Close to the Niarbyl, the great tail of rock that stretches into the
sea at Dalby, is a little house on the strand. It is sheltered behind
by the high rock which rises above its thatched roof. Before it lies
Bay Mooar, the great bay, held by a chain of mountains purple with
ling. Standing before its door and looking to the west, you may see
the sun set behind the distant Mourne Mountains. At dawn you may see
him rise over Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. Here
lived Juan, the fisherman.
He knew, as well as any person, that the Little People were all
around. When he was a boy he had many a time looked out of the door
on moonlight nights to try if he could put sight on them dancing on
the lonely shore. He had not seen them--they make themselves invisible
when they know that mortal eyes are on them. But he had seen the tiny
riding lights of their herring fleet in the bay, and had helped his
father to draw in the nets full of good fish, which were sure to be
caught the night after. Many a time he had wakened from his sleep in
the dark, and, in the pauses of the wind and the lull of the great
breakers, he had heard the sound of hammering. He knew it was the
Little People hammering at their herring barrels in Ooig-ny-Seyir,
the Coopers' Cave, under the hills, and that as the chips flew out
on to the waves they became ships.
He had heard the story of the fisherman, a friend of his father's,
who was fishing one night at Lag-ny-Keilley, when a dense grey mist
rolled in. He thought he had best make for home while the footpath
above the rocks was visible. When he was getting his things together
he heard what sounded like a lot of children coming out of school. He
lifted his head, and, behold, there was a fleet of fairy boats each
side of the rock, their riding lights shining like little stars on
a frosty night. The crews seemed busy preparing to come on shore,
and he heard one little fellow shout:
'Hraaghyn boght as earish broigh, skeddan dy liooar ec yn mooinjer
seihll shoh, cha nel veg ain!'
Poor times and dirty weather, herring enough at the people of this
world, nothing at us!
'Then,' said the fisherman, 'they dropped off and went agate o'
the flitters.'
When Juan was a big boy he himself saw a thing which he never
forgot. One day he left a boat over at the farther side of Bay Mooar,
and at night he had to go over to fetch it. It was a moonlight night
and the bay was as smooth as glass as he rowed across. There was no
sound but the lapping of the little waves on the shore, and now and
again the cry of a gannet. Juan found his boat on the strand where he
had left her and was setting to work to launch her, when he thought he
saw a glimmering light, which was not the light of the moon, in one of
the caves near him. He stood where he was, and listened, and he heard
the sound of faint music. Then he went as silently as he was able to
the cave, and looked in. No light was there but the dim light of the
moon. The shadows in the corners of the cave were as black as pitch.
Juan was trembling all over, and at first he was blinking his eyes
and could see nothing. But after some minutes he saw a great stone
in the midst of the cave and the floor of fine white sand. And on
the sand around that stone there were little footprints--marks of
tiny clogs they were, no bigger than his thumb!