The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in
Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the
shore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the encroachments
which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The
fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of an old chapel
beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear green sea of a
sunny afternoon. However this may be, it is well-known that the
Cantillons were, like most other Irish families, strongly attached to
their ancient burial-place; and this attachment led to the custom, when
any of the family died, of carrying the corpse to the seaside, where the
coffin was left on the shore within reach of the tide. In the morning it
had disappeared, being, as was traditionally believed, conveyed away by
the ancestors of the deceased to their family tomb.
Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by
marriage. "Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh,"
as he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the name. Connor,
be it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal
virtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose, double
that quantity of raw whiskey between breakfast and night, which last
he did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the
barony of Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I
don't think I should say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to
satisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church under
the sea: so when he heard the news of the old fellow's death, away
with him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a
beautiful corpse he made.
Flory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day as ever was
stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There was
all kind of entertainment, and all sort of diversion at it, and no
less than three girls got husbands there--more luck to them.
Everything was as it should be; all that side of the country, from
Dingle to Tarbert, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and
bitterly; and, according to the family custom, the coffin was carried
to Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon the shore, with a prayer
for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor
Crowe was left alone. He then pulled out his whiskey bottle, his drop
of comfort, as he called it, which he required, being in grief; and
down he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock,
and partly concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance
of the ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful. He whistled an old air which
he had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of his
head; but the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand
recollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more pensive.
"If 'twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet country, I
was," said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, "one might well believe that the
prisoners, who were murdered long ago there in the vaults under the
castle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for
never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin
amongst them all. 'Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations
and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,"
continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his
companion and silent comforter, the whiskey bottle, "didn't I know all
the time well enough, 'twas the dismal sounding waves working through
the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam.
Oh, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower
on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you; when one has gloomy
thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the
smoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save
us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake at
midnight. Well, then, anyhow," said Connor, after a pause, "is it not
a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face?
St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm."
It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen
around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the
sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding
his frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to
repent his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the
black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually
converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful wail for the
dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth
strange and visionary forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary with watching. He caught
himself more than once in the act of nodding, when suddenly giving
his head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin. But the
narrow house of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea, when
he heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger,
above the heavy and monotonous roll of the sea. He listened, and
presently could distinguish a Keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes
of which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep
murmur mingled with and supported the strain!
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach, and
then fell into a low, plaintive wail. As it ended Connor beheld a
number of strange and, in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures
emerge from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to
launch into the water.
"This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth," said one of the
figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
"True," replied another, with a voice still more fearful, "our king
would never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour
the rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not his daughter,
Durfulla, been buried there by her mortal husband!"
"But the time will come," said a third, bending over the coffin,
"When mortal eye--our work shall spy,
And mortal ear--our dirge shall hear."
"Then," said a fourth, "our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for
ever!"
As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring
wave, and the company of sea people prepared to follow it; but at the
moment one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and
as motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat.
"The time is come," cried the unearthly being, "the time is come; a
human eye looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear has heard their
voices. Farewell to the Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer
doomed to bury the dust of the earth!"
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe,
who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral
song; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the
lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of
waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old
churchyard, and never since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon have
any of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for
conveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the
Atlantic.