Magic and Myth Read online

  “It holds enough for me,” the shoemaker said.

  “Let me see, then.”

  “Well…” Sean shrugged. “Oh, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” He knelt on the bottom step and opened the bag. The stranger knelt down beside him. He peeped into the bag.

  “It’s empty!” he said.

  “It is not,” the shoemaker insisted.

  Himself pointed. “Look for yourself; there’s nothing in it.”

  “There is,” Sean insisted. “See?”

  The stranger leaned over and peered closely into the bag—and Sean quickly pulled it up over his head. The bag grew…and grew…and grew…and Sean snapped it shut on Himself!

  Sean danced a little jig on the bottom step beside the wriggling bag, silently thanking that old leprechaun who’d given him the magical item. “I have you now, and you won’t get out until you call off our deal.”

  There was a muffled shout from inside the bag that sounded like “No.” So Sean heaved the bag—now much longer than before—up onto his shoulder and set off toward the nearby town. The priest there might be able to help him, he thought.

  But on his way into town he passed Farmer O’Neill’s barn. The farmer and his two sons were threshing corn with flails, which were like small whips.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. O’Neill,” he said, stopping by the door and resting his bag on the ground by his feet.

  The farmer and his two sons stopped and nodded to the shoemaker. “You’re up early this morning, Mr. Lane,” the old farmer said.

  “Oh, I think today will be a busy day for me—and for you too, I see,” he said, pointing to the corn.

  The farmer nodded. “Aye, we’ve a lot to do.” He stopped and pointed to the bag. “What have you got there, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “A bag full of leather,” the shoemaker said, another clever idea formulating in his mind as he spoke, “but it’s very hard. I’m taking it into town to get it softened.”

  “And how will you get it softened?” the farmer asked.

  “Oh, I’ll have it beaten for a while; that’ll soften it up.”

  “Beaten, is it? Well now, if you give it here, the two lads and myself will beat it for you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Sean said, handing the black bag to the farmer.

  “Should we take the leather out of the bag for you?” one of the farmer’s sons asked, reaching for the clasp.

  “No, no,” Sean said quickly. “If you take the leather out of the bag…the flails might mark and tear the surface.” It was the first thing that came into his mind. He hoped it sounded plausible.

  Mr. O’Neill nodded. “Of course. Well then, we’ll just beat the whole lot—bag and all. Stand back now,” he warned. Then the farmer and his two sons began to beat the bag with all their might. They pounded on it for one full hour, and when they were finished, the black bag was soft and limp. The old farmer handed it back to the shoemaker. “There you are. I hope that’s a little better.”

  “It is indeed,” Sean said with a big grin. “Thank you very much for all your trouble.” He heaved the bag over his shoulder and, waving goodbye to the O’Neills, he continued on down the road toward the town.

  A little farther on, Sean came to the Tully Brothers’ Foundry. The three Tully brothers were blacksmiths, and when the shoemaker arrived, they were busy making and shaping horseshoes. One was pumping the bellows to blow air into the fire, making the coals glow white-hot, and the other two were using their heavy hammers to twist thin bars of metal into half circles, which would then be shaped into shoes.

  They stopped when they saw Sean passing and wished him a good morning.

  “Good morning to you,” Sean said. “How are those new shoes I made you a while ago?” he asked Gerard, the oldest and largest of the three brothers.

  “They fit like a glove,” the huge man said. “Now, remember what I said to you then, if there’s anything I can do for you in return…”

  “Well,” Sean said, “there is something…”

  “You just name it,” Gerard said, rubbing his hands on his thick leather apron and leaning on his hammer.

  “I’m taking this bag of leather into town to be softened,” Sean said, holding up the black bag, “but I was wondering if you could beat on it for a while—just to help soften it up, you know.”

  “Will we not tear the bag?” Gerard wondered.

  “Not this bag,” Sean promised. “It’s stronger than it looks.”

  So the three Tully brothers took turns beating the bag with their hammers. Each one hammered it for an hour. At the end of three hours, they were surprised to find it was still in one piece.

  “That’s a fine bag you have there,” Gerard said to Sean, handing it back to him. “If you should ever think of selling it, come to me.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t sell this,” Sean said. “I’ve had it for years. It’s very special.” He thanked the three blacksmiths and then waved goodbye.

  It was now close to midmorning. Sean had one last stop to make before he had a few more words with Himself.

  Devaney’s Mill was on the hill above the town. Old Mr. Devaney had been the miller for nearly forty years. He made all the bread for the town and some for the nearby villages, and his mill was the largest and most famous in the county on account of its huge grinding stones.

  Sean made his way up the hill and went in through the always-open door into the back of the mill where the flour was ground. The old miller saw him and waved.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Lane. What brings you up here? Is it freshly baked, warm bread you’re looking for, eh?”

  Sean smiled. Devaney’s bread was his favorite. “I would love some of your bread, Mr. Devaney. But I’ve actually come to ask a favor of you.”

  The white-haired old man smiled broadly. “Ask away.”

  The shoemaker held up the black bag. “Would you put this bag of mine on your mill, and let it turn for a little while?”

  The old man’s jaw dropped. “That will destroy your bag,” he protested.

  Sean shook his head. “Oh, no, this is a stronger bag than it looks.”

  “If you say so…” Mr. Devaney said doubtfully. He took the black bag and put it on the wheel. Both Sean and Mr. Devaney watched as the huge millstone came around and crushed it flat against the second stone. It rumbled away and then came around again and again and again…

  An hour later, Mr. Devaney gave the bag back to Sean. “I’m surprised it’s not in shreds,” he said. “I thought you were crazy.”

  “I told you it was a special bag.” Sean thanked the old miller and set off for home, munching on a warm loaf of bread.

  When he returned to his own house, he went out to the barn and set the bag on the ground. He leaned close to it and said, “I’ll let you out if our deal is off. If not, there’s more where that came from. Do you promise?”

  There was a long pause, and then the Devil said faintly, “I promise.”

  Sean opened the bag and shook Himself out. The Devil looked very battered and bedraggled, and his fine black clothes were covered with white flour. He got to his feet and shook his fist at the shoemaker. “You’re a terrible man. I don’t think I would want you as a demon,” he snapped. Then he closed his eyes and disappeared in a crack of blue fire.

  The shoemaker leaned back and laughed for a long, long time. He had cheated the Devil Himself.

  * * *

  —

  Sean was nearly ninety years old before he died. And, of course, he went straight to Hell—for he had sold his soul to the Devil, even if Himself wouldn’t take it! The door to Hell was made from black marble with large silver bolts set into it and a huge silver knocker in the shape of a dragon’s head. Sean took hold of it and knocked loudly.

  Slowly, the door creaked open. “Yes?”
a voice boomed, echoing as if it came from a great distance.

  A figure stepped into the doorway. It was the tall, thin man with sharp eyes. He wasn’t dressed all in black this time, but Sean recognized him.

  “Ah, it’s yourself.” Sean smiled.

  The Devil started and then looked closely at the man standing on the doorstep. “You!” He stepped back and shook his head. “You’re not coming in here; I remember what you did to me the last time.”

  “Well, where will I go, then?” Sean asked.

  “You can try the Other Place,” the Devil said, and, stepping back, he slammed the door shut.

  Sean turned his back on Hell and set off along the road of black marble, returning the way he had come. Soon the color of the road changed to gray and then to white. Soon he saw the white marble gate of Heaven in the distance.

  It looked much like the gate of Hell, except that this was all white marble and with gold bolts and studs. It had a gold knocker made in the shape of a smiling angel. Sean took hold of the knocker and gently rapped on the door.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a tall, thin figure dressed all in white. Sean tried to see over his shoulders, but he couldn’t see any signs of wings. “Well?” the angel asked pleasantly.

  “Well,” Sean began, “I’ve just died. I thought I had to go to Hell, but Himself won’t take me in.”

  “Oh,” said the angel, looking very surprised. “What’s your name? I’ll have to check my books.”

  “Sean Lane, shoemaker,” he said.

  The angel disappeared. When he returned, he was holding a huge leather-bound book with gold clasps on the corners. He opened the book about halfway and ran his long thin finger down the heavy pages. “Lane…Lane…yes, yes, here we are.” He read a few lines and then looked down at the shoemaker. “Sold your soul to Himself, did you? Well, we cannot have you here…”

  “But he won’t have me down there,” Sean protested. “What am I going to do?”

  The angel considered for a moment, and then he read some more of the shoemaker’s life. Finally, he looked up and smiled. “We’ll have to send you back,” he said.

  “Back?”

  “Yes, back down to earth. We’ll give you a penance to do, and maybe in a few hundred years you’ll be able to come in here.”

  Sean nodded. “What do I have to do, then?”

  The angel tapped the page with his finger. “It says here you once mentioned how dangerous the marshes are at night. That there should be someone with a light to lead people across.”

  Sean suddenly remembered that day he had been given the black bag by the leprechaun. “I remember that.”

  The angel closed the book with a thump. “It looks like we have our answer.”

  It is said that Sean wanders this world still. You can see him sometimes as he roams across the marshes with his lantern. Country people call his spirit Jack o’ the Lantern.

  Facing the Giants

  Long ago, an ancient chief gathered together the finest warriors in all the land of Erin. And while they were all warriors, they each had a special talent; some were magicians, others were strong, some were clever, or great storytellers and bards, or swift runners.

  They kept Erin safe from thieves and pirates, and guarded the roads from bandits. They slew the dragons that lived in the lakes, and hunted down the wild boars that killed the farm animals. They also did battle with the Fir Mhor that lived in the secret places of the land, better known today as the giants…

  Conn, the shepherd-boy, leaned on his long stick and looked down the mountainside over his huge flock of sheep. From where he was standing they looked like small balls of wool rolling about on green cloth. The young man sighed and pushed his long hair out of his eyes. Being a shepherd could be a very lonely job, and there were times when whole weeks went by before he saw anyone or spoke to another human. Most times, Conn didn’t mind; he was a quiet boy, with few friends, and he preferred his own company. Conn was a dreamer, and watching the sheep gave him time to himself to think and to dream. And Conn’s greatest wish and dream was to become a warrior.

  But he knew that he didn’t stand a chance.

  The boy was about to turn back up the hill to the small cave where he usually spent most of the day in the shade, when he saw something moving far down in the field. He shaded his dark eyes with his hands and stared at the row of trees and bushes that lined the rough path. But he couldn’t see anything—only the trees quivering in the breeze.

  And then Conn suddenly realized that there was no breeze that day.

  The boy dropped to the ground and began to creep as quickly as possible down the hill. He moved from rock to rock, hiding behind the stones, but he never took his eyes from the trembling trees. There was something down there—he was sure of that now. It could be a wild animal, an elk, a boar, a wolf, or a wild horse…or it might be thieves trying to steal one of his father’s fat sheep. Conn pulled his sling from his belt and slipped one of the round pebbles he carried in his pouch into the leather loop. Whoever or whatever they were, he would make sure they didn’t get any of his sheep!

  The trees shook again. This time, all the sheep began to bleat and cry out. They trotted quickly to the other side of the field, away from the trees.

  And then a hand parted the branches and an enormous eye stared out at the animals.

  It was a big hand. A huge hand with dirty fingernails the size of a warrior’s shield. It was the hand of a giant.

  The huge eye closed and then Conn saw another, and another, and another, and another…The boy squeezed his own eyes shut, thinking he must be seeing double. But when he opened them again, the creature with the eyes was still there. It was indeed a giant—a five-headed giant!

  The giant ripped the tree up out from the soil and began pulling off the branches, stripping it down to a long, bare log. Having five heads and ten eyes but only two pairs of hands seemed to make this a difficult job. It didn’t help that the five heads kept arguing with each other. When the giant was satisfied, he tested it out by smashing a rock to dust, not far from Conn’s hiding spot, and then he set off after the sheep. He raised his huge stick high and then stopped…

  Something had just hit him on the back of the neck—his third neck, that is. Head number three swiveled around, while the rest of him kept looking straight on. In the confusion, the giant tripped and fell over his own legs. All his heads began arguing.

  “Whose fault was that?”

  “Not mine; I was looking where I was going.”

  “It’s his fault.”

  “No, it’s not, it’s his; he turned around.”

  The heads turned on their long necks and faced into the middle one. This was Damh, the biggest head of all, and certainly the ugliest, with big ears and a flat nose. “I turned around because something hit me,” he growled.

  “What hit you?” the first head, Dibh, asked with a sneer. He didn’t like the third head and thought that he should be the chief head.

  “Maybe a bee stung you,” the second, Dubh, said. He didn’t like Damh, either.

  “Hold on a moment,” Dobh, the left-hand head, said. “There’s something over there.”

  “Where?” Domh, his neighboring head, asked.

  “There,” Dobh said, taking over one of the two pairs of hands to point over to a clump of stones.

  Dibh, Dubh, Domh, and Damh turned and looked in the direction Dobh was pointing. Ten eyes—five different colors—glared at the tiny figure of the boy as he loaded another stone into his slingshot. They saw him whirling it around his head and then they saw his arm straighten.

  Something buzzed through the air, and Dibh gave a shout. “That was a stone. He hit me!”

  “Okay, then,” Damh, the biggest head, said. “We’ll grab a few sheep for lunch and then we’ll go after him.”

/>   “We’ll crush him,” Dibh said.

  “Turn him into soup,” Dubh said.

  “Into jelly,” Dobh added.

  “Into mush,” Domh said.

  Damh, the big head, sighed. He was a vegetarian; he ate only grass and leaves, and the few fields of vegetables he could find lying around.

  The five-headed giant stooped down and scooped up a few handfuls of sheep, stuffing them into different pockets. Two of the heads kept watch and two more gathered the sheep, while the fifth watched the boy. It saw him pick up another stone—a big one this time—and fit it into his sling. It saw him twirl and sling it around and around until it was nothing but a blur, and then it saw the boy’s arm straighten. The head ducked.

  The rock buzzed through the air and struck the giant in the chest with a solid thud. Five mouths went “oh”—and then all the heads turned in the direction of the boy. Conn gave a quick yelp of fright when he saw the terrible expressions on their faces. He turned and ran, weaving and dodging through the rocks and stones, heading into the forest.

  “After him!” Dibh shouted.

  “Catch him,” Dubh said.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Dobh roared.

  “There he goes.” Domh took control of one of the pairs of hands and pointed down into the trees.

  “We’ll never catch him now,” Damh said glumly. “Let’s go home.”

  The five heads looked after the fleeing boy and saw him disappear into the forest. If they were to follow him in, they would have to uproot all the trees to catch him, or else crawl on hands and knees—and with five heads, that could be exhausting.

  One by one they nodded. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  —

  At first no one would believe Conn when he told his story in his father’s fort later that evening. He was terribly frightened and it took a long time for his parents to make any sense out of what he was saying. When they finally managed to piece his story together and heard the story of the five-headed giant, they didn’t believe him. But the boy had been so frightened that his father and mother asked the advice of an ancient druid.