An Irish Christmas Feast, page 42
According to Hiccups the elderly bitch in his company suddenly sat down and refused to budge. He coaxed her but she whined and pined and whimpered which was most unusual because up until that time she was a brave and a game bitch without fear. The bitch then began to howl in a louder tone and the whole area at the western slope of Crabapple Hill brightened as though highlighted by spot-lights. It was then that the bitch rose unsteadily to her feet and raised her front paws aloft in the direction of her master, indicating that he should quit the scene if he knew what was good for him. He endeavoured to mollify her a second time but all she did was drop her paws and turn her back on him after which she galloped off yelping, down Crabapple Hill at breakneck speed. She was not seen again for a very long time.
By now Hiccups was becoming a trifle apprehensive and when he heard the faint music of fairy pipes in the breeze he was between two minds whether he would stay on the hill or make for low ground. Ever a curious chap and coming from a long line of courageous sportsmen, he proceeded to the very top of the hill where the sun shone as if it was the very height of June instead of Christmas Eve. Then for the first time he felt his waist-coat tensing and pulsating as though it was a living creature. There was silence now all over and then came a faint female voice, the most melodious and haunting ever heard by Hiccups.
‘It wasn’t the banshee,’ he explained to his listeners, ‘and it wasn’t the sheegwee and it wasn’t a lorgadán and it wasn’t the man in the moon. I have heard in my time,’ Hiccups continued, ‘female singers from every part of the globe, sopranos, mezzo-sopranos and contraltos but none to match the bewitching tone that seemed to emerge from the very heart of the hill.’ According to Hiccups he very nearly swooned and would have, he was sure, had it not been for the exceedingly fresh breeze, not a gale mark you, nor a wind but a refreshing breeze which filled him with extraordinary vitality. The strains of incredibly beautiful pipe music were now pouring forth from every crack, every cave, every hole and every cicatrice, every hollow and every dip on the vast hillside. All the while the fairy voice sang its haunting tunes. They tugged at the heartstrings until it seemed they must wilt and wither. They filled the mind with unworldly thoughts and the feet with a mad desire to leap and fly and dance. Even the heather at his feet seemed to be tugging at its roots such was its desire for escape into the skies where it would be free. Then, without warning of any kind, there was no sound save the fairy voice which now circled around his head and finally around the waist-coat fashioned from the skin of his favourite bitch of all time, the one and only Flash, Flash of the lightning turns and the speed of the fastest gale, Flash that had never been bested by a hare. Now the voice was calling a name.
At this exact stage when the tale was at its most gripping Hiccups caught the very watchful eye of Fred Crutley – Fred who was never still, who never rested, who never seemed to take a break, who like the great barman that he was always hovered and never once intruded.
‘Same again Fred!’ Hiccups informed him.
During this interlude there was no small talk. His listeners including his wife were caught up in the story. The four came originally from a household in the far-off hills where there was more thought of a man who could tell a ghost story than there was of any professional man or any craftsman or any musician. Their faces were hungry for more for there was also an innocence underneath all the toughness and churlishness and the lack of good manners and it was on this basic innocence that Hiccups was depending for his physical welfare. While the innocence rose above the lesser traits and dominated their out-look and thinking he was safe. When the drink was served Fred moved out of ear-shot and swept the bar with his wary eye lest some unfortunate be denied his basic right to intoxicating liquor.
‘Now!’ said Hiccups, ‘where was I?’
‘They was calling Flash,’ his wife informed him.
‘They were not!’ Hiccups was emphatic.
‘Well,’ said his wife, ‘if they was not they was very near to calling her.’
‘Don’t argue woman!’ Dick the second of the brothers cautioned her.
‘Don’t argue woman!’ echoed Slick the youngest of the brothers.
They lifted their glasses and swallowed heartily. Then they directed their baleful eyes at their storyteller.
‘This voice which was circling all around,’ Hiccups resumed, ‘was calling the name of my late greyhound bitch, my beloved Flash whose waist-coat I wear around my heart. “Flash, Flash, Flash,” the voice called and I could feel the waist-coat trying to free itself off my body. “Flash, Flash, Flash!” it called again as the waist-coat struggled in vain to free itself.’
Then according to Hiccups the fairy voice materialised into a white hare. The hare hopped to and fro and danced provocatively in front of Hiccups and his darling waist-coat which was now trying to rip its buttons so that it could take off after the white hare. Failing to do so, the waist-coat took off anyway with Hiccups wrapped inside and with no say over his movements. He was obliged to follow the hare and his inadequate legs were doomed to chase wherever the hare decided to run. It ran, first of all, slowly up the hill as though it was giving the waist-coat a chance to catch up. It dawdled insolently as the waist-coat with Hiccups wrapped firmly inside tried to make up ground. All to no avail. The white hare, known far and wide as the fairy hare, lived in the depths of the hill, far, far underground, far from the sounds and sights of mixed-up humans. The hare now sat on its hind legs and started to call the waist-coat as though she was calling a cat.
‘Peesh, peesh. Peesh, peesh,’ she called.
Now nothing so infuriates a greyhound as comparison with a cat and Flash the greyhound bitch was no different. The waist-coat with Hiccups inside bounded up the hill and quickly gained on its tormentor. The hare was lucky to escape as Hiccups’ legs worked overtime. As he tried to slow down Hiccups made the fatal mistake of digging in his heels. He turned several somersaults before coming to a halt. When he recovered and drew breath he saw the white hare sitting on a clump of heather far below him. He took off at once unable to restrain the waist-coat which was now at the height of its form and bent on nothing else but the tearing of the hare to shreds. As Hiccups bore down upon the hare the creature suddenly turned and went uphill again. Hiccups followed with no say over his movements. The waist-coat strained with all its might and its jaded owner had no choice but to follow. The hare took off in another direction when Hiccups drew near. The creature ran abreast of the hill along a lengthy level course. Now the hunt was on in real earnest.
The waist-coat started to bark as it neared its quarry. Hiccups found his own jaws directing themselves downwards, snapping and chopping and slobbering. His teeth almost seized upon the backbone of his would-be victim but all he got was a mouthful of white hair. The hare changed its course once more and now decided upon a rapid downhill run, avoiding nothing on its path, neither briar, nor nettle nor furze nor stream nor hole so that Hiccups was covered with scratches and blood and mud and drowned to the skin when the hare decided to stop for a breather half-way down the hill.
The waist-coat decided otherwise so that Hiccups found himself heading for a deep, soggy bog-hole at the bottom of the hill. In vain did he try to brake but the impetus was unstoppable. He roared at the top of his voice. He screamed in terror and cried out for the help as the moon started to rise over the top of the hill. Nobody answered his call. There was pipe music in plenty still coming from all sides and there was a great wailing and a great pillalooing coming from everywhere at once. Hiccups braced himself as the bog-hole drew near. He undertook a mighty leap in the hope that he might clear the obstacle and land at the other side. He landed, alas, right in the middle of the bog-hole with an almighty splash which sent frogs and newts and beetles scurrying for cover. So too did nesting wild ducks take off into the moon-lit skies as did freshly awakened larks, while stoats and rabbits and rooting badgers fled for their very lives. When Hiccups sank he was convinced he would never surface again but he reckoned without the waist-coat.
At this stage Hiccups beckoned to Fred who was now drinking a pint of stout in the company of Dr Matt Coumer, a routine to which he was addicted every single night of the week.
‘Same again Fred!’ Hiccups called as he examined the faces of his listeners.
They were enraptured not having heard a decent ghost story since their childhood. For the first time since his return Hiccups noticed a smile on his wife’s face. It was a smile of sheer delight and it was directed towards her errant husband. The smile said that she was still mindful of his amorous skills and would not be averse to an embrace or even a kiss or even a hug or even a squeeze of longer duration culminating in a major make-up. She was still a fine-looking woman and he often wondered why he had stayed away seven years. The answer came to him at once. Too many black eyes from the brothers as a result of her infernal complaining about him. If her smile was anything to go by she would desist from such reckless behaviour from now on.
When the drinks were delivered he found his hand being shaken by Matt Coumer who congratulated him on his safe return. There were others too who came forward and patted his back and spoke about the sad effect his absence had caused in all quarters.
‘I hope you won’t be as long away the next time you go,’ said an innocent who had just entered. He retreated quickly due to the ferocity of the snarls and growls escaping from the porter-stained mouths of Mick, Dick and Slick. When all the well-wishers had retreated the storyteller and his listeners made themselves comfortable. They quaffed from their fresh drinks and gave the nod to Hiccups indicating that he was to proceed with his tale.
‘Where was I?’ he asked as he scratched his head.
‘You was in the middle of getting drowned,’ his wife reminded him.
‘And were you drowned?’ asked the three brothers in unison.
Hiccups did not answer at once. The wrinkles furrowed his forehead as he tried to accurately record the occasion.
‘Ah yes!’ he said to himself, happy that he remembered where he had left off.
‘There I was at the bottom of forty fathoms of bog-water, not able to swim, not able to see an inch, my lungs bursting for air when the waist-coat somehow inflated itself and brought me to the surface of the bog-hole.’
Apparently when Hiccups surfaced he found his hands paddling towards shore. The night was now master of the scene and the full moon played its role in lighting the hill and bog-lands. The stars twinkled over-head and it was at this stage that Hiccups found himself shivering with the cold. What with his wet clothes and the frost all around he concluded that pneumonia was inevitable.
‘We have no time for that now,’ the waist-coat seemed to say as it tensed and shook the water off before restarting the chase. Off they went, all three, at a frenetic gallop, the hare ahead by a yard or two all the time and Hiccups in hot pursuit with beads of sweat slowly replacing the beads of water on his brow. He began to huff and to puff and to fall and rise and roll over and tumble like an acrobat so fierce was the determination of the waist-coat at whose mercy he found himself.
Now came a furrowed field which they traversed at phenomenal speed. Now came a river which they leaped as though it were a rill. Now came a gate, over which they jumped as though they were steeplechasers. Now came a hollow, deceitful and deep. They descended like steeple-jacks and when they hit the ground they sped over a mushy swamp till they were fit to collapse with exhaustion.
Then of a sudden the white hare stopped without warning of any kind. The waist-coat stopped as well. She was enjoying the hunt too much to move in for the kill at that stage but the white hare seemed genuinely spun out. Feeble, heart-rending cries, almost human in their intensity, escaped her sagging mouth. Waist-coat and man looked on in amazement as the hare began to call a name. The place where the hare had stopped was rich in the most luxurious, multicoloured growth, heavily scented and of druggish potency so that waist-coat and wearer were very nearly overcome.
The name that the hare was calling was that of the queen of the local fairies Been-been of Coolnaleen. A long tongue of fire arose from the over-grown spot and a cave opening was revealed. The fire gave off no heat, merely a sleep-inducing warmth and an incense-like odour. Then bells began to tinkle all over the hill behind them, wraith-like under the moon’s pale glow. It was an enchanting time if ever there was an enchanting time. As the white hare seemed to fall into a deep trance the waist-coat came to life and would have moved in for the kill had not a tall stately female of indeterminate age but of blinding beauty and disarming manner appeared near the very spot where the white hare lay. Weak as the creature was the whispered name of Been-been of Coolnaleen still carried from its lips.
The freshly arrived fairy, for fairy no doubt she was, placed a finger on her lips intimating to man and waist-coat that they must preserve the silence which now dominated the land. She withdrew from her garments a satchel woven from golden threads and the like of which Hiccups had never seen in all his travels. Even the waist-coat was stilled as the glow from the golden satchel cast its mellow light on the sleeping hare. She stroked the creature gently behind the ears until it began to purr like a kitten. Then she placed it in the satchel and cautioned Hiccups and his waist-coat.
‘Nevermore will ye hunt on Crabapple Hill,’ she told them. Her tones were far from being stern but there was a finality to them that made the hair stand on the head of Hiccups.
‘The hare ye have chased,’ she told them, ‘is really a princess who was deprived of her human form by an evil witch who reigned on the hill until she was blasted by thunder and lightning and destroyed for evermore. The princess will regain her human form when the wild geese return to the flat lands of Coolnaleen and that should be very soon since they have been sighted close by for some time and it would not be any great wonder were they to appear next year or the year after.’
So saying she commanded a circle of fire to surround her as she disappeared into the hill-side. When she was gone there was no sign that the place had been visited by flame or by a queen from the other world or that a brave white hare had vexed a human and his hound that very day. As soon as she was gone the dawn, pale as death, came slowly to life and tinged the eastern sky with a multiplicity of delicate pastels. Hiccups fell to the ground and remembered not a single thing, and he gave his word on this, until he woke up in the middle of a fairy rath seven years later.
‘Fred!’ he called, ‘be bringing us another round like a good man.’
Fred landed shortly thereafter and placed the drinks on the table. Then he withdrew with a trayful of empty glasses and the price of the drinks. They quaffed from their glasses and toasted the courage and endurance of the white hare.
‘Now!’ said Hiccups, ‘where was I?’
‘You was after waking up in the middle of a fairy rath,’ his wife told him, ‘although ’tis a mystery to me how you stayed alive for seven years.’
‘I was in a trance woman,’ he explained.
‘What do you think boys?’ Mick asked Dick and Slick.
‘I’ll say nothing against fairies,’ said Dick, ‘although this man has the face of a born liar and I’ll say that our brother-in-law wouldn’t know the truth from a rumble in his belly.’
‘As for me,’ said Mick, ‘I’ll say nothing until we drink more, for the way I judges is to judge when I’m sober and then when I’m drunk. I’ve already judged sober and it will take five or six more drinks before I’m drunk. I will say his tale was uncommon enough and worth hearing out but I’ll have to wait till I’m soused.’
After that the drink flowed freely but never once did Mick or Dick or Slick test the material of their trousers’ pockets so that the monies therein, if monies there were, were in no danger of being jingled or removed.
As soon as Mick had consumed the six extra pints he belched like a fog-horn and announced that he was about to pronounce judgement. ‘I found the defendant guilty as hell for the first part of his story while I was sober and for the second part of his story while I was drunk I find him not guilty which is a blessing to our sister for she went very close to being a widow.’
‘And the verdict?’ his sister asked.
‘The verdict is that he tells us a story once a week from this day forth in this very pub for the remainder of his natural life. Otherwise all charges against him are dismissed and he may go home with his wife to have and to hold from this day forth, wet or dry, windy or still.’
Hiccups’ wife threw her arms around him and thanked her brother Mick and the good God too. When Dick and Slick started to crónán and grumble they were silenced by Mick.
‘We must forgive,’ he said, ‘especially since the twelve days of Christmas are not yet over. A ram has returned to the fold and for this we should be truly thankful.’
Awlingal Princess of Cunnackeenamadra
‘Do you know what they remind me of?’ Sergeant Bill Ruttle addressed his companion, Garda Sam Ruane, in low tones. The sergeant was referring to the brothers Mick, Dick and Slick McCraw who sat at a nearby table with their sister Delia and her husband Hiccups O’Reilly.
‘What do they remind you of boss?’ Sam asked out of the side of his mouth so that nobody would hear save the party for whom the question was intended.
‘They remind me,’ replied Bill, ‘of three starving mongrels waiting for their scraps.’
Sam laughed loud and long, not out of loyalty to his sergeant but because he found the sergeant’s comments in nine cases out of ten well worth laughing at. As Sam’s guffaws subsided Fred Crutley approached the brothers’ table with a tray upon which sat four pints of stout for the menfolk and a gin for Hiccups’ wife Delia.
