Magic and Myth Page 4

News of the harper’s arrival traveled quickly through the village. Sheila came running up to the O’Neill household. “The harper’s come,” she shouted, “and there’s to be a dance tonight in the field beyond the village.”

  “Which harper?” Grania asked. “Surely not Turlough O’Carolan?”

  Sheila nodded. “Yes, Carolan the Harper. Now will you come tonight?” she asked.

  “I would love to…” Grania paused. “But what about Brian?” Grania was afraid of the tantrums he might throw in front of the other townspeople.

  “Bring him with you,” Sheila said. “It’s probably the only time the harper will come through our village. You can’t miss it!”

  Grania nodded. “We’ll be there,” she said.

  Shortly after tea that day, Grania dressed Brian in clean clothes, and her husband and two older sons put on their finest outfits. Then the family headed off into the village. In the distance they could hear a low murmuring and, every now and again, the faint sound of a harp.

  When they reached the field, they found that everyone from the village and nearby houses and cottages had come to hear the legendary harper. Some of the shopkeepers had set up wooden tables, and there were baskets of fruit and freshly baked bread for sale. It was like a giant picnic. Grania had never been more delighted; she looked at her family and grinned.

  Grania took Brian by the hand and led him through the crowd to the far end of the field to where an ancient oak tree stood. The tree had once been struck by lightning and had burned away to a tall twisted stump that looked like a hand closed into a fist, with the first and little fingers pointing up toward the sky. Between these two pieces of wood there was a sort of natural seat, where the harper was sitting.

  There was quite a crowd around Turlough O’Carolan. He was a small, stout man, bald, with a pleasant round face that was fringed with tufts of white hair. He was dressed in clothes that had once been fine but were now well-worn. There were patches on the elbows and knees, and Grania saw that the sole of one of his shoes had come off, but he was cheerful and seemed to be laughing all the time. His poor clothes didn’t seem to bother him.

  His hands, Grania noticed, were lovely. They were long and slender, and his little finger was almost as long as his first. His nails were short, but spotlessly clean, and there were hard pads of skin on the tips of all his fingers from the strings of his harp.

  His harp was also very beautiful. He carried it in a soft leather bag, with a simple design running down one side and held closed by two strings. The body of the harp was made of plain black wood, inlaid with a Celtic design in gold, and there were tiny figures of men and animals carved down one side.

  When the harper lifted up his instrument, the crowd fell silent and drew in toward the small man. He looked up, his blind eyes seeming to look at each one in turn.

  “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to give me a little room here,” he said in a soft, rich voice.

  The crowd shuffled back. Carolan then took his harp, settled it between his legs, and gently touched the strings. The sound it made was almost silent, and yet it hung on the air like the whistle of a breeze. The crowd sighed—all except Brian.

  When Brian heard the first sounds from the harp, he stiffened, and his dark eyes opened wide in astonishment. He squeezed his mother’s hand so tightly that she let it go, and then he stood, swaying slightly in time to the music with both hands pressed to his cheeks.

  Turlough O’Carolan played his harp. He played jigs and reels, happy songs, sad songs, old songs, and some he had composed himself. He played quickly and then slowly, softly, then loudly. And all the time Brian O’Neill swayed in time to the music. When the harper played fast, the little boy would bounce around and jump up and down; when the harper played a slow, sad song, the boy cried.

  Some time later the harper took a break. Someone brought him a drink, and he put down his harp and sat back against the ancient tree to rest. The people drifted off into small crowds, laughing and talking together. No one noticed the small boy creeping toward the harp. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him, but Carolan was busy answering questions. Brian reached out and touched the strings with his long, delicate fingers…

  The first sounds were like a bugle call. Everyone in the field fell silent and turned toward the sound. Then a series of sharp, clear notes rang out, followed by a quick piece of difficult dance music. Some people began to clap, thinking it was the harper again, but Carolan was just as surprised as everyone else.

  Grania O’Neill turned when she heard the sounds and was frightened when she saw her son handling the harp. She was about to reach out and pull him away when the harper’s surprisingly strong fingers closed around her sleeve. She turned and looked into his blind eyes.

  “Leave the boy,” he whispered. “Let him play.”

  Grania looked from him to Brian and then back to the harper. “How do you know he’s a boy?” she asked in amazement, gazing into his unseeing eyes.

  Carolan smiled. “A boy plays differently than a girl; he has a different type of touch. When you cannot see, your other senses work even harder. Even though people were talking to me, I heard someone approach my harp. I guessed then that it was a boy, and when I heard him play, I knew.” Carolan smiled again. “I heard you take a deep breath when you saw who was playing, and then I heard you hurrying toward him.” He shrugged. “It’s really quite easy.”

  Grania shivered. “It’s almost like magic.”

  Carolan shook his head. “No, that’s magic,” he said, nodding toward the small boy playing the harp. “Has he been playing long?” he asked.

  Grania shook her head. “No, no, this is the first time he has ever touched a harp.”

  Turlough O’Carolan started. He squeezed Grania’s arm tightly. “The first time? He’s never touched a harp before?”

  “Never,” Grania said.

  The harper looked troubled. “Is there…is everything right with the child? Does he look like the rest of your family?” he asked at last.

  “No,” Grania whispered, and then she told Carolan about her son. When she was finished, the harper remained silent for a while. But then he smiled sadly and said, “Well, we will have to see what we can do now, won’t we?”

  “What do you mean?” Grania asked.

  “Don’t you worry about it,” Carolan said. “Let’s just listen to the boy play for a while.”

  While Grania and Carolan had been talking, Brian had continued playing the harp. His fingers danced across the strings, touching, stroking, brushing, pulling, plucking each one perfectly, as if he had been playing the harp all his life. He played tune after tune, some fast, some slow, some that people knew, and others that were wild and strange.

  And when he played these tunes, everyone felt their feet begin to tingle and tap, as if they had to dance. When Brian saw this, he began to play more and more of this wild, breezy music, and soon everyone was whirling about the field, dancing, dancing, dancing—even if they didn’t want to!

  Brian laughed then. “Dance, dance, dance,” he called. He played fast and everyone flew about the field in a dizzy circle. Then he played slow music, and everyone was forced to shuffle. But nobody could stop. Grania and Carolan watched in horror.

  Then Carolan stretched out his hand and said something in the old Irish language. Immediately the music stopped—and so did the dancers, frozen into position. Brian touched the strings again and again, but no sound came from them. He looked over at the old harper. “What have you done?” he demanded.

  Carolan smiled. “My harp obeys me—and only me.”

  Brian plucked the strings again, but they hung slack like pieces of wool. He stomped his foot. “Make it play!” he shouted.

  Then the harper held out both hands and said something in the old language again. The harp seemed to tremble in Brian’s hands, and then it began t
o shake. Suddenly it flew from his grip like a bird and landed safely in the harper’s hands. Carolan stroked the strings, whispering gently to it, like a pet.

  “Give it to me,” Brian shouted, his hands balled into fists. He stood up and ran toward the old man. But Carolan just smiled and touched the strings, sending out a thin, shivery sound that stopped the boy in his tracks. Then, tilting his head from side to side, Brian turned and listened.

  Carolan played again. His music now was sad and strange, almost lost. The dancers—who were still frozen, though they were able to see and hear the music—felt the hairs on the backs of their necks begin to itch. They felt a cold wind that smelled faintly of roses and mint touch their skin. They were all frightened because they knew there was magic in the air.

  The harper’s music grew wilder. Clouds began to scuttle across the sky, hiding the moon and the stars. It seemed to grow very dark, very quickly.

  Suddenly there was the sound of many hooves, as if a troop of horses were approaching. The music quickened.

  A shape moved through the frozen people—it looked like a tall, thin man on horseback. It moved between the harper and Brian, and then, suddenly, in a clatter of hooves, it was gone. And so was the boy.

  But in Brian’s place was a young human girl—nearly six years old, with a head of bright red hair…

  Afterward people said that the harper’s music was so beautiful that the fairy-folk had been forced to come to its call. But some said that Carolan had been taught to play by Sidhe, and that they brought the girl back because he had asked them.

  Grania and her husband called the young girl Nora. She was the baby that had been changed shortly after she had been born. She grew up to be a wise woman, a mna allthacha, and she could do all sorts of cures. But she never liked the sound of a harp; she said it gave her a headache.

  The Leprechaun’s Trick

  It is not wise to make an enemy of one of the Little Folk—they can be cruel and spiteful when they are annoyed. However, a leprechaun can be a very good friend to have. They are usually kind and considerate, and are always full of good advice.

  Nano Hayes was a wise woman, a mna allthacha. She knew all the herbs that could cure any ailment, and she was even able to see into the future. If she made a cure from her huge stock of herbs, she only charged a few pence, and if the people didn’t have the money with them, she would tell them to drop it off whenever they were passing her cottage. Sometimes they forgot, and she was too kindhearted to ask for it directly. And then there were other people who just didn’t bother paying at any time.

  But she always managed to get payment in the end, one way or another…

  * * *

  —

  “That’s all I have left,” the old woman said. She sat down on the hard, wooden chair, rested her elbows on the scratched wooden table, and looked at the small jar that sat on the table in front of her.

  The small, dark man sitting near the fireplace put down the shoe he was mending and stuck his needle in the collar of his coat. He was called Seamus Ban, and he was a leprechaun, a fairy-shoemaker. “What’s all you have left?” he asked.

  Nano Hayes picked up the small jar and shook it. Something rustled dryly inside. “This is my last jar of healing herbs,” she said.

  “Where did the rest go to?” Seamus asked, his lined face crinkling into a frown.

  “I’ve used them all,” Nano Hayes said. She was a small, frail woman, with a round, wrinkled face and thick gray hair that matched the color of her eyes. “I used a lot last month when nearly everyone in the village caught that bad cold, and then there was that rash that the boys in the school got when they fell into those nettles…”

  Seamus got up from his chair by the fire and sat down opposite her. “Why haven’t you bought more?”

  “No one has paid me for them yet. I can’t buy anymore because I’ve no money.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I usually pick my own herbs fresh from the mountain- and riversides; I only buy those you cannot find around here.”

  Seamus looked thoughtful. “Why can’t you go out and pick them yourself?”

  Nano Hayes shrugged again. “Because I need so many—and because winter will soon be here and a lot of my herbs will be dead by then. I really must have them picked by the day after tomorrow at the latest, but there’s no way I can do it all myself. It’s impossible.”

  “Will the villagers not help you?” Seamus asked.

  The old woman shook her head. “I don’t want to ask them.”

  “But they ask you when they need help.”

  “I’m not going to ask them to spend all day picking herbs, grasses, leaves, and berries just for me,” she protested.

  “Well…pay them, then,” the small man said, smiling hugely and cleverly.

  “With what?” Nano Hayes demanded. “I’ve no money to buy herbs, so how can I offer to pay them?”

  Seamus Ban smiled again, his wide grin almost splitting his face in two. He slipped off the chair and went back over to the fire, where he rummaged about in his brown cloth bag, which he carried everywhere.

  “What are you looking for?” the old wise woman asked. His excitement was beginning to catch on, but she still watched him anxiously.

  “For this!” The leprechaun stood up with a heavy-looking brown bundle in his hand. He shook it and it gave a muffled clink.

  Nano Hayes suddenly looked doubtful. “If that’s what I think it is…” she began.

  Seamus climbed back up into the chair and placed the heavy bundle down on the wooden table. “And what do you think it is?” he asked.

  “Leprechaun gold,” she said.

  Seamus Ban laughed in his jolly voice. “So that’s why they call you a wise woman,” he said, opening the knot that held the bundle together and pulling the cloth apart. A rich, warm butter-yellow glow lit up the dark room as a hundred large golden coins spilled onto the cloth.

  Nano Hayes’s mouth opened into a big O of surprise. She had never seen so much money before in all her years. She touched it carefully with a finger, not sure whether it was real. But it chinked together like real money.

  “You can have it,” Seamus Ban said.

  The old woman looked shocked. “I will not!”

  But the leprechaun nodded insistently. “Yes, you will. You’ve been good to the Little Folk, Nano, and you’ve never accepted anything for your help. Well, now we can help you—and you cannot refuse our help.”

  “But it’s such a lot of money,” the old woman said.

  “But it’s fairy-gold,” Seamus Ban said, and winked.

  And then the old woman understood. She smiled broadly. Then she picked up the four ends of the cloth, tied the money up in a neat bundle, and slipped it into her apron pocket.

  * * *

  —

  That same afternoon, Nano Hayes walked into the village and told everyone she met that they could make some money if they came to her house the next day. Soon the whole village knew, and everyone was very curious to know how they were going to earn this money. But Nano Hayes would say nothing, only telling them to be outside her door at dawn.

  The next morning there was a huge crowd outside Nano Hayes’s cottage. The sky to the east was bright with the coming dawn, although overhead the stars still sparkled. Nearly everyone from the village was there, and the morning air was filled with a low buzz as they talked quietly among themselves, wondering why the old wise woman had brought them out so early.

  A cock crowed on the cottage’s thatched roof and the door opened. Nano Hayes walked out into the cold morning air. She was carrying a heavy-looking bundle that chinked and clinked as she walked.

  “I would like to thank you all for coming here,” she said. “I am pleased to see I have so many friends in the village.” She paused and looked at the faces. Most of them were looking at the bun
dle she held in her hand, wondering what it held.

  “In the past few months,” she continued, “I have used up all my healing herbs, and now, with winter fast approaching, I find I am very short. So I have asked you here today to help me pick the herbs, leaves, bark, berries, roots, and weeds that I will need to make my cures.”

  The crowd looked puzzled, and some murmured angrily. This was not what they had expected.

  “Of course,” Nano Hayes continued, “I don’t expect you to do this for nothing. Everyone who helps me will receive one gold piece.” She dipped her hand into the bundle and pulled out one shining gold coin.

  The crowd murmured like a swarm of bees.

  “Are there any questions?” she asked, putting the coin back into the bundle, where everyone heard it clink against the others.

  “Yes,” someone in the crowd said. “Where did you get all that money?”

  Nano Hayes smiled widely. “From a friend.”

  * * *

  —

  So for the rest of the day, the people of the village wandered up the hills and through the little valleys, collecting the herbs and roots for Nano Hayes. They looked for the bark of certain trees and the berries from different bushes, they picked dandelions and mushrooms, and some even wandered down onto the beach to gather huge bundles of seaweed.

  Soon, an enormous pile of bits and pieces began to gather outside the wise woman’s door, where she sat on a low, three-legged stool sorting everything out. By early afternoon, she had everything she needed for another year, but still it continued coming. By evening, when the sun was beginning to sink into the west, she had enough to last her for the next two years.

  As the villagers began to trickle in, Nano Hayes gave each of them a single gold coin. “This is fairy-gold,” she said to each and every one of them. “Do you owe anyone any money?”

  Now a few people thought about it, and then they smiled shyly and handed the money back to the old woman, saying, “That’s for the medicine you made me a while ago.” To these people, Nano Hayes would shake her head and press the coin back into their hand, telling them that they had worked hard enough for their money.