"Come in, come in, and make yourself at home; for the flowers of spring
couldn't be more heartily welcome," said Micus Pat to his friend
Padna Dan, as he held the latch of his cottage door. And when Padna
crossed the threshold, Micus turned from his place by the hearth and
said: "Close the door, take off your topcoat, and pull the blinds,
while I will heap logs and faggots on the fire, for 'tis five feet
of snow there may be on the ground before morning, I'm thinking. And
who knows but the house itself may be covered up, and we may not be
able to move from where we are for days and days, or a week inself."
"True for you," said Padna. "We never know what good luck or bad luck
the morrow may have for any of us. Howsomever, 'tisn't grumbling we
should be about anything, but take things as they come. The storm rages
furiously without, and to-night, for all the wisest of us can tell,
may be the very last night of the world. The end must come some time,
and when the sun rises on the morrow, this earth of ours, with all
its beauty and all its mystery, and all its splendour, may be reduced
to particles of dust, that will find its way into the eyes of those
who dwell on other spheres. If the gale continues, the world will
be swirled from its course, and 'twill surely strike some weighty
satellite of the sun or moon with a mighty crash, and that will be
the end of all joy and sorrow. Then the king will be no more than
the beggar, and the beggar will be as much as the king."
"I will place the kettle on the hob," said Micus, "for 'tis true
courage we will want to put into our hearts with a good drop of
poteen this blessed night. And a drop of poteen is a wonderful thing
to drive away the melancholy thoughts that haunt and bother so many
of us. We can fill glass after glass of steaming punch, until the
jar in the cupboard is empty. For what is life to some but so many
glasses of poteen, the best whiskey or brandy, or wine all the ways
from France itself, and so many meals of food, a few good books to
read, and maybe a congenial friend or two."
"Life is a rugged and a lonely road, but flowers always grow on the
wayside," said Padna.
"And when you try to pluck a flower, 'tis a thorn you will find in
your hand, maybe," said Micus.
"That is so, indeed. But let us forget the pitfalls that await us at
every turn, and while the wind blows let us fill our pipes and fill
our glasses, and sing a merry song if we should feel like doing so,
for there is no use looking for the Devil to bid him good-morrow until
we will meet him. And the best thing to do when he appears in person,
or in disguise, is to pass him by the same as if he was no relation
of yours at all," said Padna.
And then Micus heaped dried faggots and logs on the glowing hearth, and
as they crackled and blazed, red sparks flew up the chimney, and the
shutters of the windows, and the latch of the door, and the loose tiles
on the ridge, and the loose slates on the gable, shook and rattled,
and trees were uprooted, and slates were blown from the roofs of
houses and so was the golden thatch, and havoc was wrought in the city,
the town, and the hamlet, on the mountain side, in the valley, and by
the seashore. And as Micus and Padna settled themselves comfortably
in two armchairs, the white dog and the black cat drew closer to
their feet, while a thrush in his large white cage made of twigs,
and a linnet in his small green cage made of wires and beechwood,
closed their eyes and buried their heads beneath their wings.
Flash after flash of lightning lit up the darkened countryside, and
each peal of thunder was louder than its predecessor, and at times
one thought that the whole artillery of hell with the Devil in command
had opened fire, and that the fury of the elements would send all to
perdition. But Padna and Micus looked on unperturbed at the crackling
faggots. And as the first glass of warm punch was raised on high,
Micus up and said: "Here's good luck to us all, the generous as well
as the covetous, for 'tis little any of us know why we are what we
are, or why we do the things we do, and don't want to do. And as we
can't always be decent, we might at least be charitable when we can."
"But alas! alas! we seldom think before we act, and usually act
without thinking, and that's why there are so many strange doings
and happenings," said Padna. "Be all that as it may, neglect not
your duty as my host to-night, and take charge of the decanter,
and keep my glass well filled with punch, and my pipe well filled
with tobacco, and I will tell you a story that may set your heart
beating against your ribs, and your knees knocking together, and
your hands may shake till the tumbler will fall from your fingers,
and your teeth may rattle until the pipe will fall from your mouth."
"Tell it to me, for I'm filled with curiosity to hear a strange
tale. And maybe 'tis a story about some beautiful woman, or the Aurora
Borealis, or some monster of the deep," said Micus.
"It isn't either one or the other, but the story of a horse,"
said Padna.
"A horse, is it?"
"Aye, the White Horse of Banba," said Padna.
"And how came you to hear it?" said Micus.
"It was an old man of dignified bearing, tall and stately he was,
with a long flowing beard, clear grey-blue eyes, nicely chiseled
features, keen wit, and a soft easy tongue, who told me the story."
"And where did you meet him?" said Micus.
"On the high road overlooking the Glen of the Leprechauns, on a
starlit night before the moon came up," said Padna.
"On with the story," said Micus.
"Well," said Padna, as he lit his pipe, "three weeks ago, come Tuesday,
I was strolling along the road for myself by the Bridge of the Seven
Witches, thinking of nothing but the future of the children, when I
heard strange footsteps behind me, and on looking over my shoulder,
I espied a man I had never seen before. And as our eyes met, he up
and ses: 'Good night, stranger,' ses he. 'Good night kindly,' ses I.
"''Tis a fine night,' ses he.
"'A glorious night, thank God,' ses I.
"'Indeed it is that,' ses he. 'And a night to be appreciated and
enjoyed by ghosts, fairies, goblins and hobgoblins, gnomes and elves,
owls and barroway-bats, and all the strange creatures of the earth,
that does be scared to venture out in the broad daylight, as well as
man himself.'
"'There's no doubt whatever about what you say,' ses I. 'And a fine
night for any one who likes to walk to the top of a mountain to
see the moon rising, the stars twinkling, or for those who like to
hear the soft wind blowing through the tall rushes in the bogs, and
making music, the like of which would inspire a poet to write verses
and have them printed in a book, for women to read and talk about,
and hold disputatious arguments on modern poetry,' ses I.
"And so we walked and talked until we came to the great Cliff of
Banba, that overlooks the ocean on the southwest coast. And as we
sat down to rest our weary limbs, he looked from the sky to a high
pinnacle of rock, and ses: 'A beautiful sight is the Cliff of Banba
when viewed from the ocean beyond, in a small boat, a sloop, or a
four-masted ship. But the most beautiful of all sights is to see the
White Horse of Banba himself.'
"'I never heard tell of him,' ses I.
"'Why, you must be a queer man, not to have heard tell of the White
Horse of Banba. Now,' ses he, as he crossed his legs, and put his
hand under his jaw, 'fill your pipe,' ses he, 'and smoke, and smoke,
and smoke until you will drive cold fear from your heart. For the
story I am going to tell you this blessed night may turn every hair
on your head as white as the drifting snow, and every tooth in your
head may chatter, and rattle and fall out on the ground.'
"'Oh,' ses I, ''twould take more than the mere telling of a story, no
matter how long or how short, or a hundred stories about the living or
the dead to scare or frighten or disturb me in any way, and I a married
man for more years than you could count on your own fingers and toes,
and herself as stubborn and as contrary as the first day she made up
her mind to marry me. So 'tis thinking I am that I will be neither
white, nor grey, nor sallow, nor toothless, nor bald maybe, after I
have heard the story of the White Horse of Banba; or the Black Horse
of Carrigmore, and he that took Shauneen the Cobbler away on his back
on a dark and windy night and drowned him in the Lough at Cork, because
he was cursed by the widow Maloney for spoiling the heel of her shoe.'
"'God forgive her for putting a curse on any poor man,' ses he.
"'Amen,' ses I.
"'Well,' ses he, 'if you think that you will be neither white,
nor grey, nor one way nor another but the way you are at this
present moment, I wouldn't be boasting, if I were you, until the
story is told. Because once it strikes your ears, you can never
keep it out of your mind, whether you be sailing over the seas in
a full-rigged clipper, or walking the lonely roads at home, or in
foreign parts. 'Twill be with you when you wake up in the morning,
and when you are going to bed at night, and even when you are asleep
and dreaming inself.'
"'If 'tis such a wonderful and astonishing story as all that, why
don't you write it down, and have it printed in a book?' ses I.
"'Some of the best stories were never written,' ses he. 'And some of
the wisest sayings are forgotten and the foolish ones remembered. But
once the story of the White Horse of Banba is told, 'twill keep
ringing in your ears till the dawn of your doom.'
"'Really?' ses I.
"'Yes,' ses he. ''Tis the White Horse of Banba who comes in the dark
of the night to carry us all from the Prison of Life to the Land of
the Mighty Dead. And 'twas he stole the woman of my heart from me.'
"'Well,' ses I, 'maybe 'tis better that he should have stolen her
than some worthless bla'guard who couldn't appreciate and treat her
decently. There are more married than keep good house,' ses I.
"'That's true, but 'tis no comfort for a man to see the woman he loves
the wife of another, unless she might have the devil of a temper,
and no taste for anything but gallivanting through the streets,'
ses he. 'And only for the White Horse of Banba, I might be the father
of a fine large family, who would be able to earn enough to keep me
idle in my old age. Then I wouldn't have to be worrying and fretting,
when I am walking behind a plough or a harrow, on a warm day, or
searching the boreens, the long winding lanes, or the dusty roads,
looking for a lost sheep or a wandering cow, and watering the green
grass that grows under my feet with the sweat that does be falling
from my brow. Not, indeed, that I couldn't have more wives than I'd
want. But 'tis too respectable a man I am to ever fall in love with
more than one woman. And that's something that very few can boast of,
whether they be single or married, inself.'
"'And who told you about the White Horse of Banba?' ses I.
"'I have seen him with my own two eyes,' ses he.
"'Where?' ses I.
"'In this very spot. And I have seen him in every nook and corner of
the land from the Giants' Causeway to the Old Head of Kinsale, and
as many times as you forgot to keep your promises too, and he with
the golden shoes and hoofs of ivory, and a long mane that reaches
down to the ground and a neck more beautiful than a swan, and eyes
that sparkle like glow-worms when night is as dark as pitch.'
"'And he will carry us all to the Land of the Mighty Dead?'
"'Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country
beyond the grave.'
"''Tis strange indeed,' ses I, 'that you should see the White Horse
of Banba so often.'
"'Some are more favoured than others,' ses he. 'But if you will wait
until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the sky
sparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches,
and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people
are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him
passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you'd see
a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.'
"'And is it all alone that he does be?' ses I.
"'No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows
at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you'd be scared out of
your wits.'
"'But some people have no wits,' ses I.
"'That's so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire,
loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with
an angel's face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow
itself. There's a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the
weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there's nothing
to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows
the White Horse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where
the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has
some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might
fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it
does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair
that you'd see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue
of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful
than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be
a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant
who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed
them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you'd see, or an
old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees
themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the
toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all,
except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of
the banshee. 'Tis along this very road that the White Horse comes
at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the
speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff
beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes
his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be
on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into
the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he
reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at
the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane,
stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest
star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of
the Land of No Returning.
"'Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green
trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter
and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on
his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum
Sanctorum where a record of our good and bad deeds is kept. And
when the record book is found and the stranger's fate discovered,
St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter,
but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by
an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.'
"'And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor
stranger?' ses I.
"'Nobody knows,' ses he. 'And the pity of it all is that very
few care. It was the White Horse of Banba who took my father away
and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father
before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will
take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways
and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges,
and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying
sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all,
and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my
heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.'
"'But isn't it a foolish thing for you to remain a bachelor, and the
world full of beautiful women waiting to be loved by some one?' ses I.
"'A man only loves once,' ses he, 'and when the woman of your heart
is dead who would want to be living at all?'
"'And now that the woman of your heart is dead, why don't you try
and forget her when you may never see her again?'
"'Of course I will see her again. Life is but the shadow of eternity,
and before to-morrow's sun will flood the East with dazzling light,
I will see the woman of my heart.'
"'Where will you see her?' ses I.
"'In a land farther away than the farthest star.'
"'And who will carry you there?' ses I.
"'The White Horse of Banba,' ses he.
"'But he may not pass this way to-night,' ses I.
"'As sure as you will make some mistake to-morrow he will pass this
way to-night,' ses he.
"'How do you know?' ses I.
"'We know lots of things that we have never been told,' ses he. 'And
you will be wiser to-morrow than you are to-day. The hands of the clock
are now together at the midnight hour, and I can hear the clattering
of hoofs in the distance.'
"'Maybe the White Horse of Banba is coming,' ses I.
"'He is,' ses he, 'and there is no one on his back this time, for he
is looking for me.'
"And as true as I'm telling you, a fiery steed rushed over the hill,
and the stranger jumped on his back, and ses, 'Good-by,' ses he,
'till we meet again in the Valley of the Dead on the Judgment Day.'
"And then the White Horse of Banba scampered along the rugged pathway
with the wailing banshee at his heels, until the top of the cliff
was reached, and before I could realize what had happened, he plunged
into the dark waters,' said Padna.
"'I hope it will be many a long day before either of us will be taken
to the world next door," said Micus.
"I hope so too," said Padna.
"I wonder is the decanter empty," said Micus.
"Not yet," said Padna.