944. Scéalta Chois Cladaigh, Cuid 1

Seán Ó hÉinirí (John Henry) le Gaeilge álainn Mhaigh Eo.

Bhí scéalaíocht againn ag an Aonach le déanaí.

Níl stíl ann a sháródh stíl John Henry. Gaeilge cheolmhar aoibhinn aige.

Seo a ghuth ó chuid 1 de thaifead i gcóip de scéalta Chois Cladaigh, dá n-inseacht ag Seán Ó hÉinirí as Cill Ghallagáin i gCondae Mhaigh Eo.

Ba é Séamas Ó Catháin a bhailigh na scéalta le linn na 1970í.

D’fhoilsigh an Chomhairle Bhéaloideas Éireann na scéalta i 1983.

Ait an íomhá thíos ach scéalaíocht i ngach uile chultúr, ar ndóigh.

0:00 – 0:20 An tSlua Sí An gearrán mór le cruithe óir, The big gelding with his golden shoes, Agus a shúil ar dhath na gréine; And his eyes the color of the sun; Thóig sé a cheann agus tharraing sé srann, He raised his head and gave a snort, Agus de bhoc, bhí sé scuabtha léithi. And in a flash he was swept away with her. [Céard is ciall dó sin? What does that mean} An tSlua Sí! An tSlua Sí! The Fairy Crowd! The Fairy Crowd!

2. 0:20 – 2:55

Aingle na dTrí Sciathán

Mhoithigh mé go minic go bhfeicthí iad, go mbíodh siad ina gcineál aingle. Na haingle a thugtaí orthu. Agus níl ‘fhios agam ab shin í an fhírinne nó nach í ach bhí sé ráite go bhfeicthí iad ar mhodh ar bith. Agus mhoithigh mé fear amháin ag insin’ scéal faoi. Seanfhear a bhí ann.

D’éirigh sé ar maidin, deireadh oíche. Ní raibh aon am an uair sin le fáil, uaireadóir ar bith ar ndóiche. Ní raibh cineál am ar bith ann ach an ghrian agus an ghealach. Ach d’éirigh sé deireadh oíche agus cé ar bith sórt uisce brogach a bhí fágtha ag bean an tí i mbuicéad in íochtar an cisteanach thíos, rug sé ar an mbuicéad uisce bhroghach sin agus d’oscail sé an doras agus chaith sé amach ar an gcnoc é.

Agus ar áit na bonn nuair a chaith sé amach an t-uisce ins an doras, d’éirigh an tslua meáin pháistí agus thosaigh siad ag gártháil. Chonaic sé ag imeacht iad mar a bheadh cnap míoltóga ón teach agus níl ann go ndearna sé aníos é go dtí an leaba san áit a raibh a bhean ina codladh. Agus d’inis sé an scéal di.

‘Céard ‘tá ort?’ a dúirt sí.

‘Á bhuel,’ a dúirt sé, ‘tá rud cluinste anocht agam nár mhoithigh mé ariamh.’

‘Céard a mhoithigh tú?’ a dúirt sí.

‘Chaith mé amach an t-uisce broghach a bhí fágtha thíos sa gcanna agat ó oíche,’ a dúirt sé ‘amach ar an gcnoc agus d’éirigh an tslua meáin pháistí amach ón doras.’

‘Á muise,’ a dúirt sí, ‘a amadáin, nach ndéarfá’ a dúirt sí ‘go bhfuil tú sách fada ar an tsaol anois! Nach láidir nár inis do sheanathair nó do sheanmháthair an obair seo duit fada ó shin nuair a bhí tú ag fás suas! Nach bhfuil fhios agat’ a dúirt sí ‘nár cheart duit uisce broghach a chaitheamh amach? Sin iad na páistí a fhaghanns bás gan bhaisteadh atá ag imeacht anois ag feitheamh ar fhuascailt. Sin iad na haingle a dtugann siad aingle na dtrí sciathán orthu.’

‘Cén sórt aingle iad sin?’ a dúirt sé.

‘Bhuel, sin iad na páistí’ a dúirt sí ‘a fhaghanns bás gan bhaisteadh.’

‘Agus cén sórt aingle’ a dúirt sé ‘aingle an dá sciathán?’

‘Sin iad na haingle cearta’ a dúirt sí ‘a bhíonns baistithe agus a fhaghanns bás a théanns thríd thaobh na lámha nach mbíonn aon pheaca orthu agus a chuirtear go deas cliste ins an teampall. Sin iad aingle an dá sciathán. Ach iad seo a fhaghanns bás agus a théanns ins an gCró Dorcha, tá trí sciathán orthu agus tá siad ag imeacht ag feitheamh ar fhuascailt i gcónaí ‘gcónaí. Agus ná dean sin’ a dúirt sí ‘arís, a fhear chéile, fhad is a bhéas tú ar urlár an tí seo.’

Mhoithigh mé an scéal sin go minic.

I often heard that they would be seen as a type of angels. Angels is what they were called. But I don’t know if that’s true or not though it’s said they were seen anyway. And I heard one man, an old man, tellin’ a story about it.

He got up in the morning at the end of the night. The thing was that there were no time back then or any kind of clock. There wasn’t any way of telling time except the sun and the moon. He got up very early in the morning and whatever sort of dirty water the woman of the house had left in a bucket down at the back of the kitchen, he grabbed that bucket of dirty water and opened the door and threw it out on the hill.

And right at the foot of the hill when he threw the water out the door up rose a host of ‘mid children’ (children between worlds) and they started laughing. He saw they leave just like a swarm of midges from the house and he just about made it back to bed to where his wife was asleep. And he told her the story.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

‘Well’ he said ‘I heard something tonight I never heard before.’

‘What did you hear?’ she said.

‘I threw out the dirty water that you left in can last night’ he said ‘on the hill outside and the crowd of mid children rose up outside the door.

‘Oh, you fool’ she said ‘wouldn’t you think you are long enough on this world now! It’s a strong miss that your grandfather or grandmother never explained this job to you long ago when you were growing up! Don’t you know’ she said ‘that it’s not right to throw out dirty water?’ Those are the children that die without having been baptized that are waiting to be released. Those are the angels that people call the angels of the three wings.’

‘What sort of angels are they?’ he said.

‘Well, those are the children that die unbaptized’ she said.

‘And what are the two-winged angels?’ he said.

‘Those are the real angels,’ she said ‘the ones who die after baptism, pass through by hands free of sin and are put nice and neatly in their graves. Those are the two-winged angels. But the ones that die and go to the dark outhouse (Limbo), they have three wings on them and they are waiting for release for ever and ever. And never do that again, husband, as long as you may have your foot in my house.’

I often heard that story.

3. 3:00 – 4:22

Bean a Tógadh As

Bhí bean i dtinneas clainne thoir i nGeannraí fada ó shin agus bhí sí go dona. Ní raibh aon dochtúir ann an uair sin ach na mná glún, an dtuigeann tú? Bhí bean ghlún istigh ann. Ba sheo cailleach ar ndóiche a raibh cineál láimh aici ar an obair. Ach ní rabhthar ag déanamh aon mhaith.

Ach bhí fear istigh ann ina shuí ar chloich an bhaic, ar ndóiche, agus bhí an bhean a bhí sa leaba le bású. Ní raibh aon mhaith le déanamh di.

Fuair sí bás agus timpeall mí ina dhiaidh nó b’fhéidir sé seachtainí, an fear a bhí ar chloich an bhaic, bhi sé i mBaile Uí Fiacháin ag aonach beithíoch. Bhí beithíoch le díol aige. Agus go díreach thuas i lár shráid an mhargaidh, shiúil an fear seo chuige agus chroith sé láimh leis.

‘Bhuel, ní aithním thú’ a dúirt fear Gheannraí ‘agus tá tú ag croitheadh láimhe liom.’

‘Bhuel, aithnímse thusa,’ a dúirt fear Bhaile Uí Fhiacháin. ‘Bhí tú i do shuí sa gclúid thíos i nGeanntraí an oíche a fuair do bhean bás. Mise an fear saolta a bhí leis na daoine uaisle na gcnoc an oíche sin. Agus dá mbeadh vástchóta mhuinchilleach an fhir’ a dúirt fear Bhaile Uí Fhiacháin ‘caite transa ar chosa na mná an oíche sin, bheadh an bhean sin beo ó shin, a duirt sé. ‘Ach thug an tslua sí leofa í.’

Shin é anois an méid a mhoithigh mise. Sin scéala fíor.

The Woman Who Was Taken Away

Long ago there was a woman having a hard time giving birth over in Graunny and she was very poorly. There were no doctors then except the kin women (midwives), you know? There was a midwife in there. This was a witch (old woman) who was a dab hand at the work. But it wasn’t doing any good for them.

But the husband was sitting there, sitting on the cornerstone and the woman in the bed was dying. Nothing could be done for her.

She died and about a month later or maybe six weeks, the man who had been sitting on the cornerstone was at a fair in Newport. He had an animal for sale. And right up there in the middle of the market street, this man walked up to him and shook his hand.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the man from Graunny ‘and you are shaking my hand.’

‘Well I know you’ said the man from Newport. ‘You were sitting in the corner down there in Graunny the night your wife died.’ I was the human man that the noble people of the hills had with them that night. And if the husband’s sleeved waistcoat,’ said the man from Newport, ‘had been thrown over the wife’s legs that night that woman would still be alive’ said he. ‘But the swarm of fairies took her with them.’

That’s all I heard. That’s a true story.

4. 4:25 – 5:20

Páiste a Tugadh As

Ba shin páiste a d’imigh i gceo fada ó shin, Bhí sé imithe i gceo agus héiríodh amach dá iarraidh agus caitheadh lá agus oíche dá iarraidh. Agus ins an am céanna bhí an páiste sa teach. Páistí eile mar a déarfá, b’fhacthas dófa a tháinig isteach. Ba stráinséir é. Bhí sé cineál coirpigh agus cointinneach agus rudaí mar sin.

Ach fuair siad an páiste a bhí amú sa gceo. Agus ag tíocht abhaile dófa dúirt ‘an páiste a bhí contráilte go mbruithfeadh siad sa tine é. Ó bhí ciall aige. Bhí sé a naoi nó a deich de bhlianta, an páiste sin. Ní páiste a bhí ann.

Ach dúirt siad go mbruithfeadh siad ar chúl na tine é. Chuir siad síos tine mhór agus nuair a bhí siad ag gabháil ag fail greim air, d’imigh sé ina chat amach an doras. Ní fhachas ariamh ó sin é.

Sin an chaoi a mhoithigh mise anois é.

A Stolen Child

That was a child that left in a fog long ago. He was gone in a fog and they’d get up and go out searching for him and they’d spend night and day searching. And in that same time, the child was in the house. It seemed to them that he was another child that had come in you’d say.

But they got the child that was lost in the fog. And as they were coming home they said that they’d burn the child that was contrary in the fire. Oh, there was sense to that. He was nine or ten years, that child. He wasn’t really a child.

But they said they would burn him in the depths of the fire. They made a big fire and when they were getting ready to grab him, he turned into a cat and went out the door. He was never seen again.

Now that’s the way I heard it.

5. 5:25 – 7:50

Gearrchaile a Tugadh As

Fada ó shin, ar ndóiche, ‘ bhfeicfeá a ceathair nó a cúig déag de bhlianta an uair sin nuair a ghabhadh bróg ort. Bhíodh na daoine ag imeacht ‘ cosnocht. Ní ghabhadh aon bhróg ort go mbeifeá in ann a luacht a shaothrú go maith. Ach bhí cineál…ba é an dlí a bhí ann an uair sin… bhíodh fataí bruite, ar ndóiche, ar bhoilg an lae agus ba é an bhéile deiridh ag gabháil a chodladh dófa, fataí.

Ach caithfí na cosa, an té a bhí ag imeacht cosnochta – an t-aos óg, chaithfeadh siad na cosa a ní in uisce na bhfataí. Bhí sé go maith leis na cosa a ní.

Ach an oíche seo taobh thiar ag an Lag, an áit ‘a raibh na seantithe (bhí mé dá insint cheana féin), bhí teach ansin. Agus nuair a bhí na fataí ite acu dúirt lánúin an tí, (bhí triúr clainne acu; triúr gearrchaile agus an ceann ba sine seacht mbliana a bhí sí), dúirt siad, láúin an tí, leis na gearrchailí na cosa a ní. Ach nuair a chuaigh siad chuig uisce na bhfataí, bhí uisce na bhfataí ruidín beag ró-the leis na cosa a ní.

‘Tabhair leat an sáspan sin thíos,’ a dúirt an t-athair leis an ngearrchaile seo ba shine anois. Seacht mbliana a bhí sí. ‘Agus tabhair isteach sáspan uisce agus fuaraigh an t-uisce na bhfataí go nífidh sibh na cosa.’

Chuaigh sí amach chuig an lochán beag a bhí giota ón teach ach níor phill sí ariamh ó shin, an créatúir! Ach nuair a b’fhada leofa a bhí amuigh, déirigh an cuartú amach agus ní raibh aon dath di le fáil. Déirigh muintir an bhaile amach nuair a chuaigh an gleo amach go raibh sí imithe.

Ach, lá arna mhárach, shiúil siad na bogaigh i mBaile na Cille agus chuaigh siad amach go barr aillte ag cuartú. Agus tá aill ansin a dtugann siad Gob Leaba Choimín air agus fuair siad an t-anúnfairt déanta thiar ar bharr an ghoib. Agus bhí lorg cosa bó, fuair siad amach, mar a bheadh dhá bhó ag troid.

Ach bhí siad ag faire síos fúthu agus thíos ar an gcarraig chonaic siad an corp thíos ar an gcarraig. Agus d’ísligh siad síos agus thug siad aníos í. Agus, an créatúir, ba í an gearrchaile a bhí ann. Agus bhí sí chomh dubh leis an mbac uile go léir.

Ach cuireadh an créatúir agus sin a méid atá. Bhítear ag leagan amach gur tugtha a bhí sí.

Sin an méid a mhoithigh mise anois faoi ghnoithe tiomáint ar an gcaoi sin ag an tslua sí.

The Stolen Girl

Long ago, of course, you’d have seen four or five years of this life before a shoe would go on you. People went around barefoot. You wouldn’t have a shoe on you until you were well able to earn the price of it. And it was like…it was the way it was that time …you’d have boiled spuds in the middle of the day and it was also the last meal as people would go to sleep, the spuds.

But the feet had to be, the people who were barefoot – the young people, they’d have to wash their feet in the water in which the spuds had been boiled. It was good for washing feet.

But this night back at a place called The Lag, a place where the old houses were (I was telling about this before) there was a house there. And when the people in it had eaten, the full house of them, (they had three children; three girls and the eldest was seven), they all told the girls to wash their feet. But when they went to the potato water it was a bit too hot for them to wash their feet with it.

‘Take that saucepan,’ said the father to the oldest girl. She was seven years old. ‘And bring in a saucepan of water to cool down the potato water so you can wash your feet.’

She went out to the pond, a short distance from the house, but, the poor thing, she never returned., the poor creature! But as soon as they felt she was too long out, the search party went out but there was not a trace of her to be found. The townspeople came out when the heard the commotion of her being gone.

But then, the next day they walked the bogs in Baile na Cille (Kilgalligan) and they went out along the cliff tops looking for her. And there is a cliff there they call Gob Leaba Choimín and they found the ground there in bits at the edge of the cliff. And there were cattle prints as if two cows had been fighting there.

But then they were looking down and below them on a rock, they saw the body, on a rock. And they lowered themselves down and brought it up. And it was the little girl, the poor creature. And she was black all over, as black as the hob.

And she was buried and that’s it. They were making out that she had been spirited away.

That’s all I heard now of that kind of carry on by the fairy crowd.

6. 7:55 – 13:50

An Dílleachta agus an tSíofróg

Bhí, fad ó shin, bhí dílleachta beag thiar ‘ an Tír Thiar, thaobh thiar de Bhaol an Mhuirthead. Bhí sí istigh ag a máthair mór. Agus, ar ndóigh, an áit a bhfuil dílleachta mar sin, nuair a bhéas sé (an dílleachta bocht ) fásta suas, bíonn cineál sclábhaíocht bheag oibre le déanamh aige thar dhuine eile.

Ach bhí an dílleachta bocht seo, bhíodh sí saigheadaithe amach gach uile lá le ba, ag faire ba síos ar an dumnaigh, dumnaigh a dtugann siad Dumhaigh Eilí air. Ach bhíodh sí síos ar an dumhaigh gach uile lá ag faire ar na mbó.

Ach an lá seo, bhí sí thíos ‘ tháinig buachaill óg chuici. Agus bhuel, bhí an cailín, b’fhéidir go raibh sí ceithre bliana déag nó cúig bliana déag d’aois. Ach bhí an buachaill óg ag caint léi giota maith. Ach d’imigh sé ar deireadh. Ach, by gearrachaí, nuair a tháinig sí abhaile san oíche chuig a máthair mhór ( tá ‘fhios ‘at, bhí a máthair agus a athair curtha, ba dílleachta a bhí inti) d’fhiafraigh an mháthair mhór di:

“Cén sórt gábh a bhí tú inniu?” a deir sí. “Tá tú ag amharc an-mhíshuaite,” a deir sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom.”

“Ní raibh mé i ngábh ar bith,” a deir sí.

” Má…bhuel, bhí rud éigin ort. B’fhéidir gur iomarca siúil nó routeáil a rinne tú,” a dúirt an máthair mhór léi.

“Ní hea,” a deir sí.

‘Lá arna mhárach cuireadh leis na ba arís í síos go Dumhaigh Eilí. Ach nuair a bhí sí thíos, an créatúir, tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus bhí sé ag caint léi.

“Bhuel,” a deir sé léi. “An gcíorfá mo chloigeann dom?” a dúirt sé.

“Cíorfaidh,” a dúirt sí.

Ní raibh aon chiall aici. Bhí ráca ina phóca aige agus chíor sí a chloigeann. Agus bhí sé ansin ag caint léi scathamh. Agus d’imigh sé. Ach nuair a tháinig sí abhaile…

“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin as bealach leat,” a dúirt sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom ar chor ar bith. Tá drochdhath ort. Céard ‘tá ort ar chor ar bith?”

“Níl rud ar bith orm,” a dúirt an gearrachaile. “Ní aithním tada. Ní fheicimse. Ní mhoithím rud ar bith,” a deir sí.

“Bhuel, bíonn tú ag déanamh an- routeáil,” a dúirt sí, “nó ag déanamh an-súgradh thíos ar an dumhaigh nó an mbíonn éinne agat?”

“Ní bhíonn,” a deir sí.

Ach ba é cic an scéil é, chuaigh sí síos an triú lá leis na ba agus tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus shuigh sé lena taobh.

“Bhuel,” a deir sé. ” Breathnaigh ‘mo choigeann,” a deir sé. “Agus cuir mo ghruaig dá chéile agus shtáil mo ghruaig dom,” a deir sé.

Agus rinne an créatúir sin, ar ndóigh. Bhí sí díchéillí an uair sin. Tháinig sí abhaile an oíche sin agus na ba léi.

“Bhuel,” a deir an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin ort,” a dúirt sí.

Bhí an gearrchaile ag cailleadh agus ag éirí míshuait agus í bán go maith faoina haghaidh.

“Bhuel,” a deir sí. ” A ghranny,” a deir sí. “Tá fear óg ag tíocht chugham le trí lá,” a dúirt sí.

Agus d’inis an bhean óg di gach aon tsórt.

“Feicim anois,” a deir an mháthair mhór. “Bhuel, anois,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór. “Nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach, nuair a thiocfas sé chugat, abair leis an fear,” a dúirt sí, “go bhfuil gamhain tinn ag do mháthair mhór ins an teach agus ‘cén leigheas atá air lena choinneál beo.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.

Bhí go maith is ní raibh go dona. An ceathrú lá, chuaigh an cailín óg síos. Bhí sí ina gearrachaile óg ar ndóigh idir cúig bliana d’aois agus sé bliana d’aois. Chuaigh sí síos leis na ba agus tháinig an fear óg chuici agus shuigh sé ag a taobh. Agus sular dhúirt sé tada, dúirt an bhean óg go raibh gamhain óg ag a mháthair mhór agus go raibh sé go dona, slackáilte go maith agus go raibh sé ‘mórán an bás air.

“Bhuel anois,” a deir an fear óg. “Leis an ngamhain a choinneáil beo, abair le do mháthair mhór nuair a gheobhas tú abhaile anocht, abair léi mún bréan, cacanna cearc, scian na coise duibhe agus an tseanúir a dhó agus a shuathadh fud a chéile agus a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain agus gnóthóidh sé.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt an bhean óg.

Ach scathamh ina dhiaidh d’imigh an buachaill óg uaithi agus tháinig an bhean óg abhaile.

“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi, “an dtáinig an fear óg inniu chugat?”

“Tháinig,” a dúirt an cáilín.

“Bhuel,” a deir sí, “ar dhúirt tú an chaint sin leis?”

“Dúras,” a dúirt an cailín óg.

“Bhuel, cén leigheas a thug sé duit ar an ngamhain?” a dúirt sí.

“Bhuel, dúirt sé leat cacanna cearc a dhéanamh suas, mún bréan agus uisce coisreac, scian na coise duibhe a mheascadh ann agus é sin a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.

Ní dhearna an chailleach… Bhí pota múin bhréin istigh aici le haghaidh tuaradh bréidín. Ba shin an leigheas a bhí ‘ fad ó shin le haghaidh bréidín. Ach rinne sí suas cacanna cearc, an mún bréan, an tseanúir a dhó agus a mheascadh fud a chéile agus an t-uisce coisreac agus chuir sí i mbuidéal dó é.”

“Anois,” a dúirt sí leis an mnaoi óg, “nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach leis na ba, nuair a thiocas an fear óg seo chugat, ar áit na bonn a suífidh sé agat, croith braon de seo air go bhfeicfidh tú céard a dhéanfaidh sé.”

Thug an bhean óg an buidéal ina póca léi agus an búiléiste sin déanta suas ann. Ach nuair a shuigh an buachaill óg ag a taobh mar i gcónaí, ní dhearna sí ach an buidéal a tharraingt amach as a póca agus a chroitheadh ar an mbuachaill óg. D’éirigh sé in aon bhall tine amháin agus d’imigh sé leis ar fud na farraige móire.

Tháinig an bhean óg abhaile agus d’inis sí an scéal don mháthair mhór.

“Anois,” a dúirt sí, “tá do leigheas déanta. Beidh tú i do chailín mhaith go fóill.”

Sin é mo scéal.

The Orphan Girl and The Fairy Boy

Long ago there was a little orphan girl, out in the western land, beyond Belmullet. She lived with her grandmother. And of course where there’s an orphan like that, as she grows up there some kind of odd job skivvy work for her more than any other child would get.

But this poor orphan was sent out to mind the cows every day down on the sand dunes, the dunes they call Elly Dunes. And she used to be down on the dunes every single day minding the cows.

But this particular day she was down there and along came a young boy towards her. And well, the girl was maybe she was fourteen or fifteen years old. But the young lad was talking to her a fair bit. But he left in the end. But, by dad, when she came home that night to her grandmother (you know her father and mother were in their graves and she was an orphan) her grandmother asked her:

“What’s come over you today?” says she. “You’re looking very upset,” says she. “I don’t like the look of you.”

“Nothing came over me at all,” says she.

“If…well, somethings up with you. Maybe you walked too much or you took a long route,” said the grandmother to her.

“No,” says she.

The next day she was put out with the cows again down to Elly Dunes. But when she was down there, the poor creature, the young boy came to her again and he was talking with her.

“Well,” says he to her. “Would you comb my hair for me?” he said.

“I will comb it,” she said.

She had no sense. He had a comb in his pocket and she combed his hair. And he was there talking to her a while. And then he left. But when she got home…

“Well,” said her grandmother to her. “Something is not right with you,” she said. “I don’t like the look of you at all. You have a bad color. What’s up with you at all?”

“There’s nothing up with me at all,” said the young girl. “I don’t feel a thing. I can’t see anything. I don’t feel anything [different],” says she.

“Well, you’re doing the rounds,” she said, “or playing too much down on the dunes or do you have someone with you there?”

“No,” says she.

But the kick of the tale is that she went down on the third day with the cows and the young boy came to her again and sat down beside her.

“Well,” says he. “Look at my head,” says he. “And untangle put my hair and put a style on it for me,” says he.

And the poor creature did that of course. She was without sense back time. She came home that night and the cows with her.

“Well,” says the grandmother to her. “Something is up with you,” she said.

The young girl was failing and getting upset and her face was fairly pale.

“Well,” says she. ” Granny,” says she. “There’s a young man who’s been coming to see me for three days now,” she said.

And the young woman told her everything that had happened.

“I see now,” says the grandmother. “Well now,” said the granny. “When you go down there tomorrow, when he comes to you, say to the man,” she said, “that there’s a sick calf that your granny has at home and what cure is there for it to keep it alive.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

All was grand and nothing wrong. On the fourth day, the young girl went down. She was a young girl, of course, between fourteen and fifteen years old. She went down with the cows and the young man came to her and sat down beside her. But before he said anything the young woman said that her granny had a sick calf and that is was poorly and listless and near death.

“Well now,” says the young man. “To keep the calf alive tell your granny, when you get home tonight, tell her to get stale urine, hen dung, a black-shafted knife, and an old palm leaf and to boil them together and to shake the mixture on the calf and it will work.”

“Fair enough,” said the young woman.

But a while after that the young boy left her and the young woman came home.

“Well,” said the granny to her, “did the young man come to you today?”

“He did,” said the girl.

“Well,” says, “did you have that talk with him?”

“I did,” said the young girl.

“Well, what cure did he give you for the calf?” she said.

“Well, he said you were to make up [a mixture of] hen dung, stale urine, and holy water and to stir in with a black-shafted knife and to shake it all on the calf.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

The old woman didn’t have to do anything [for the first one]. She had a pot of stale urine in the house for bleaching tweed. That was the way they had long ago for treating tweed. But she got the hen dung, the stale urine, and the old palm branch and boiled them and the holy water and she put it in a bottle for him.”

“Now,” she said to the young lady, “when you go down tomorrow with the cows, when the young man comes to you, at the foot of where he sits shake a drop of this on him till you see what he will do.”

The young woman took the bottle with that potion made up inside it with her in her pocket. But when the young boy sat down at her side as always, she just took out the bottle from her pocket and shook it on the young boy. He rose in a single ball of fire and went off with himself into the big sea.

The young woman came home and told the story to her grandmother.

“Now,” she said, “your cure is done. You’ll be a fine girl yet.”

That’s my story.

7. 13:55 – 17:42

Tugaigí Domsa É Mhoithigh mé m’athair mór ag insint ‘ (go ndéana Dia grásta air). Fada ó shin bhí fear i gCeathrú na gCloch. ‘Sé an t-ainm a bhí air, Tomás Mór agus ba fhear cinéal aimhleasach é, mar a déarfá. Ní thabharfadh sé isteach i ngnoithe slua sí nó i ngnoithe Dhia nó Mhuire; bhí sé ag obair ar a bhealach féin. Ach an uair sin, bhíthí ar siúl le gnoithe leathaigh i gCladach na Rinne Ruaidhe ar ndóigh. Ba ann a chaitheadh na créatúir oíche agus lá ag iarraidh bheith ag tiomsú leas fataí agus rudaí… Ach an lá seo, bhí páist le bású i gCeathrú na gCloch. Ach má bhí féin, d’imigh Tomás Mór tráthnóna leathmhall siar go Cladach an Phoirt ar thóir leathaigh. Agus thiomsaigh sé ar mhodh ar bith. Bhí sé ag tiomsú leis siar i mBearna an Leathaigh go ndeachaigh sé go dtí an Staca Liath go ndearna sé obair lae le leathaigh le haghaidh an asail. Asail a bhí ann an uair sin ag imeacht ag gach uile fhear. Ach nuair a bhí ‘ sin déanta aige, dúirt sé go siúlfadh sé leis soir go dtéadh sé go dtí Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí go bhfeicfeadh sé an bhfaigheadh sé píosa adhmaid nó rud ar bith eile ar an trá. Ach ní bhfuair, sílim. Ach ag gabháil anoir ag Fáilín an Ghairtéil dó, mhothaigh sé an páiste ag caoineadh. Agus sheas sé agus chuir sé cluas air féin agus mhoithigh sé na mná ag caint. “Tabhair domsa é,” a d’abraíodh bean acu. “Ní thabharfaidh,” a d’abraíodh bean eile acu, “ach tabhair domsa é.” “Ní hea,” arsa Tomás. Labhair sé. “Ach tugaigí domsa é,” a dúirt sé. Ó bhuel, an uair sin mhoithigh sé an-chlabhasán ach sháraigh air a dtuigbhéil ach gur thuig sé focal amháin. Dúirt bean acu leis na mná eile: “Rug bean ar an bpáiste seo a raibh lorg an uisce coisreac ar a méara,” a dúirt sí, “agus ní thig linn tada a dhéanamh. Caithfidh muid ‘ a thabhairt don bhfear a labhair.” Ach thug siad an páiste do Thomás. Thug Tomás an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus níor stop ‘ go dtáinig ‘ go Ceathrú na gCloch go dtí an teach ‘ a raibh an páiste tinn ann. Ach ins an am céanna, bhí an páiste os cionn cláir agus é nite acu. ‘Brón mór at mhuinir an tí agus gach aon tsórt. Ach shiúil Tomás isteach agus an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus í, an páiste beo beathamach, ag gártháil agus ag iarraidh ‘bheith ag caint ar ndóigh. Ní raibh sé (an páiste) ach bliain. Ach ar áit na bonn nuair a shiúil Tomás isteach, d’éirigh an páiste a bhí ar an gclár ‘ amach agus d’imigh sé ina cheo agus ní fhaca éinne ag imeacht é. Bhuel, bhí go maith ansin. Leag Tomás an páiste thuas ins an gclúid acu. “Anois,” a dúirt Tomás. “Seo é bhúr bpáiste beo slán arís,” a dúirt sé. “Maith go leor,” a dúirt siad. Ach chuaigh siad chuig an tsagart. Agus bhí sagart thall ag na hAchadh a dtugadh siad an sagart dubh air. Ach tháinig an sagart dubh anall agus chuaigh sé ag léitheoireacht os cionn an pháiste a thug Tomás Mór beo leis. “Anois,” a dúirt an sagart, “seo é an páiste ceart. Ní raibh fágtha,” a dúirt sé, “ach píosa de chrompán giúsaigh,” a dúirt sé. “Agus fhad agus bheas sibh beo,” a dúirt sé, “coinnigh uisce coisreac ar bhúr gcuid páistí agus,” a dúirt an sagart, “nuair a chuirfeas sibh an naíonán a chodladh ins an gcliabhán, cuirgí smearóid siar faoin bpiolúir agus ní féidir le tada a ghabháil ina ghaobhar.” Ach ó sin amach, táthar ag cur smearóidí ó shin agus i gcónaí. Feicim féin an obair i gcónaí. Nuair a leagtar leanbh beag isteach ins an gcliabhán, cuireadar sméaróid siar faoin bpiolúir. Agus leagadar brat eile os a chionna dtugann siad an Brat Bríde air. Sin brat a chuirtear amach Oíche Fhéile Bríde agus deir’ siad go bhfuil leigheas ann. Agus ó shin amach, ní fheicim éinne ag imeacht go fánach nó go dona. Give It To ME! I heard my grandfather telling [this one] (make God grant him grace). Long ago, there was a man in Ceathrú na gCloch (the stoney quarter). He was called Big Tomás (Tumaws) and he was a bit contrary, you might say. He wouldn’t get involved with the business of the fairy crowd or the God business or Mary: he was working on his own. Back then they would be taken up with the business of gathering seaweed at Cladach na Rinne Ruaidhe (the shore at Red Point) of course. It was there the poor things would spend night and day trying to gather fertilizer for the spuds and other [crops]. But this particular day there was a child about to die in Stoney Quarter. But even so big Tomás went out in the latter half of the afternoon down to the Cladach an Phoirt (Port Beach) looking for seaweed. And he gathered it somehow or other. He was gathering it down in Bearna an Leathaigh (Seaweed Gap) until he came to Staca Liath (Grey Stack) when he had got a day’s work of seaweed for the donkey [to carry]. Donkeys was what they had with them back then when they went out, every single man. But when he had that done, he said he’d walk back eastwards until he’s go to Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí (the foot of Yellow Crescent) until he’d see if he could get any bit of wood on the beach. But he didn’t find any, I think. But as he was coming back at Fáilín an Ghairtéil, he heard a child crying. And he stood and listened intently and he heard the women talking. Give it to me,” one of the women would say. “I won’t,” another woman would say, “but give it to ME.” “No,” said Tomás. He spoke. “But give it to ME,” he said. Oh well, then he heard fierce complaining but it was beyond him to understand their talk except for one thing he understood. One woman said to the other women: “A woman who had the trace of holy water on her hands held this child,” said she, “and we cannot do anything [about that]. We have to give [it] to the man who spoke.” But they gave the child to Tomás. Tomás took the child with him in his two hands and didn’t stop until he came to Stony Quarter to the house where the sick child was. But in the same time, the child was laid out and they had washed him. There was great sadness on the people of the house and all that goes with that. But Tomás walked in and the child in his two hands and it (the living lively child) laughing and trying to talk of course. It (the child) was only a year old. But in the place where the dead one was when Tomás walked in, the child that was laid out on the board rose and went into a mist and no one saw it go. Well, things were good then. Tomás put the child wrapped up in a blanket for them. “Now,” said Tomás. “This is your child alive and well again,” he said. “Fair enough,” they said. But they went to the priest. And there was a priest over at Aughoose that they called ‘The Black Priest.’ But the black priest came over and he went reading over the head of the child that big Tomás brought [there] alive with him. “Now,” said the priest, “this is the right child. Nothing was left,” he said , “but a bit of a stump of a fir tree,” he said. “And as long as you all live,” he said, “keep holy water on your children and,” said the priest, “when you put the infant to sleep in his crib, put a cold ember under the pillow and nothing can go near him.” But from then on, they’ve been putting embers [there] from then and for all times. I myself always see the work. When a baby is being put in his crib, they’d put a cold ember back under his pillow. And they’d put a cloak over him, that they call Brigid’s cloak. That’s the cloak they put out on the Night of Brigid’s Festival. Thus they say there’s a cure in it. And from them on, I see no one going missing or in harm’s way. 8. 17:45 – 22:50 An Bhó Dhroimfhionn – Bó a Tugadh As Ní hí an bhó amháin í a tugadh as ach tugadh an bhó seo as ar mhodh ar bith. Ag m’athair a bhí an bhó sin fad ó shin nuair a bhí sé ag fás suas ina bhuachaill óg, é féin agus a bheirt driotháireacha, ‘Sé an áit a raibh siad ina gcónaí, áit a dtugann siad An Lag air, thiar ar an Lag. Ach bhi naoi nó deich de bha acu, ar ndóiche, bhí ba saor an uair sin, ní bhfaighfeá iomarca orthu. Cé bith é, mí an Aibreáin go díreach rug an bhó seo. Ba bó bhreac a bhí inti – ‘an bhó dhroimfhionn’ a thugadh siad uirthi. Ach bhí sí le riocht gamhna ach rug sí ar mhodh ar bith, mar a dúirt an fear eile, mí an Aibreáin. Agus go díreach, trí lá a bhí sí beirthe, b’éigean dófa a ligean amach. Bhí siad gearr in agard agus scaoileadh amach í leis na ba eile agus ‘sé an áit a mbíodh siad i gcónaí acu ar féarach, ar ndóiche, amach ó Chúl Scraith na bhFiodán. Ach an lá seo, ba é an triú lá a bhí an bhó beirthe – ní raibh sí i bhfad beirthe ach na trí lá – bhí sí amuigh agus tháinig folc sneachta agus fuair sí fuacht agus cailleadh amuigh ar áit na bonn í ar Chúl Scraith na bhFiodán. Ach nuair a chuaigh m’athair amach tráthnóna ar fháirnéis na mbó, fuair sé an bhó dhroimfhionn caillte. Agus bhí bláth beag feoil an uair sin ach ní raibh aon airgead leis an bhfeoil a cheannacht. Ach tháinig sé abhaile leis na ba eile agus an bhó dhroimfhionn amuigh. ‘Bhail,’ dúirt fear de na driotháireacha, ‘gabhfaidh muid amach agus feannfaidh muid í,’ a dúirt sé, ‘Agus saillfish muid í agus bainfidh muid, ar ndóiche – is fhearr rud ar bith ná a caitheamh, a fhágáil ag na madaidh. Ach chuaigh siad amach ar mhodh ar bith ar shiúl oíche agus thug siad – bhí cúnamh fear leofa, tuilleadh daoine leofa. Bhí comharsanna maithe ar an mbaile an uair sin. Ach tharraing siad an bhó isteach an bealach i gcónaí ar fud an bhealaigh nó go dtug siad go dtí an teach í. Feannadh an bhó agus réitíodh í agus chuir siad i stanna í le neart salainn uirthi. Ach go díreach an lá céanna a cailleadh í, bhí páirtí i bPort an chlóidh a dtugadg siad ‘mná Mháire Ruadaí’ orthu agus chonaic siad – bhí aithne mhaith acu ar bha m’athara mar a dúirt an fear eile. Ach chonaic siad an bhó dhroimfhionn ag gabháil amach tráthnóna i bhfiáin agus í ag uabhar agus níor stop sí, a dúirt siad, go ndeacha sí le halt ar Bharr Rinn Phort and Chlóidh. Bhail, sin an méid a bhí sa méid sin ach bhí an bhó saillte ar mhodh ar bith ag momhuintir ins an teach agus bruitheadh an oíche seo í. Ansin sháraigh orthu aon dath daoithi a ithe – bhí a cuid feola chomh righin le giúsach.’ Á, bhail,’ a dúirt fear acu, ‘caithfid muid amach í.’ ‘Ní chaithfidh,’ a dúirt an fear eile, ‘tugaí tilleadh bruith daoithí – b’fhéidir nach bhfuil sí sách bruite.’ Ach, go díreach, thimpeall a dó dhéag san oíche, tháinig an bhó ag ruaghéimneach chuig an doras. ‘Mo choinsias,’ a dúirt m’athair, ‘gabhdaidh sí anach anois, ar bhodh ar bith. Sin é géimneach na bó atá ag an doras. Ní bó cheart í ar chor a r bith – tá sí tugtha as,’ ‘M’ainam,’ a dúirt an driothair eile, ‘nach ngabhfaidh sí aach. Má théann ach go gcoinneoidh mise píosa daoithi sa stanna le m’adhaidh féin ar mhodh ar bith. Tá sibh ag tabhairt isteach agus ag creidbhéil in iomarca ghnoithe síofróg, Coinneoidh mise píosa daoithi,’ a dúirt sé. ‘Bhail, má choinneoidh,’ a dúirt m’athair agus an driothair eile, ‘coinnigh í, ach caithfidh muidne amach cuid daoithi ar mhodh ar bith.’ Chaith siad amach cuid daoithi chuig na na madaidh ahis choinnigh an triú driotháir píosa daoithi insa an stanna i gcónaí. Ach chuir sé greim daoithi i bpota dó féin an oíche seo le bruith agus nuair a bhí sí ar fiuchadh, d’éirigh mo dhuine bocht amch – theastaigh canna uisce uaidhe, bhí lochán beag síos ón teach agus chuaigh sé síos faoi dhéin canna uisce leis na fataí a nighe nó rud éigin, ar ndóiche, agus nuair a chrom sé ins an lochán nuair a dhírigh sé é féin bhí an bhó ina seasamh is a chionn agus í ag fare air chomh géar agus a dhá súil grinn ag faire mar a bheadh dúil aici a súil a chur isteach thríd. Tháinig sé abhaile le deifir. ‘Mo choinsias,’ a deir sé, ‘an méid atá fágtha sa stanna ach gabhfaidh sé chun cnoc anocht. Chonaic mise an bhó sin arís anocht. ‘Bhail, má chonaic,’ a dúirt an mhuintir eile, glan amach an méid sa stanna ar mhodh ar bith.’ Ach thug sé leis an méid feola a bhí ins an stanna agus chaith sé amach chuig na madaidh é. Ó rinne siad an obair sin, níor mhothaigh siad torann nó tuaim i ngaobhair an tí ó shin faoi ghnoithe na bó. Shin é mo scéal anois. The White-Backed Cow Abducted This wasn’t the only cow to be abducted, but she was one of them anyway. My father owned her long ago when he was growing up a lad, he and his two brothers. They lived back in a place they called An Lag. Indeed they had nine or ten cows, for cows were cheap that time, and there wasn’t much of a price for them. Anyway, this cow calved in the month of April. She was a speckled cow – they called her ‘the white-backed cow.’ She was in calf anyway and she had a calf in the month of April. Just three days before she calved, they had to let her out. The haggard was all but empty and she was allowed out with the other cows to where they always went to graze beside Cúl Scraith na bhFiodán. This day, anyway, the third day after she calved, only three days after, she was out there and got caught in a snowstorm, caught cold and fell down dead on the spot, out at Cúl Scraith na bhFiodán. When my father went down to look for her in the evening, he found the white-backed cow lying dead. There was quite an abundance of beef on her too and , of course, they were fond of beef in those days but had no money to buy it. Anyway, he came back home with the other cows and left the white-backed cow lying there. ‘Well,’ said one of the brothers, ‘we’ll go out and skin her,’ said he ‘and we’ll salt her, and get – better than throw her, leave her to the dogs.’ Out they went anyways, out into the night, and they had men, other men to help them. There were good neighbours in the place that time. Anyway, they dragged and pulled the cow in all the way till they had her at the house. The cow was skinned and fixed up and they put her in a barrel with plenty of salt on her. exactly the day she died, some people from Portacloy they called Máire Ruadaí’s women, people who knew the cow ell, for they always came to visit in Kilgalligan and knew my father’s cows well, saw her. They saw the white-backed cow heading off that evening, frisking and frolicking wildly till she disappeared over the cliff at the top of Potacloy Point. Well, that was that – my people had the cow salted in the house and one night she was put down to boil. They weren’t able to eat a pick of her, however – her flesh was as hard as bog deal. ‘Oh, we’ll just throw her out,’ said one of them. ‘Indeed, we won’t.’ said another, ‘we’ll boil her another bit – maybe she’s not boiled well enough.’ But, just about twelve o’clock at night, the cow came to the door, bellowing fiercely. ‘I do declare,’ said my father, ‘she’ll go out now, anyway. That’s the cow bellowing at the door. She’s not a proper cow at all – she’s been abducted.’ ‘By my soul,’ said the other brother, ‘she won’t go out. If she does, I’m going to keep a piece of her in the barrel. This night he put on a piece of her to boil in a pot for himself and while it was boiling, he went out, the poor fellow – he needed a can of water and there was a pond below the house and he went down for a can of water, to wash the potatoes or something, and as he bent down at the pond and then straightened up again, there was a cow standing over him, glaring at him with her piercing eyes as if she wanted to stab him through. He made for home. ‘I declare,’ said he, ‘what’s left in the barrel must go out tonight, I saw the cow again tonight.’ ‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said the others, ‘clear out whatever’s left in the barrel anyway. ‘ So he took what was left in the barrel and he threw it to the dogs. When they had done that, they never heard sound or noise of the cow in the house after that. That’s my story now. 9. 22:50 – 24:20 ‘Bodógaí’ na Sí Ruaidhe Á, maise, tá mé ag éisteacht le gnoithe na Sí Ruaidhe ón lá a bhí mé in ann éirí amach. Mhoithínn seandaoine i gcónaí ag caint ar an tSí Ruaidh. Ba é an tSí Ruaidh an áit ab uaigní ar thalamh na hÉireann ariamh le gnoithe síofrógacht agus obair mar sin. Bhí go leor siáin ann agus bhí sé comhairthe a bheith an-uaigneach agus bhí sé uaigneach le gnoithe siógaí. Bhí fear eile i gCeathrú na gCloch fad ó shin agus bhí ceithre bodógaí amuigh sa tSí Ruaidh aige ar féarach, mar a dúirt. Ba é talamh gach uile dhuine é. Ní raibh sé ag íoc aon phighin astu ach go díreach go mbíodh siad fágtha amuigh. Théadh sé amach gach uile oíche chucu agus brosna féir ar a dhroim leis le caitheamh chucu. Agus bhíodh sé ar an gcaoi sin ar feadh am fada agus ní raibh aon bhó bhainne ag an duine bocht. Agus bhí sé pósta agus bhí family lag páistí airagus ní raibh aon deor bhainne aige le cur sa tae go mion agus go minic ach de réir is mar a dhéanthaí cabhair air ó theach na gcomharsan. Ach, an mhaidin seo, na ceithre bodógaí seo a bhí amuigh – tháinig na ceithre bodógaí anuas chuig an teach agus bhí ceithre uthanna bainne acu chomh mór le cliabh. Agus thosaigh sé dá mbleaghan agus choinnigh siad neart bainne leis ar feadh am fada. Agus ní raibh aon ghamhain ariamhlí acu ach an bainne. Mhoithigh mé é sin go minic. The ‘Heifers’ of An tSí Ruaidh Well, indeed, I have been listening to all about An tSí Ruaidh since I was first able to get around. I used to hear old people always talking about An tSí Ruaidh. It was the most eerie place in the land of Ireland, with all its spells and charms. There were lots of fairy mounds there and it was counted a very lonesome place and it was a lonesome place because of the fairies. There was another man in Stonefield long ago who had four heifers out grazing at An tSí Ruaidh, as [the man] said. It was commonage and he wasn’t paying a penny to anyone, but just left his cows out there. He used to go out every night with a bundle of hay on his back to give to them. He carried on like that for a long while but the poor fellow had no milch cow. And he was married and had a family of weak young children and very often he hadn’t a drop of milk for the tea except for whatever he might get from his helpful neighbours. One morning that these four heifers were out, they came back down to the house with four udders of milk as big as baskets and he milked them and they kept him in milk for ages. They never had a calf, just the milk. I often heard that. 10. 24:25 – 26:35 Na Siógaí agus an Bheirt a raibh Cruit Orthu ó, bhí beirt i mBaile na Cille a raibh cruit ar hach éinne acu, na créatúir. Ach bhíodh ba amuigh i Ladhar an Dá Abhainn acu an áit a dtugann siad an tSí Ruaidh air. Ach chuaigh fear na cruite seo, an duine bocht, amach, aon lá leis na ba sa tSí Ruaidh. Agus ní raibh é i bhfad ina shuí ar an gcnocán nuair a mhoithigh sé an ceol ag na siógaí: ‘Dé Luain agus Dé Máirt,’ a d’abraíodh siad, ‘agus Dé Céadaoin.’ Nuair a bhí fear na cruite …Thoisigh sé ag cur leofa: ‘Dé Luain agus Dé Máirt agus Dé Céadaoin,’ a d’abraíodh sé féin. Bhí siad ar siúl scathamh maith ar an obair sin ach ar a dheireadh, stop an ceol and dúirt fear na cruite leis féin go raibh sé in am aige a bheith ag tarraingt ar an mbaile. Ach ba é cic an scéil é nuair a bhí sé landáilte ins an teach =, ní raibh cruit ar bith aige. Bhí sé chomh díreach le mada rámha., glan díreach saor ó chruit agus bhí an gháir amuigh gur baineadh an chruit de ins an tSí Ruaidh. Agus ansin, an fear eile a bhí ar an mbaile a raibh cruit air féin, an créatúir – cruit i bhfad níos mó a bhí ar an gcréatúir; fear na cruite móire a thugadh siad air. ‘Bhail,’ a deir fear na cruite móire, ‘gabhfaidh mise amacg le mo chuid bó féin arís amárach,’ a deir sé #, ‘le cúnamh Dé, agus má mhoithím ceol, gabhfaidh mé ag cur leofa.’ Ach d’imigh sé, fear na cruite móire, lá arna n-óirthí amach leis arís lena chuid bó agus d’fhág sé amuigh sa tSí Ruaidh iad agus shuigh sé ar chnocán nuair a mhoithigh sé an ceol breá arís: ‘Dé Luain agus Dé Máirt agus Dé Céadaoin,’ Ach le farasbarr maitheasa, thoisigh fear na cruite móire ag cur leofa: ‘Dé Luain agus Dé Máirt agus Dé Céadaoin,’ a dúirt sé, ‘Lá Aonach an Bhréidín.’ ‘Ara,’ a dúirt fear de na siógaí, ‘cé hé sin ag milleadh ár gcuid ceoil bhreá?’ Ní raibh níos mó ann. Stop an ceol, Ach tháinig fear na cruite móire isteach, an créatúir, abhaile agus dá mhéad de chruit a raibh air ag gabháil amach dó, bhí a sheacht n-oiread de chruit air nuair a tháinig sé abhaile. Sin an chaoi a mhoithigh mise anois an scéal. The Fairies and The Two Hunchbacks Oh, there were two hunchbacks in Kilgalligan, the creatures. There used to be cows out at Ladhar an Dá Abhainn at a place they called An tSí Ruaidh and this man with the hump, the poor fellow, went out one day with the cows at An tSí Ruaidh, he sat on a hillock when he heard fairly music. ‘Monday and Tuesday,’ they were singing, ‘and Wednesday.’ ‘Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday,’ he sang. This went on for a good while, but at last, the singing stopped and the hunchback said to himself it was time for him to be heading home. The upshot of the matter was, however, that when he landed home, he had no hump at all. He was as straight as an oar, totally free of his hump, and it was reported that the hump had been removed at An tSí Ruaidh. Well then, ther was another hunchback in the village and he had a far bigger hump, the creature, the Man with the Big Hump, they called him. ‘Well,’ says the man with the big hump, ‘I’ll go out with my cows tomorrow, with the help of God, and if I hear the music, I’ll start accompanying them. So out he went the following day, the man with the big hump and his cows and he left them out at An tSí Ruaidh. It was a fine day and he sat down on a hillock and viewed all around him. He hadn’t been sitting long on the hillock when he heard the fine music once again. ‘Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday.’ And to top everthing off to perfection, the man with the big hump began to accompany them ‘Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday,’ he sang. ‘The Day of the Flannel Fair.’ ‘Well, well,’ said one of the fairies, ‘who can that be spoiling our beautiful singing?’ That was all there was about it. The singing stopped and the man with the big hump came home, the creature, but however big the hump he had when he went out was, the hump he had when he came back home was seven times bigger. That’s the way I heard the story now.