Web
and Book design,
Copyright, Kellscraft Studio 1999-2021 (Return to Web Text-ures) |
(HOME)
|
The
Story-Teller at Fault t the time when the Tuatha De Dannan held the sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king, who was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the island, he had a favourite story-teller, who held a large estate from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, his story-teller was sure to send him to sleep. One morning
the story-teller arose early, and as his custom was, strolled out into
his garden
turning over in his mind incidents which he might weave into a story
for the king
at night. But this morning he found himself quite at fault; after
pacing his whole
demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of
anything new or
strange. He found no difficulty in "there was once a king who had three
sons"
or "one day the king of all Ireland," but further than that he could
not
get. At length he went in to breakfast, and found his wife much
perplexed at his
delay. "Why
don't you come to breakfast, my dear?" said she. "I
have no mind to eat anything," replied the story-teller; "long as I
have
been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down to
breakfast without
having a new story ready for the evening, but this morning my mind is
quite shut
up, and I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at
once. I'll
be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for his
story-teller." Just at
this moment the lady looked out of the window. "Do
you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she. "I
do," replied her husband. They drew
nigh, and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the ground with a
wooden leg
placed beside him. "Who
are you, my good man?" asked the story-teller. "Oh,
then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame, decrepit,
miserable creature,
sitting down here to rest awhile." "An'
what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?" "I
am waiting here to see if any one will play a game with me," replied
the beggar
man. "Play
with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?" "I
have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied the
old man. "You
may as well play with him," said the story-teller's wife; "and perhaps
you'll have something to tell the king in the evening." A smooth
stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their throws. It was
but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money. "Much
good may it do you, friend," said he. "What better hap could I look
for,
fool that I am!" "Will
you play again?" asked the old man. "Don't
be talking, man: you have all my money." "Haven't
you chariot and horses and hounds?" "Well,
what of them!" "I'll
stake all the money I have against thine." "Nonsense,
man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I'd run the risk of
seeing my lady
tramp home on foot?" "Maybe
you'd win," said the bocough. "Maybe
I wouldn't," said the story-teller. "Play
with him, husband," said his wife. "I don't mind walking, if you do,
love." "I
never refused you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do so
now." Down he
sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot. "Will
you play again?" asked the beggar. "Are
you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?" "I'll
stake all my winnings against your wife," said the old man. The
story-teller
turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him. "Accept
his offer," said she. "This is the third time, and who knows what luck
you may have? You'll surely win now." They played
again, and the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his
sorrow and
surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar. "Is
that the way you're leaving me?" said the story-teller. "Sure
I was won," said she. "You would not cheat the poor man, would you?" "Have
you any more to stake?" asked the old man. "You
know very well I have not," replied the story-teller. "I'll
stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old
man. Again
they played, and again the story-teller lost. "Well!
here I am, and what do you want with me?" "I'll
soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his pocket a
long cord
and a wand. "Now,"
said he to the story-teller, "what kind of animal would you rather be,
a deer,
a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it
later." To make
a long story short, the story-teller made his choice of a hare; the old
man threw
the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared,
frisking hare
was skipping and jumping on the green. But it
wasn't for long; who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on
him. The hare
fled, the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run
as he might,
he couldn't get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see
him twist
and double. In vain
did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the
hounds, until
at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand,
panting
and breathless, the story-teller stood before them again. "And
how did you like the sport?" said the beggar. "It
might be sport to others," replied the story-teller looking at his
wife, "for
my part I could well put up with the loss of it." "Would
it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know who you are
at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing
a poor old
man like me?" "Oh!"
replied the stranger, "I'm an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one
day poor,
another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits,
come with
me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went
alone." "I'm
not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a sigh. The stranger
put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a
well-looking
middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows: "By
all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of
this lady and
of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want
them." Scarcely
had he said these words when all vanished, and the story-teller found
himself at
the Foxes' Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O'Donnell. He could see
all but none
could see him. O'Donnell
was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were
upon him. "Go
out," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see who or what may be coming." The
doorkeeper
went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared
behind his
haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about
him, the tips
of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through
his scant
tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly. "Save
you, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman. "And
you likewise," said O'Donnell. "Whence come you, and what is your
craft?"
"I come from the outmost stream of earth,
From the glens where the white swans glide, A night in Islay, a night in Man, A night on the cold hillside." "It's
the great traveller you are," said O'Donnell. "Maybe
you've learnt something on the road." "I
am a juggler," said the lank grey beggarman, "and for five pieces of
silver
you shall see a trick of mine." "You
shall have them," said O'Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took
three small
straws and placed them in his hand. "The
middle one," said he, "I'll blow away; the other two I'll leave." "Thou
canst not do it," said one and all. But the
lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff,
away he blew
the middle one. "'Tis
a good trick," said O'Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of
silver. "For
half the money," said one of the chief's lads, "I'll do the same trick." "Take
him at his word, O'Donnell." The lad
put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw
and he blew;
and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw. "Thou
art sore, and thou wilt be sorer," said O'Donnell. "Six
more pieces, O'Donnell, and I'll do another trick for thee," said the
lank
grey beggarman. "Six
shalt thou have." "Seest
thou my two ears! One I'll move but not t'other." "'Tis
easy to see them, they're big enough, but thou canst never move one ear
and not
the two together." The lank
grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull. O'Donnell
laughed and paid him the six pieces. "Call
that a trick," said the fistless lad, "any one can do that," and
so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was
that he pulled
away ear and head. "Sore
thou art; and sorer thou'lt be," said O'Donnell. "Well,
O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman, "strange are the tricks I've
shown thee, but I'll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money." "Thou
hast my word for it," said O'Donnell. With that
the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out
the bag a
ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into
the clear
blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it
upon the
thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound, and it
swiftly ran up
after the hare. "Now,"
said the lank grey beggarman; "has any one a mind to run after the dog
and
on the course?" "I
will," said a lad of O'Donnell's. "Up
with you then," said the juggler; "but I warn you if you let my hare be
killed I'll cut off your head when you come down." The lad
ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for
a long time,
the lank grey beggarman said: "I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare,
and
that our friend has fallen asleep." Saying
this he began to wind the thread, and down came the lad fast asleep;
and down came
the red-eared hound and in his mouth the last morsel of the hare. He struck
the lad a stroke with the edge of his sword, and so cast his head off.
As for the
hound, if he used it no worse, he used it no better. "It's
little I'm pleased, and sore I'm angered," said O'Donnell, "that a
hound
and a lad should be killed at my court." "Five
pieces of silver twice over for each of them," said the juggler, "and
their heads shall be on them as before." "Thou
shalt get that," said O'Donnell. Five pieces,
and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the
hound his. And
though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never
touch a hare
again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open. Scarcely
had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their
sight, and
no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the
earth had swallowed
him up. He moved as wave tumbling
o'er wave
As whirlwind following whirlwind, As a furious wintry blast, So swiftly, sprucely, cheerily, Right proudly, And no stop made Until he came To the court of Leinster's King, He gave a cheery light leap O'er top of turret, Of court and city Of Leinster's King. Heavy
was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster's king. 'Twas the hour
he was wont
to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings
about the
story-teller could he get. "Go
to the door," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see if a soul is in sight
who may tell me something about my story-teller." The
doorkeeper
went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared
behind his
haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing
about him, the
tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out
through his
scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp. "What
canst thou do?" said the doorkeeper. "I
can play," said the lank grey beggarman. "Never
fear," added he to the story-teller, "thou shalt see all, and not a man
shall see thee." When the
king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in. "It
is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland," said
he, and
he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey
beggarman
listened. "Heardst
thou ever the like?" said the king. "Did
you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the
buzzing of beetles
in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?" "More
melodious to me," said the lank grey beggarman, "were the worst of
these
sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers." When the
harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but
instead of striking
him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was
cracking his neighbour's
skull and getting his own cracked in turn. When the
king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren't content with
murdering their
music, but must needs murder each other. "Hang
the fellow who began it all," said he; "and if I can't have a story,
let
me have peace." Up came
the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows
and hanged
him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they
see but the
lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale. "Never
welcome you in," cried the captain of the guard, "didn't we hang you
this
minute, and what brings you here?" "Is
it me myself, you mean?" "Who
else?" said the captain. "May
your hand turn into a pig's foot with you when you think of tying the
rope; why
should you speak of hanging me?" Back they
scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king's favourite brother. Back they
hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep. "Please
your Majesty," said the captain, "we hanged that strolling vagabond,
but
here he is back again as well as ever." "Hang
him again," said the king, and off he went to sleep once more. They did
as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king's
chief harper
hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been. The captain
of the guard was sorely puzzled. "Are
you wishful to hang me a third time?" said the lank grey beggarman. "Go
where you will," said the captain, "and as fast as you please if you'll
only go far enough. It's trouble enough you've given us already." "Now
you're reasonable," said the beggarman; "and since you've given up
trying
to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don't mind
telling
you that if you go back to the gallows you'll find your friends sitting
on the sward
none the worse for what has happened." As he
said these words he vanished; and the story-teller found himself on the
spot where
they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and
horses. "Now,"
said the lank grey beggarman, "I'll torment you no longer. There's your
carriage
and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with
them." "For
my carriage and my houses and my hounds," said the story-teller, "No,"
said the other. "I want neither, and as for your wife, don't think ill
of her
for what she did, she couldn't help it." "Not
help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my
own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old — " "I'm
not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a
good turn
you've done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me
the difficulty
you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your
wife there,
the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive
as man and
wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when
he calls
for one;" and with that he disappeared. It's true
enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told
all that had
befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn't go to
sleep at
all. And he told the story-teller never to trouble for fresh stories,
but every
night as long as he lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at
the tale of
the lank grey beggarman. |