blacksmith, “and by this time Phil would be about fourteen years old.
You will never be him.”
“Nevertheless I am,” said the boy. “It was the giant Mahon McMahon that
stole me away seven years ago when I was playing near the cliffs, and I
have been living with him and serving him ever since, and in the halls
of the giant we who serve him never grow old, but stay as we were when
he first brought us there.”
Now all the while the blacksmith knew he was asleep, and he thought this
dream of his was the strangest dream he had ever heard of.
“Now I will tell you why I have come here,” the boy went on; and he told
Kelly how the very next night the seven years of his service were up.
“Every seven years,” said he, “the giant’s door stands open from the
stroke of midnight till cock’s crow the next morning. There is only one
way to get to his door, and that is by way of the sea.”
The lad then begged and implored the blacksmith to get a boat and row
out to the cliff the next night, and to wait there until midnight, when
the house opened. The blacksmith was then to seek through it until he
found the lad and then he was to bring him away with him.
“And to-morrow, when my first seven years of service is up, is the only
time you can do it,” said he. “If you will not, then I can never escape,
but must stay there in service to the giant for always.”
Then Kelly, who still knew he was asleep, said, “But after all, this is
all in a dream, and when I waken I’ll think there’s no meaning to it.”
“Then I’ll give you a token to prove to you that this is no common
dreaming,” said Philip.
With that he turned his horse about, and the horse lashed out at the
blacksmith with his hind leg, and the hoof struck him on the forehead
with such force that it seemed as though his head would be crushed in.
The blacksmith cried out with the blow and woke to find the blood
streaming down his face, and when he had wiped it away and was able to
examine his forehead, there was the mark of a horseshoe on it.
Robert said nothing to any one about his dream, not even when they saw
the mark on his forehead and wondered about it, so they thought that in
some way when he was shoeing a horse it must have managed to kick him.
But that night he went secretly to a friend of his who had a boat and
asked him whether he would row him out in front of the cliffs just
before midnight.
The friend was loth to do it, for he had small liking for going out at
night on the sea and to a place that was but ill thought of; for there
were all these tales about sounds that had been heard from inside the
cliff and that they might be made by Mahon McMahon.
However, in the end Robert persuaded him, and a little before midnight
they set out. There was enough moonlight for them to see the way to go,
and as they rowed toward the cliffs, Robert told his friend, for the
first time, why he was coming there and what he hoped to do.
“And whether it was a dream or no I can’t tell you,” said he, “for I was
sleeping, and yet here, all the same, is the mark of the horse’s hoof on
my forehead.”
Well, the friend thought it a strange tale. “And it’s hard to believe
there’s any truth in it,” said he; “but here we are in front of the
cliffs, and this night will prove the worth of your dreaming.”
He held the boat there in front of the rocks with his oars, and the
minutes slipped by, and neither of the men spoke, and everything was
silent. Then from far away, and faintly, they heard the village clock
strike twelve.
Again they waited, and then suddenly and without a sound the front of
the cliff opened, and they saw a portico down almost on a level with the
water, and a great door opening out upon it. Inside the door were steps
cut in the rock and leading up and out of sight. A light shone out
through the door and across the water, but it was not very bright.
“Here is where I chance it,” said the blacksmith. “Row me up close so
that I may step out on the portico, for according to my dream, it’s in
there I must go if I am to find little Philip Renardy.”
The whole matter was so strange that his friend tried to dissuade him
from going, but the blacksmith would not listen to him.
“I’ve a sign from him on my forehead,” he said, “and go I must and will.
Do you wait here for me till cock’s crow, and if I haven’t come by then,
there’s no use in your waiting longer.”
His friend rowed him up close to the edge of the portico, and the
blacksmith climbed out on it, and watchfully he crept over to the door
and peered in. Everything was still, and he saw nothing but the steps
leading upward, and they were so high, each one of them, that it was as
much as he could do to climb them.
He carried a plowshare that he had brought with him from his smithy, for
somehow he thought a plowshare might be a good weapon if he needed one.
And anyhow, it gave him some sort of a feeling of courage to have hold
of it.
He climbed the steps, one after another, and that took him some time,
and then he came into a great hall, and in the center of it was a table
hewn out of rock.
Around this table sat seven giants. They sat there bending forward as
though they were consulting with each other, but none of them moved or
spoke, or even so much as winked an eyelid. They might have been carven
figures, for all the signs of life they gave.
At the head of the table sat a giant with a long beard, and he had been
sitting there so long that his beard had grown into the slab of rock
that was the top of the table.
Robert Kelly stood there looking at them for a while, and then, as none
of them took any notice of him, he called in a loud voice, “Is any one
among you named Mahon McMahon?”
At that the giant at the head of the table started up so suddenly that
the pulling out of his beard split the rock of the table into pieces,
but none of the others stirred nor looked at him.
“I am Mahon McMahon,” cried the giant. “And what do you come seeking me
for?”
“I have come here in search of little Phil Renardy,” cried the
blacksmith boldly, “and I have been told that you are the one who can
tell me where to find him.”
The giant looked at him in silence for a bit, and then he said, “Yes, I
can tell you where to find him, and better than that, I can even show
you where he is.”
He then led the way into a great stone chamber on beyond the hall, and
it was glowing with fires, and there in it were a great number of young
lads. It seemed to the blacksmith that there were hundreds of them, and
they were all busy at some kind or other of metal work.
When Mahon McMahon came in, they stopped their work and stood back
against the wall, and the blacksmith saw that not one among them looked
to be more than seven years old, and they were all so much alike that
they might have been brothers.
“If you are a friend of Phil Renardy, no doubt you can choose him from
all others,” said the giant. “And now look about you, and if you can
tell me at the first telling which is he, then you may take him away
with you, and no harm to any one. But if you cannot tell me, then it
was an ill hour for you when you entered my house, for you’ll never go
out again.”
This frightened the blacksmith, but still he kept his wits about him and
looked carefully from one lad to the other, but for the life of him he
could not tell of a surety which was Phil Renardy, for he had no clear
remembrance of him.
In order to gain time he said to the giant, “And are all these fine lads
servants of yours?”
“They are,” replied Mahon McMahon, “and it has taken me a long time to
gather them together.”
“You must be a good master,” went on Robert Kelly, “for they all look
rosy and in good condition, and I’m sure you treat them well, and they
must be fond of you.” He thought by talking in this way he might flatter
the giant and put him in a good humor.
“That is a true word you have spoken,” said the giant, “and I’m sure you
must be an honest man, so let us shake hands upon it.”
He held out his hand to the blacksmith, but when Bob Kelly looked at
it, it was so thick and broad and cruel looking that he was afraid to
trust his own hand to it. “For if he were to take the fancy,” thought
Bob, “he could crush it as easily as I could crush a rotten potato.” So,
instead of putting his hand into the giant’s, he put the plowshare in
it, and the giant shut his fingers tight on it, so that it crumpled up
as though the iron had no more strength in it than a piece of paper.
“Praises be it was not my hand he was squeezing,” thought Robert Kelly.
“You have a strong hand,” said the giant, “but you need a stronger than
that if you’re to shake hands with Mahon McMahon.”
Then all the little lads burst into laughter, but through their laughter
he thought he heard some one sighing, “Robert Kelly! Robert Kelly! I am
here behind you.”
He turned about quickly, and there behind him was one lad among them who
was not laughing. And like a flash the blacksmith seized hold of him and
cried out, “This is Phil Renardy, and the one I would take with me.”
“Bad cess to you!” cried the giant, “but you’ve chosen rightly.”
Then all grew dark, but Robert Kelly kept tight hold of the boy he had
chosen, and he could hear many voices about him, crying, “Happy Philip
Renardy! Happy Philip Renardy!”
The next he knew the sun was shining, and he was lying on the grass at
the top of the cliff, and the little lad was watching beside him.
“And are you of a truth the little Philip Renardy that’s been lost for
so long?” asked Kelly.
“I am that one,” replied the lad, “and it is you that have saved me; and
now let us be up and off, for my heart is aching within me for a sight
of my mother.”
So the blacksmith rose up, and took the little lad’s hand and led him to
the big house of the Renardys, and the lad seemed to know the way better
than he did. And no sooner did Mrs. Renardy see him than she knew the
lad as her son and was like to have gone distracted with the joy of it.
That was a comfort to Bob Kelly, too, for all the time he had kept
wondering whether by chance he might not have brought back the wrong boy
with him.
When he at last left them and went back to his smithy, he found quite a
crowd gathered there, talking about him, for when he hadn’t come back to
the boat his friend had made sure the cliff had closed on him, and that
mortal eye would never again behold him.
But when the people who had gathered heard his tale, there was great
rejoicing, and all the bells of the village were rung, and a great crowd
hurried away to the Renardy’s house, to get a glimpse of the boy who had
been stolen by the giant.
Soon after his return, the boy began to grow again, but he never became
very big, and there was always something a bit strange about him, though
after a while he married and had children of his own who were fine stout
fellows, and all of them were wonderful workers in metals.
As for Robert Kelly, his adventures were the making of him, for people
came from everywhere to have him do their work for them, so as to have
a chance to hear him tell his story. Moreover, Philip taught him some of
the secrets of working with metal that he had learned in the giant’s
house, so that he became quite famous.
But the giant was never heard of again, and no more sounds came from
within the cliff house, so it was supposed that he had left that part of
the country and chosen some other place as his dwelling.
THE STORY OF CONN-EDA
AN IRISH TALE
King Conn of Ireland had one noble son named Conn-eda, and he was as
dear to his father as the apple of his eye,--none dearer.
His mother had died while he was still a child, and after a while the
King, his father, married again. He married the young daughter of his
chief priest, but he did not marry her because he loved her, and that is
the truth. He married her because his councilors told him that it was a
wise thing for him to do, for this chief priest was very powerful.
The new Queen was a cruel woman, and her hatred of Conn-eda was bitter
and deep. She hated him because he was so handsome and free-hearted, and
she hated him because he was so dear to his father, but most of all she
hated him because every one looked to him as the one who would sometime
be their king, and there was no knowing how soon that would be, for
already his father was old and feeble.
After a while the young Queen had a child of her own, and then she hated
Conn-eda worse than ever and was always plotting how she could get rid
of him, for she wanted the kingdom to come to her own son.
Now there was a woman who lived down back of the castle in a poor
tumble-down hut, and it was said that she knew more than a little about
magic, and every one was afraid of her. She was the hen-wife, and had
charge of all the chickens that belonged to the castle. She was a
handsome woman and a strange one, and no one could tell whether she were
young or old, and she might have been either.
One day the Queen went by herself down to the hut to visit the hen-wife,
for she wished to ask her advice. She was not ashamed to go, either,
because of the woman being an enchantress.
“Queen Durfulla,” said the hen-wife, “I know why you have come to me,
and what you are after wanting.”
That surprised the Queen, and she said, “What is it I am wanting, then?”
“You are wanting to rid yourself of young Conn-eda, and it is for my
advice you have come hither. But I am not one to give something for
nothing. What reward will I have if I give you my advice?”
“What reward will you be wanting?” asked the Queen.
“It’s none so much and none so little. Give me enough wool to fill the
hole between my arm and body when I set my hand on my hip with my elbow
out, and give me enough red wheat to fill the hole I shall bore with my
distaff, and my advice is yours for the asking.”
Well, the Queen could not help smiling at that, for it seemed but a
small reward for any one to ask, and she gladly agreed to give it.
“Then have the wool and the wheat brought here to-morrow,” said the
hen-wife. “Twenty cartloads of wool, and twenty cartloads of wheat will
be none too much to fill the hollow between my arm and body and the hole
I’ll make.”
The Queen thought that was a strange thing to say, and that the hen-wife
must be dreaming, but all the same she was back at the hen-wife’s door
the next day, and close after her came twenty cartloads of wool and
twenty cartloads of wheat, with the horses pulling and the carters
cracking their whips.
The hen-wife stood in the doorway with her hand on her hip and her elbow
out, and the men took an armful of wool and put it in the hollow of her
arm, but it fell through the hollow and inside the house. They stuffed
another armful in between her arm and body, and the same thing happened
to it. Not until the house was so full of wool that it could hold no
more were they able to fill the hollow of the hen-wife’s arm as she
stood in the doorway.
“And now for the wheat,” said the hen-wife.
Then she led them to her brother’s house which was close by, and climbed
up on the roof. The roof was of peat, and she bored a hole down through
the peat with her distaff, so that as fast as they poured the wheat into
the hole, it ran down into the house, and not until the house was so
full that it could hold no more could they fill the hole, too.
“Now I am satisfied,” said the hen-wife, but that was more than the
Queen could say, for she was a mean woman. However, if the hen-wife
could tell her how to rid herself of Prince Conn-eda, it was more to her
than all the wheat and wool that ever were grown.
“Now listen well to what I tell you,” said the hen-wife. “You have paid
me faithfully and fully, and I am ready to keep my part of the bargain,
too. Far and far enough from here, there lies a great dark lake, and the
name of it is Lough Erne. Under its waters lives the King of the Fiborg
race, a race that lives in the water most happily. There, in the King’s
garden, grow three golden apples. In his stable stands a grand black
steed. In his castle lies the puppy-hound Samur, and great are the magic
powers of that hound. You must send Conn-eda to get these things for
you, and to fetch them back within a year and a day and it’s not a
living being who can seek those things and not lose his life in the
seeking, unless he has magic to help him.”
“But how can I send Conn-eda?” asked the Queen, “for he is not a child
that he must do my bidding.”
“That also I will tell you,” replied the hen-wife.
She then brought out a chessboard and chessmen and gave them to the
Queen. “Do you take these home with you,” she said, “and call Conn-eda
to come and play a game of chess with you. I have set a charm on the
men, and I have set a charm on the board, so that you will be sure to
win; but before you play you must make a bargain with the Prince that
whichever loses shall pay a forfeit to the winner, and the forfeit you
shall ask of him is that he fetch to you the three things I have told
you of. But be sure that you play only the one game, for after that is
played the charm will lose its power.”
The Queen was pleased with the advice the hen-wife gave her, and she
took the chessboard and the chessmen and promised to do in all things as
she had been told. Then she hastened back to the castle.
No sooner was she there than she sent for Conn-eda to come and have a
game of chess, and he came at her command and sat down at the board with
her.
“It is not for nothing we will play together this day,” said the Queen,
“but whichever loses shall pay a forfeit to the other, and the forfeit
shall be whatever the winner chooses to demand.”
To this Conn-eda agreed. He had it in his head that the Queen was
planning some trick against him, but he did not fear her, for he made
sure he could beat her at the game.
So they sat down to play, and Conn-eda was a good player, and the Queen
was a poor one, but it seemed as though there were a mist before the
Prince’s eyes, and when he thought he had made one play he found he had
made another, and presently he saw he had lost the game, and the Queen
was the winner.
Then she laughed aloud and pushed the board from her. “The game is mine,
Conn-eda,” she cried, “and it is for you to pay the forfeit. Whatever I
ask for, that shall you pay, no matter what be the cost.”
When the Prince heard that, his heart was troubled within him, and he
said to her, “What is that forfeit that you will demand of me?”
“This is the forfeit,” the Queen replied. “Within a year and a day you
shall bring to me three golden apples, and a grand black steed, and the
magic puppy-hound Samur and they all belong to the King of the Fiborg
people. He lives at the bottom of Lough Erne, but where that is I know
not, and you must find it for yourself.”
When the Prince Conn-eda heard that, he knew the Queen had indeed
tricked him, and the forfeit he was like to pay was that of his life.
But he dissembled and hid his fear, and said, “The forfeit I will pay,
if it be in mortal power to do so. And now we will play another game,
and again it shall be for a forfeit, with the loser to pay it.”
The Queen was so full of triumph that she forgot the warning of the
hen-wife and willingly agreed to play once more with Conn-eda.
But now the magic had gone out of the board, and this time the Prince
was the winner.
When the Queen found she had lost, her face grew pale, and her heart
sank down within her.
“You have won, Conn-eda,” said she. “And what is the forfeit I must pay
to you?”
“The forfeit is this,” said Conn-eda. “For the year and the day that I
am away, you must sit at the top of the highest tower of the castle and
eat nothing but as much red wheat as you can pick up with the point of
your bodkin.”
That was a hard fate for the Queen, but after all, it would be only for
a year and a day, and at the end of that time she would be free again
and rid of Prince Conn-eda forever, so the bargain was not so hard as it
seemed at first hearing. So the Queen went up and took her place in the
high tower, and the Prince mounted his horse and rode out into the world
in search of the golden apples, the grand black steed, and the magic
puppy-hound Samur.
But first Conn-eda went to a Wise Man he knew, who was a friend of his.
Many and many a favor the Prince had done for him, and now it was time
to ask one in return.
The Wise Man heard Conn-eda galloping up and came out of the house to
meet him, and the Prince lighted down from his horse and greeted him
respectfully.
“I am in great trouble,” Conn-eda began, “and I have come to you to see
if you can help me.”
“That I guessed at once from your face,” replied the Wise Man, “and you
had best begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story, for it’s
only after I’ve heard the whole of it that I’ll best know how to help
you.”
So the Prince began and told the Wise Man the whole matter from
beginning to end. He told of the Queen’s hatred toward him and of the
ways she had tried to injure him; he told of how she had bidden him to
play a game of chess with her, and of how he had feared her and yet made
no doubt of winning the game; and he told of how in some strange way he
had become the loser, and how the Queen had claimed a forfeit from him,
and what it was she had claimed.
“And we played still again, and that time it was for her to pay the
forfeit”; and he told what the forfeit was that he had demanded of her.
“And it was no more than her just dues,” said the Wise Man. “I make no
doubt but that the Queen has sought to make you lose your life in this
business, and it was a clever brain that thought out this trick. There
is some one back of it other than the Queen.”
He thought for a while, and then he spoke again. “There is but one
person who would have known of the golden apples, the grand black steed,
and the magic hound Samur, and that one is the Wise Woman who lives in
the hut down back of the palace. She calls herself a hen-wife, but of a
truth she is Carlleach of Lough Corib, and the sister of the Water King
himself. There are four of the water people, three brothers and one
sister. The first is King of the Fiborgs, and the second is under some
enchantment. The third lives in a house next to that of the hen-wife,
and the fourth is Carlleach herself. And now, my son, I will do what I
can to help you. Where Lough Corib is I know not, but out in my stable
is a little shaggy black horse. He is not much to look at, but he is
great in power. Take him and ride whithersoever he carries you, and
leave the rein loose on his neck that he may choose his own way. He will
take you to the crag where the Bird of Wisdom sits. Three days in every
three years the bird sits there, and it’s little that goes on in the
world that he does not know about. This is the time for him to be
sitting on the crag, and if he will but speak, he can tell you how to
set about finding the lake and the Water King’s treasures.”
The Wise Man then took out a very beautiful and very precious jewel from
a box that stood on a shelf behind the door and gave it to Conn-eda.
“If the Bird of Wisdom will not speak,” said he, “give him this jewel in
his claw, and then it may be that he will answer you.”
Conn-eda took the jewel and thanked the Wise Man kindly, and then he
went out to the stable and led forth the shaggy little black horse and
mounted himself on him, instead of his own fine steed, and indeed the
little horse was not much to look at. But no sooner was Conn-eda on his
back than he found what a worth-while horse he was, for away he went
lighter than a bird and swifter than the wind, and it was like no other
riding that Conn-eda had ever done.
A long way and a short way went the shaggy black horse, and all the
while Conn-eda let the rein lie loose, so that the horse was free to
choose his own way, and then they came within sight of a cliff, and on
the cliff sat a great gray bird. It sat so still it might have been a
part of the rocks for any motion that it had, and the eyes in its head
were as dull as cold, dead stones.
The horse halted before the cliff and bade the Prince speak to the bird.
“For it is the Bird of Wisdom of which the Wise Man spoke,” said he,
“and unless it can tell us what to do next we might as well turn back
the way we came for we’ll never win to the lake where the King of the
Fiborgs lives.”
Then Conn-eda lifted up his voice and called to the bird. Three times he
called to it, but the bird never stirred even a feather, but sat there
still as though it were carved from the rocks.
Then the shaggy steed said, “Give it the jewel, Conn-eda, and perchance
it will speak.”
The Prince took the jewel from his bosom where he carried it and held it
up so that it sparkled in the sunlight, and again he called to the bird;
and this time it turned its head and looked at him, and its eyes grew
bright as though a fire were lighted within it. Then it flew down and
caught the jewel in its claw and flew back with it to the cliff.