the night being still fine and calm, the Seven Boys heard the voice of the Merman hailing them and saying:

'It is calm and fine now; there will be storm enough soon!'

When the Skipper heard this he said: 'Every herring must hang by its own gills,' and he and his crew at once put their nets on board and gained the harbour. And it was given for law ever after that no crew was to be made up of single men only; there was to be at least one married man on board and no man was bound by his hiring to fish in this same south sea, which was called 'The Sea of Blood' from that day.

As for the witch, they said she had raised the storm by her spells and they took her to the top of the great mountain Slieu Whallian, put her into a spiked barrel and rolled her from the top to the bottom, where the barrel sank into the bog. For many and many a long year there was a bare track down the steep mountain-side, where grass would never grow, nor ling, nor gorse. They called it 'The Witch's Way,' and they say that her screams are heard in the air every year on the day she was put to death.

THE OLD CHRISTMAS

In the days of our grandmothers, Old Christmas Day, the fifth of January, was believed to be the true Christmas. On Black Thomas's Eve, which was the first day of the Christmas holidays, the spinning wheels all had to be put away, the making of nets ceased, and no work of any kind must be done until after Twelfth Day.

But there was once an old woman named Peggy Shimmin, at Ballacooil, and she was bent on finishing some spinning that she had begun, so on Old Christmas Eve she said to herself:

'The New Christmas is pas' an' surely it's no wrong to do a bit o' spinning to-night,' though she doubted in her heart if she were not sinning. So when Himself and the rest were in bed, she called her young servant-girl, lil Margad, and said:

'Margad, me an' you will finish the spinning to-night.' Margad was frightened, terrible, but she got out her wheel and sat beside her mistress. The two began to spin, and they were spinning and spinning till near midnight, and behold ye, just before midnight old Peggy saw the flax she was drawing from the distaff grow blacker and blacker till it was as black as tar. But Margad's flax did not change colour because she had only done what her mistress bade her. Peggy dropped the flax quick, put away her wheel, and crept in fear to bed. She knew now which was the true Christmas Day and never more did she spin on Old Christmas Eve.

Margad was left alone in the kitchen when her mistress had gone to bed, and at first she was trembling with fright; but she was a middling brave girl, and she took a notion, as there was no person to stop her, to see if all the things were true that she had heard about Old Christmas Eve.

'They're saying,' she thought, 'that the bees are coming out, an' the three-year-old bullocks going down on their knees, an' the myrrh coming up in bloom.' Then she says to herself:

'I'm thinking I'll go out an' watch the myrrh.' So she put a cloak round her and crept out at the door into the cold frosty moonlit night, and midnight had just struck as she put her foot outside. She stooped to look on the spot where the myrrh root was buried, and as she was looking, the earth began to stir and to crack, and soon two little green shoots pushed up to the air. She bent closer to see what would happen, and to her great wonder the leaves and stalks grew big and strong before her eyes, and then the buds began to show, and in a few minutes the lovely white flowers were in bloom and the garden was sweet with their fragrance. Margad could do nothing but stare at them at first, but at last she dared to gather one small piece of the blossom, and she kept it for luck all her life. Then she went to the cowhouse and peeped through the door. She heard a groaning sound and there were the young bullocks on their knees, moaning, and the sweat was dropping from them. Margad knelt down, too, and put up a bit of a prayer to the Holy Child that was born in a stall. But the wonders were not over yet, for as she went silently back to the house she noticed that the bees were singing and flying round the hive--they were inside again, when she shut the door of the house behind her.

Always after that, when the neighbours would ask her if she believed in the wonders of the Old Christmas Eve, she would say:

'I know it's true, for I've seen it myself.'

THE BUGGANE OF ST. TRINIAN'S

A long time ago there came some monks to the broad, rough meadow which is between dark Greeba Mountain and the high road, and they chose a nice place and set up a church to St. Trinian on it. But they reckoned without the power of the Buggane, who had his haunt in the mountain. The Buggane was mighty angry, and he said to himself:

'I'll have no peace night or day with their jingling bells if I let them finish the building.' And, as he had nothing else to do, he took it into his head to amuse himself by tossing off the roof.

So when the roof of the church was first put on, there was heard that very night a dreadful sound in it, and when the people of Greeba got up early next morning they found their church roofless, and planks and broken beams all around the place. After a time, and with great effort, the roof was put on again. But when it was on, a great storm arose in the night and it was blown down from the walls, exactly as had happened before. This fall put fear in the people, for they were sure now that it was the evil, destructive Buggane himself that was doing the mischief. But, though they were terrified, they resolved to make one more attempt; and the third roof was nearly finished.

Now there was a brave little tailor living about a mile from Greeba, and because he had not too much worldly gear, he made a wager that when the new roof was on, he would not only spend the first night in the church, but also make a pair of breeches there. The wager was taken up eagerly, as they hoped that if the roof was one night up, it would be left on.

So Timothy--that was the name of the little tailor--went to the church on the very first evening after the new roof had been put on. He started just when the shadow was beginning to get grey by the hedges. He took with him cloth, needle and thread, thimble and scissors. He entered the church boldly, lit a couple of big candles, and looked all over the building to see that everything was right. Then he locked the door so that there was no way to get in. He cut out the cloth, and, seating himself cross-legged in the chancel, he put on his thimble and set to work at the breeches. He paid no heed to the darkness of the lonely church at dead of night, but with long thread and needle he bent low over his work, his fingers, moving backwards and forwards rapidly, casting strange, beckoning shadows on the walls. The breeches had got to be finished, or he would lose his wager, so he stitched away as fast as he could, thinking about the good money the people would have to give him.

The wind was beginning to rise, and trees scutched their arms against the windows. The tailor looked cautiously up and down and round about. Nothing strange came in sight and he took courage. Then he threaded his needle and began his work again. He gave another sharp glance around, but saw nothing at all except the glimmer of the place near the candles, and empty, deep darkness away beyond them. So his courage rose high, and he said to himself:

'It's all foolishness that's at the people about the Buggane, for, after all, the like isn't in.'

But at that very minute the ground heaved under him and rumbling sounds came up from below. The sounds grew louder underneath, and Timothy glanced quickly up. All of a sudden a great big head broke a hole through the pavement just before him, and came slowly rising up through the hole. It was covered with a mane of coarse, black hair; it had eyes like torches, and glittering sharp tusks. And when the head had risen above the pavement, the fiery eyes glared fiercely at Tim; the big, ugly, red mouth opened wide, and a dreadful voice said:

'Thou rascal, what business hast thou here?'

Tim paid no heed, but worked harder still, for he knew he had no time to lose.

'Dost thou see this big head of mine?' yelled the Buggane.

'I see, I see!' replied Tim, mockingly.

Up came a big broad pair of shoulders, then a thick arm shot out and a great fist shook in the Tailor's face.

'Dost thou see my long arms?' roared the voice.

'I see, I see!' answered Tim, boldly, and he stopped his tailoring to snuff one of the guttering candles, and he threw the burning snuff in the scowling face before him. Then he went on with his tailoring.

The Buggane kept rising and rising up through the hole until the horrible form, black as ebony, and covered with wrinkles like the leather of a blacksmith's bellows, had risen quite out of the ground.

'Dost thou see this big body of mine?' roared the Buggane, angry that Tim showed no fear of him.

'I see, I see!' replied the Tailor, at the same time stitching with all his might at the breeches.

'Dost thou see my sharp claws?' roared the Buggane in a more angry voice than before.

'I see, I see!' answered again the little Tailor, without raising his eyes, and continuing to pull out with all his might.

'Dost thou see my cloven foot?' thundered the Buggane, drawing up one big foot and planking it down on the pavement with a thud that made the walls shake.

'I see, I see!' replied the little Tailor, as before, stitching hard at the breeches and taking long stitches.

Lifting up his other foot, the Buggane, in a furious rage, yelled:

'Dost thou see my rough arms, my bony fingers, my hard fists, my----?'

Before he could utter another syllable, or pull the other foot out of the ground, the little Tailor quickly jumped up, and made two stitches together. The breeches were at last finished, then with one spring he made a leap through the nearest window. But scarcely was he outside the walls when down fell the new roof with a terrible crash, that made Tim jump a great deal more nimbly than he ever did before. Hearing the Buggane's fiendish guffaws of laughter behind him, he took to his heels and sped hot-foot along the Douglas road, the breeches under his arms and the furious Buggane in full chase. The Tailor made for Marown Church, only a little distance away, and knew he would be safe if he could only reach the churchyard. He ran faster still, he reached the wall, he leaped over it like a hunted hare, and fell weary and spent upon the grass, under the shadow of the church, where the Buggane had not power to follow.

So furious was the monster at this that he seized his own head with his two hands, tore it off his body and sent it flying over the wall after the Tailor. It burst at his feet with a terrific explosion, and with that the Buggane vanished, and was never seen or heard of afterwards. Wonderful to relate, the Tailor was not hurt, and he won the wager, for no person grumbled at the few long stitches put into the breeches.

And as for St. Trinian's Church, there is no name on it from that day till this but Keeill Vrisht--Broken Church--for its roof was never replaced. There it stands in the green meadow under the shadow of rocky Greeba Mountain, and there its grey roofless ruins are to be found now.

KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT

Magnus, great nephew of Olaf the Saint, was King of Norway in the days when the Norwegian Kings were Lords over Mann, and he was called by the name of Barefoot because he wore kilts. He was the bravest and most beautiful young king of his time--tall and strong and brilliant as a meteor. He wore a helmet on his head and carried a red shield with a golden lion upon it; he had in his belt a sword of exceeding sharpness with an ivory hilt inlaid with gold, and a keen javelin in his hand. Over his coat of mail was a tunic of ruby-red embroidered with a golden lion. He was a fine and valiant figure. It was he who brought King Olaf's Cup of Peace to our island, and this is the way it happened.

Magnus was sitting at supper one day with his chief men, and their talk ran on the beautiful shrine of Olaf the Saint, which was the wonder of its age. They spake to one another of how it was said that Olaf's body would never be destroyed by death, but would remain as in life and would heal those who prayed at the shrine of any sickness. Magnus laughed the story to scorn and said boldly:

'Seeing is believing; let the shrine be opened that we may see for ourselves if the story be true.'

Then the bishop and clergy were horrified, and begged the king: 'Oh king, let not the thing be done, it will surely bring evil on thee.'

But Magnus commanded:

'Let the shrine be opened at once. I fear no man alive or dead.'

So his will was done and when the jewelled shrine was opened, all saw the body of holy Olaf lying incorrupt and fair as if alive. Magnus touched it with his hands, but was suddenly seized with a great fear. He went away in haste, but took with him the lovely crystal cup that lay beside the Saint.

The next night in his sleep he had a vision of King Olaf, majestic and stern, who said to him:

'Choose, I tell you, one of two things, either to lose your kingdom and life within thirty days, or to leave Norway and never see it again.'

Magnus awoke and called his chiefs and great men to tell them of his vision.

'Oh king,' they cried in fear. 'Leave Norway with all speed, and keep thy life and kingship.'

So Magnus, who was the last of our great Sea Kings, got together a fleet of 160 long ships, each with twenty or thirty rowers' benches, and with bows carved in the shape of dragons. He loved the sea, and, like a true Viking, he used to say:

'I will never sleep under a sooty rafter nor drink in the chimney corner.'

Away he sailed to the Orkneys; he conquered them and all the Western Islands, and came to Mann. He put in at Saint Patrick's Isle and went to see the site of the Battle of Santwat near Peel, which had been fought three days before between the Manx of north and south. The beauty of our island pleased his eyes and he chose it for his dwelling-place. He made the men of Galloway cut timber and bring it over to make three forts for him. In one of them, near Douglas, he placed the Cup of Peace, which he knew would be well guarded by the Lhiannan Shee, the Peace Fairy who never left it.

Then he sailed to Anglesey and made himself lord over it, but he soon came back to the Isle of Mann, for it pleased him best. On his return he sent his dirty shoes over to Morrough, King of Ireland, with this message:

'Magnus Barefoot, King of Norway and the Isles, bids thee carry his dirty shoes on thy shoulders through thy house on Christmas Day in thy royal state, and own that thou hast thy kingdom and power from the Lord of Norway and the Isles. And this thou must do in sight of his envoys.'

When the Irish heard this they were furiously angry and indignant, but wise King Morrough said:

'I will not only carry the shoes, but eat them, rather than that Magnus should ruin a single province in Ireland.'

Then he carried the shoes on Christmas Day as Magnus bade, treated the messengers with honour and sent them back to Mann with many fine gifts for their king, with whom he made a treaty of peace. But the envoys told their master of the richness of the Irish lands and the pleasantness of the air, and Magnus kept it in his mind.

After this the King of Scotland sent a message to him, saying:

'Cease to make war against me and I will yield thee those of the Western Isles that thou canst from the mainland go round in a vessel with a paddle-rudder.'

Magnus made peace on those terms and so the Norse Kings gained the Southern Isles, among which they counted the peninsula of Cantyre because Magnus, sitting at the helm, caused his great warship to be dragged across the neck of land which joins it to the mainland. His vikings shouted with triumph as they pulled the ship along, with their young king in his red and gold laughing at the stern.

But all this time, in his heart, Magnus could think of nothing but the conquest of Ireland. He sailed to the coast of Down, where he began to invade and pillage. It was on Saint Bartholomew's Day, 1103, that his last battle was fought. The Irish had promised to bring him cattle for his troops the day before, but as they had not come he landed his men and marched them to the top of a little hill on the plain of Coba. From this place he could see all the country round, and presently there appeared a great cloud of dust in the distance. Some of his men said that it was an army approaching, others that it was the herd of cattle. The last were right, and when the cattle had been handed over, Magnus and his men returned towards his ships. It was now the noon of a calm and sunny day. When they reached the marshes, suddenly a band of Irish rushed out from their ambush in a wood close by, and attacked them fiercely.

Magnus ordered his chief, Eyvinder, to sound the trumpet and summon his men around the royal standard. He ordered them to close ranks with overlapping shields, until they got to the dry ground where they would be safe. They made their way as far as an old fort, but the Irish pressed them and slew many of them. Then the king called to a chief named Thorgrim:

'Do you, with your cohort, cross the rampart and occupy the hill opposite with your archers till we join you.'