{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5793/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5793","id":"gutenberg_5793","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5793","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES OF RED HANRAHAN\n\nBy W.B. Yeats\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\nSTORIES OF RED HANRAHAN:\n\n   RED HANRAHAN\n   THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE\n   HANRAHAN AND CATHLEEN THE DAUGHTER OF HOOLIHAN\n   RED HANRAHAN'S CURSE\n   HANRAHAN'S VISION\n   THE DEATH OF HANRAHAN\n\n\nI owe thanks to Lady Gregory, who helped me to rewrite The Stories of\nRed Hanrahan in the beautiful country speech of Kiltartan, and nearer\nto the tradition of the people among whom he, or some likeness of him,\ndrifted and is remembered.\n\n\n\n\nRED HANRAHAN.\n\nHanrahan, the hedge schoolmaster, a tall, strong, red-haired young man,\ncame into the barn where some of the men of the village were sitting on\nSamhain Eve. It had been a dwelling-house, and when the man that owned\nit had built a better one, he had put the two rooms together, and kept\nit for a place to store one thing or another. There was a fire on the\nold hearth, and there were dip candles stuck in bottles, and there was a\nblack quart bottle upon some boards that had been put across two barrels\nto make a table. Most of the men were sitting beside the fire, and one\nof them was singing a long wandering song, about a Munster man and a\nConnaught man that were quarrelling about their two provinces.\n\nHanrahan went to the man of the house and said, 'I got your message';\nbut when he had said that, he stopped, for an old mountainy man that\nhad a shirt and trousers of unbleached flannel, and that was sitting\nby himself near the door, was looking at him, and moving an old pack of\ncards about in his hands and muttering. 'Don't mind him,' said the man\nof the house; 'he is only some stranger came in awhile ago, and we bade\nhim welcome, it being Samhain night, but I think he is not in his right\nwits. Listen to him now and you will hear what he is saying.'\n\nThey listened then, and they could hear the old man muttering to himself\nas he turned the cards, 'Spades and Diamonds, Courage and Power; Clubs\nand Hearts, Knowledge and Pleasure.'\n\n'That is the kind of talk he has been going on with for the last hour,'\nsaid the man of the house, and Hanrahan turned his eyes from the old man\nas if he did not like to be looking at him.\n\n'I got your message,' Hanrahan said then; '\"he is in the barn with his\nthree first cousins from Kilchriest,\" the messenger said, \"and there are\nsome of the neighbours with them.\"'\n\n'It is my cousin over there is wanting to see you,' said the man of the\nhouse, and he called over a young frieze-coated man, who was listening\nto the song, and said, 'This is Red Hanrahan you have the message for.'\n\n'It is a kind message, indeed,' said the young man, 'for it comes from\nyour sweetheart, Mary Lavelle.'\n\n'How would you get a message from her, and what do you know of her?'\n\n'I don't know her, indeed, but I was in Loughrea yesterday, and a\nneighbour of hers that had some dealings with me was saying that she\nbade him send you word, if he met any one from this side in the market,\nthat her mother has died from her, and if you have a mind yet to join\nwith herself, she is willing to keep her word to you.'\n\n'I will go to her indeed,' said Hanrahan.\n\n'And she bade you make no delay, for if she has not a man in the house\nbefore the month is out, it is likely the little bit of land will be\ngiven to another.'\n\nWhen Hanrahan heard that, he rose up from the bench he had sat down on.\n'I will make no delay indeed,' he said, 'there is a full moon, and if\nI get as far as Gilchreist to-night, I will reach to her before the\nsetting of the sun to-morrow.'\n\nWhen the others heard that, they began to laugh at him for being in such\nhaste to go to his sweetheart, and one asked him if he would leave his\nschool in the old lime-kiln, where he was giving the children such good\nlearning. But he said the children would be glad enough in the morning\nto find the place empty, and no one to keep them at their task; and as\nfor his school he could set it up again in any place, having as he had\nhis little inkpot hanging from his neck by a chain, and his big Virgil\nand his primer in the skirt of his coat.\n\nSome of them asked him to drink a glass before he went, and a young man\ncaught hold of his coat, and said he must not leave them without singing\nthe song he had made in praise of Venus and of Mary Lavelle. He drank a\nglass of whiskey, but he said he would not stop but would set out on his\njourney.\n\n'There's time enough, Red Hanrahan,' said the man of the house. 'It\nwill be time enough for you to give up sport when you are after your\nmarriage, and it might be a long time before we will see you again.'\n\n'I will not stop,' said Hanrahan; 'my mind would be on the roads all the\ntime, bringing me to the woman that sent for me, and she lonesome and\nwatching till I come.'\n\nSome of the others came about him, pressing him that had been such a\npleasant comrade, so full of songs and every kind of trick and fun, not\nto leave them till the night would be over, but he refused them all, and\nshook them off, and went to the door. But as he put his foot over the\nthreshold, the strange old man stood up and put his hand that was thin\nand withered like a bird's claw on Hanrahan's hand, and said: 'It is not\nHanrahan, the learned man and the great songmaker, that should go out\nfrom a gathering like this, on a Samhain night. And stop here, now,'\nhe said, 'and play a hand with me; and here is an old pack of cards has\ndone its work many a night before this, and old as it is, there has been\nmuch of the riches of the world lost and won over it.'\n\nOne of the young men said, 'It isn't much of the riches of the world\nhas stopped with yourself, old man,' and he looked at the old man's bare\nfeet, and they all laughed. But Hanrahan did not laugh, but he sat down\nvery quietly, without a word. Then one of them said, 'So you will\nstop with us after all, Hanrahan'; and the old man said: 'He will stop\nindeed, did you not hear me asking him?'\n\nThey all looked at the old man then as if wondering where he came from.\n'It is far I am come,' he said, 'through France I have come, and through\nSpain, and by Lough Greine of the hidden mouth, and none has refused me\nanything.' And then he was silent and nobody liked to question him, and\nthey began to play. There were six men at the boards playing, and\nthe others were looking on behind. They played two or three games for\nnothing, and then the old man took a fourpenny bit, worn very thin and\nsmooth, out from his pocket, and he called to the rest to put something\non the game. Then they all put down something on the boards, and\nlittle as it was it looked much, from the way it was shoved from one to\nanother, first one man winning it and then his neighbour. And some-times\nthe luck would go against a man and he would have nothing left, and then\none or another would lend him something, and he would pay it again out\nof his winnings, for neither good nor bad luck stopped long with anyone.\n\nAnd once Hanrahan said as a man would say in a dream, 'It is time for\nme to be going the road'; but just then a good card came to him, and\nhe played it out, and all the money began to come to him. And once he\nthought of Mary Lavelle, and he sighed; and that time his luck went from\nhim, and he forgot her again.\n\nBut at last the luck went to the old man and it stayed with him, and\nall they had flowed into him, and he began to laugh little laughs to\nhimself, and to sing over and over to himself, 'Spades and Diamonds,\nCourage and Power,' and so on, as if it was a verse of a song.\n\nAnd after a while anyone looking at the men, and seeing the way their\nbodies were rocking to and fro, and the way they kept their eyes on the\nold man's hands, would think they had drink taken, or that the whole\nstore they had in the world was put on the cards; but that was not so,\nfor the quart bottle had not been disturbed since the game began, and\nwas nearly full yet, and all that was on the game was a few sixpenny\nbits and shillings, and maybe a handful of coppers.\n\n'You are good men to win and good men to lose,' said the old man, 'you\nhave play in your hearts.' He began then to shuffle the cards and to mix\nthem, very quick and fast, till at last they could not see them to be\ncards at all, but you would think him to be making rings of fire in the\nair, as little lads would make them with whirling a lighted stick; and\nafter that it seemed to them that all the room was dark, and they could\nsee nothing but his hands and the cards.\n\nAnd all in a minute a hare made a leap out from between his hands, and\nwhether it was one of the cards that took that shape, or whether it was\nmade out of nothing in the palms of his hands, nobody knew, but there\nit was running on the floor of the barn, as quick as any hare that ever\nlived.\n\nSome looked at the hare, but more kept their eyes on the old man, and\nwhile they were looking at him a hound made a leap out between his\nhands, the same way as the hare did, and after that another hound and\nanother, till there was a whole pack of them following the hare round\nand round the barn.\n\nThe players were all standing up now, with their backs to the boards,\nshrinking from the hounds, and nearly deafened with the noise of their\nyelping, but as quick as the hounds were they could not overtake the\nhare, but it went round, till at the last it seemed as if a blast of\nwind burst open the barn door, and the hare doubled and made a leap over\nthe boards where the men had been playing, and went out of the door and\naway through the night, and the hounds over the boards and through the\ndoor after it.\n\nThen the old man called out, 'Follow the hounds, follow the hounds, and\nit is a great hunt you will see to-night,' and he went out after them.\nBut used as the men were to go hunting after hares, and ready as they\nwere for any sport, they were in dread to go out into the night, and\nit was only Hanrahan that rose up and that said, 'I will follow, I will\nfollow on.'\n\n'You had best stop here, Hanrahan,' the young man that was nearest him\nsaid, 'for you might be going into some great danger.' But Hanrahan\nsaid, 'I will see fair play, I will see fair play,' and he went\nstumbling out of the door like a man in a dream, and the door shut after\nhim as he went.\n\nHe thought he saw the old man in front of him, but it was only his own\nshadow that the full moon cast on the road before him, but he could hear\nthe hounds crying after the hare over the wide green fields of Granagh,\nand he followed them very fast for there was nothing to stop him; and\nafter a while he came to smaller fields that had little walls of loose\nstones around them, and he threw the stones down as he crossed them, and\ndid not wait to put them up again; and he passed by the place where the\nriver goes under ground at Ballylee, and he could hear the hounds going\nbefore him up towards the head of the river. Soon he found it harder to\nrun, for it was uphill he was going, and clouds came over the moon, and\nit was hard for him to see his way, and once he left the path to take a\nshort cut, but his foot slipped into a boghole and he had to come back\nto it. And how long he was going he did not know, or what way he went,\nbut at last he was up on the bare mountain, with nothing but the rough\nheather about him, and he could neither hear the hounds nor any other\nthing. But their cry began to come to him again, at first far off and\nthen very near, and when it came quite close to him, it went up all of\na sudden into the air, and there was the sound of hunting over his head;\nthen it went away northward till he could hear nothing more at all.\n'That's not fair,' he said, 'that's not fair.' And he could walk no\nlonger, but sat down on the heather where he was, in the heart of Slieve\nEchtge, for all the strength had gone from him, with the dint of the\nlong journey he had made.\n\nAnd after a while he took notice that there was a door close to him, and\na light coming from it, and he wondered that being so close to him he\nhad not seen it before. And he rose up, and tired as he was he went in\nat the door, of and although it was night time outside, it was daylight\nhe found within. And presently he met with an old man that had been\ngathering summer thyme and yellow flag-flowers, and it seemed as if all\nthe sweet smells of the summer were with them. And the old man said: 'It\nis a long time you have been coming to us, Hanrahan the learned man and\nthe great songmaker.'\n\nAnd with that he brought him into a very big shining house, and every\ngrand thing Hanrahan had ever heard of, and every colour he had ever\nseen, were in it. There was a high place at the end of the house, and\non it there was sitting in a high chair a woman, the most beautiful the\nworld ever saw, having a long pale face and flowers about it, but she\nhad the tired look of one that had been long waiting. And there was\nsitting on the step below her chair four grey old women, and the one of\nthem was holding a great cauldron in her lap; and another a great stone\non her knees, and heavy as it was it seemed light to her; and another of\nthem had a very long spear that was made of pointed wood; and the last\nof them had a sword that was without a scabbard. Red Hanrahan stood\nlooking at them for a long Hanrahan-time, but none of them spoke any\nword to him or looked at him at all. And he had it in his mind to ask\nwho that woman in the chair was, that was like a queen, and what she\nwas waiting for; but ready as he was with his tongue and afraid of no\nperson, he was in dread now to speak to so beautiful a woman, and in so\ngrand a place. And then he thought to ask what were the four things the\nfour grey old women were holding like great treasures, but he could not\nthink of the right words to bring out.\n\nThen the first of the old women rose up, holding the cauldron between\nher two hands, and she said 'Pleasure,' and Hanrahan said no word. Then\nthe second old woman rose up with the stone in her hands, and she said\n'Power'; and the third old woman rose up with the spear in her hand,\nand she said 'Courage'; and the last of the old women rose up having the\nsword in her hands, and she said 'Knowledge.' And everyone, after she\nhad spoken, waited as if for Hanrahan to question her, but he said\nnothing at all. And then the four old women went out of the door,\nbringing their tour treasures with them, and as they went out one of\nthem said, 'He has no wish for us'; and another said, 'He is weak, he\nis weak'; and another said, 'He is afraid'; and the last said, 'His\nwits are gone from him.' And then they all said 'Echtge, daughter of the\nSilver Hand, must stay in her sleep. It is a pity, it is a great pity.'\n\nAnd then the woman that was like a queen gave a very sad sigh, and it\nseemed to Hanrahan as if the sigh had the sound in it of hidden streams;\nand if the place he was in had been ten times grander and more shining\nthan it was, he could not have hindered sleep from coming on him; and he\nstaggered like a drunken man and lay down there and then.\n\nWhen Hanrahan awoke, the sun was shining on his face, but there was\nwhite frost on the grass around him, and there was ice on the edge of\nthe stream he was lying by, and that goes running on through Daire-caol\nand Druim-da-rod. He knew by the shape of the hills and by the shining\nof Lough Greine in the distance that he was upon one of the hills of\nSlieve Echtge, but he was not sure how he came there; for all that had\nhappened in the barn had gone from him, and all of his journey but the\nsoreness of his feet and the stiffness in his bones.\n\nIt was a year after that, there were men of the village of Cappaghtagle\nsitting by the fire in a house on the roadside, and Red Hanrahan that\nwas now very thin and worn and his hair very long and wild, came to the\nhalf-door and asked leave to come in and rest himself; and they bid him\nwelcome because it was Samhain night. He sat down with them, and they\ngave him a glass of whiskey out of a quart bottle; and they saw the\nlittle inkpot hanging about his neck, and knew he was a scholar, and\nasked for stories about the Greeks.\n\nHe took the Virgil out of the big pocket of his coat, but the cover was\nvery black and swollen with the wet, and the page when he opened it was\nvery yellow, but that was no great matter, for he looked at it like a\nman that had never learned to read. Some young man that was there began\nto laugh at him then, and to ask why did he carry so heavy a book with\nhim when he was not able to read it.\n\nIt vexed Hanrahan to hear that, and he put the Virgil back in his pocket\nand asked if they had a pack of cards among them, for cards were better\nthan books. When they brought out the cards he took them and began to\nshuffle them, and while he was shuffling them something seemed to come\ninto his mind, and he put his hand to his face like one that is trying\nto remember, and he said: 'Was I ever here before, or where was I on\na night like this?' and then of a sudden he stood up and let the cards\nfall to the floor, and he said, 'Who was it brought me a message from\nMary Lavelle?'\n\n'We never saw you before now, and we never heard of Mary Lavelle,' said\nthe man of the house. 'And who is she,' he said, 'and what is it you are\ntalking about?'\n\n'It was this night a year ago, I was in a barn, and there were men\nplaying cards, and there was money on the table, they were pushing it\nfrom one to another here and there--and I got a message, and I was going\nout of the door to look for my sweetheart that wanted me, Mary Lavelle.'\nAnd then Hanrahan called out very loud: 'Where have I been since then?\nWhere was I for the whole year?'\n\n'It is hard to say where you might have been in that time,' said the\noldest of the men, 'or what part of the world you may have travelled;\nand it is like enough you have the dust of many roads on your feet; for\nthere are many go wandering and forgetting like that,' he said, 'when\nonce they have been given the touch.'\n\n'That is true,' said another of the men. 'I knew a woman went wandering\nlike that through the length of seven years; she came back after, and\nshe told her friends she had often been glad enough to eat the food that\nwas put in the pig's trough. And it is best for you to go to the priest\nnow,' he said, 'and let him take off you whatever may have been put upon\nyou.'\n\n'It is to my sweetheart I will go, to Mary Lavelle,' said Hanrahan; 'it\nis too long I have delayed, how do I know what might have happened her\nin the length of a year?'\n\nHe was going out of the door then, but they all told him it was best for\nhim to stop the night, and to get strength for the journey; and indeed\nhe wanted that, for he was very weak, and when they gave him food he eat\nit like a man that had never seen food before, and one of them said, 'He\nis eating as if he had trodden on the hungry grass.' It was in the white\nlight of the morning he set out, and the time seemed long to him till he\ncould get to Mary Lavelle's house. But when he came to it, he found the\ndoor broken, and the thatch dropping from the roof, and no living person\nto be seen. And when he asked the neighbours what had happened her,\nall they could say was that she had been put out of the house, and had\nmarried some labouring man, and they had gone looking for work to London\nor Liverpool or some big place. And whether she found a worse place or\na better he never knew, but anyway he never met with her or with news of\nher again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWISTING OF THE ROPE.\n\n\nHanrahan was walking the roads one time near Kinvara at the fall of day,\nand he heard the sound of a fiddle from a house a little way off the\nroadside. He turned up the path to it, for he never had the habit of\npassing by any place where there was music or dancing or good company,\nwithout going in. The man of the house was standing at the door, and\nwhen Hanrahan came near he knew him and he said: 'A welcome before you,\nHanrahan, you have been lost to us this long time.' But the woman of the\nhouse came to the door and she said to her husband: 'I would be as well\npleased for Hanrahan not to come in to-night, for he has no good\nname now among the priests, or with women that mind themselves, and I\nwouldn't wonder from his walk if he has a drop of drink taken.' But the\nman said, 'I will never turn away Hanrahan of the poets from my door,'\nand with that he bade him enter.\n\nThere were a good many neighbours gathered in the house, and some of\nthem remembered Hanrahan; but some of the little lads that were in the\ncorners had only heard of him, and they stood up to have a view of him,\nand one of them said: 'Is not that Hanrahan that had the school, and\nthat was brought away by Them?' But his mother put her hand over his\nmouth and bade him be quiet, and not be saying things like that. 'For\nHanrahan is apt to grow wicked,' she said, 'if he hears talk of that\nstory, or if anyone goes questioning him.' One or another called out\nthen, asking him for a song, but the man of the house said it was no\ntime to ask him for a song, before he had rested himself; and he gave\nhim whiskey in a glass, and Hanrahan thanked him and wished him good\nhealth and drank it off.\n\nThe fiddler was tuning his fiddle for another dance, and the man of the\nhouse said to the young men, they would all know what dancing was like\nwhen they saw Hanrahan dance, for the like of it had never been seen\nsince he was there before. Hanrahan said he would not dance, he had\nbetter use for his feet now, travelling as he was through the five\nprovinces of Ireland. Just as he said that, there came in at the\nhalf-door Oona, the daughter of the house, having a few bits of bog deal\nfrom Connemara in her arms for the fire. She threw them on the hearth\nand the flame rose up, and showed her to be very comely and smiling,\nand two or three of the young men rose up and asked for a dance. But\nHanrahan crossed the floor and brushed the others away, and said it was\nwith him she must dance, after the long road he had travelled before he\ncame to her. And it is likely he said some soft word in her ear, for she\nsaid nothing against it, and stood out with him, and there were little\nblushes in her cheeks. Then other couples stood up, but when the dance\nwas going to begin, Hanrahan chanced to look down, and he took notice of\nhis boots that were worn and broken, and the ragged grey socks showing\nthrough them; and he said angrily it was a bad floor, and the music no\ngreat things, and he sat down in the dark place beside the hearth. But\nif he did, the girl sat down there with him.\n\nThe dancing went on, and when that dance was over another was called\nfor, and no one took much notice of Oona and Red Hanrahan for a while,\nin the corner where they were. But the mother grew to be uneasy, and she\ncalled to Oona to come and help her to set the table in the inner room.\nBut Oona that had never refused her before, said she would come soon,\nbut not yet, for she was listening to whatever he was saying in her ear.\nThe mother grew yet more uneasy then, and she would come nearer them,\nand let on to be stirring the fire or sweeping the hearth, and she would\nlisten for a minute to hear what the poet was saying to her child. And\none time she heard him telling about white-handed Deirdre, and how she\nbrought the sons of Usnach to their death; and how the blush in her\ncheeks was not so red as the blood of kings' sons that was shed for her,\nand her sorrows had never gone out of mind; and he said it was maybe the\nmemory of her that made the cry of the plover on the bog as sorrowful\nin the ear of the poets as the keening of young men for a comrade. And\nthere would never have been that memory of her, he said, if it was not\nfor the poets that had put her beauty in their songs. And the next time\nshe did not well understand what he was saying, but as far as she could\nhear, it had the sound of poetry though it was not rhymed, and this is\nwhat she heard him say: 'The sun and the moon are the man and the girl,\nthey are my life and your life, they are travelling and ever travelling\nthrough the skies as if under the one hood. It was God made them for\none another. He made your life and my life before the beginning of the\nworld, he made them that they might go through the world, up and down,\nlike the two best dancers that go on with the dance up and down the long\nfloor of the barn, fresh and laughing, when all the rest are tired out\nand leaning against the wall.'\n\nThe old woman went then to where her husband was playing cards, but\nhe would take no notice of her, and then she went to a woman of the\nneighbours and said: 'Is there no way we can get them from one another?'\nand without waiting for an answer she said to some young men that were\ntalking together: 'What good are you when you cannot make the best girl\nin the house come out and dance with you? And go now the whole of you,'\nshe said, 'and see can you bring her away from the poet's talk.' But\nOona would not listen to any of them, but only moved her hand as if to\nsend them away. Then they called to Hanrahan and said he had best dance\nwith the girl himself, or let her dance with one of them. When Hanrahan\nheard what they were saying he said: 'That is so, I will dance with her;\nthere is no man in the house must dance with her but myself.'\n\nHe stood up with her then, and led her out by the hand, and some of the\nyoung men were vexed, and some began mocking at his ragged coat and his\nbroken boots. But he took no notice, and Oona took no notice, but they\nlooked at one another as if all the world belonged to themselves alone.\nBut another couple that had been sitting together like lovers stood out\non the floor at the same time, holding one another's hands and moving\ntheir feet to keep time with the music. But Hanrahan turned his back on\nthem as if angry, and in place of dancing he began to sing, and as he\nsang he held her hand, and his voice grew louder, and the mocking of the\nyoung men stopped, and the fiddle stopped, and there was nothing heard\nbut his voice that had in it the sound of the wind. And what he sang\nwas a song he had heard or had made one time in his wanderings on Slieve\nEchtge, and the words of it as they can be put into English were like\nthis:\n\n     O Death's old bony finger\n     Will never find us there\n     In the high hollow townland\n     Where love's to give and to spare;\n     Where boughs have fruit and blossom\n     At all times of the year;\n     Where rivers are running over\n     With red beer and brown beer.\n     An old man plays the bagpipes\n     In a gold and silver wood;\n     Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,\n     Are dancing in a crowd.\n\nAnd while he was singing it Oona moved nearer to him, and the colour had\ngone from her cheek, and her eyes were not blue now, but grey with the\ntears that were in them, and anyone that saw her would have thought she\nwas ready to follow him there and then from the west to the east of the\nworld.\n\nBut one of the young men called out: 'Where is that country he is\nsinging about? Mind yourself, Oona, it is a long way off, you might be\na long time on the road before you would reach to it.' And another said:\n'It is not to the Country of the Young you will be going if you go with\nhim, but to Mayo of the bogs.' Oona looked at him then as if she would\nquestion him, but he raised her hand in his hand, and called out between\nsinging and shouting: 'It is very near us that country is, it is on\nevery side; it may be on the bare hill behind it is, or it may be in the\nheart of the wood.' And he said out very loud and clear: 'In the heart\nof the wood; oh, death will never find us in the heart of the wood. And\nwill you come with me there, Oona?' he said.\n\nBut while he was saying this the two old women had gone outside the\ndoor, and Oona's mother was crying, and she said: 'He has put an\nenchantment on Oona. Can we not get the men to put him out of the\nhouse?'\n\n'That is a thing you cannot do, said the other woman,' for he is a poet\nof the Gael, and you know well if you would put a poet of the Gael out\nof the house, he would put a curse on you that would wither the corn in\nthe fields and dry up the milk of the cows, if it had to hang in the air\nseven years.'\n\n'God help us,' said the mother, 'and why did I ever let him into the\nhouse at all, and the wild name he has!'\n\n'It would have been no harm at all to have kept him outside, but there\nwould great harm come upon you if you put him out by force. But listen\nto the plan I have to get him out of the house by his own doing, without\nanyone putting him from it at all.'\n\nIt was not long after that the two women came in again, each of them\nhaving a bundle of hay in her apron. Hanrahan was not singing now, but\nhe was talking to Oona very fast and soft, and he was saying: 'The house\nis narrow but the world is wide, and there is no true lover that need be\nafraid of night or morning or sun or stars or shadows of evening, or any\nearthly thing.' 'Hanrahan,' said the mother then, striking him on\nthe shoulder, 'will you give me a hand here for a minute?' 'Do that,\nHanrahan,' said the woman of the neighbours, 'and help us to make this\nhay into a rope, for you are ready with your hands, and a blast of wind\nhas loosened the thatch on the haystack.'\n\n'I will do that for you,' said he, and he took the little stick in his\nhands, and the mother began giving out the hay, and he twisting it, but\nhe was hurrying to have done with it, and to be free again. The women\nwent on talking and giving out the hay, and encouraging him, and saying\nwhat a good twister of a rope he was, better than their own neighbours\nor than anyone they had ever seen. And Hanrahan saw that Oona was\nwatching him, and he began to twist very quick and with his head high,\nand to boast of the readiness of his hands, and the learning he had in\nhis head, and the strength in his arms. And as he was boasting, he went\nbackward, twisting the rope always till he came to the door that was\nopen behind him, and without thinking he passed the threshold and was\nout on the road. And no sooner was he there than the mother made a\nsudden rush, and threw out the rope after him, and she shut the door and\nthe half-door and put a bolt upon them.\n\nShe was well pleased when she had done that, and laughed out loud, and\nthe neighbours laughed and praised her. But they heard him beating at\nthe door, and saying words of cursing outside it, and the mother had but\ntime to stop Oona that had her hand upon the bolt to open it. She made a\nsign to the fiddler then, and he began a reel, and one of the young men\nasked no leave but caught hold of Oona and brought her into the thick of\nthe dance. And when it was over and the fiddle had stopped, there was no\nsound at all of anything outside, but the road was as quiet as before.\n\nAs to Hanrahan, when he knew he was shut out and that there was neither\nshelter nor drink nor a girl's ear for him that night, the anger and the\ncourage went out of him, and he went on to where the waves were beating\non the strand.\n\nHe sat down on a big stone, and he began swinging his right arm and\nsinging slowly to himself, the way he did always to hearten himself when\nevery other thing failed him. And whether it was that time or another\ntime he made the song that is called to this day 'The Twisting of the\nRope,' and that begins, 'What was the dead cat that put me in this\nplace,' is not known.\n\nBut after he had been singing awhile, mist and shadows seemed to gather\nabout him, sometimes coming out of the sea, and sometimes moving upon\nit. It seemed to him that one of the shadows was the queen-woman he had\nseen in her sleep at Slieve Echtge; not in her sleep now, but mocking,\nand calling out to them that were behind her: 'He was weak, he was weak,\nhe had no courage.' And he felt the strands of the rope in his hand yet,\nand went on twisting it, but it seemed to him as he twisted, that it had\nall the sorrows of the world in it. And then it seemed to him as if the\nrope had changed in his dream into a great water-worm that came out\nof the sea, and that twisted itself about him, and held him closer and\ncloser, and grew from big to bigger till the whole of the earth and\nskies were wound up in it, and the stars themselves were but the shining\nof the ridges of its skin. And then he got free of it, and went on,\nshaking and unsteady, along the edge of the strand, and the grey shapes\nwere flying here and there around him. And this is what they were\nsaying, 'It is a pity for him that refuses the call of the daughters of\nthe Sidhe, for he will find no comfort in the love of the women of the\nearth to the end of life and time, and the cold of the grave is in his\nheart for ever. It is death he has chosen; let him die, let him die, let\nhim die.'\n\n\n\n\nHANRAHAN AND CATHLEEN THE DAUGHTER OF HOOLIHAN.\n\n\nIt was travelling northward Hanrahan was one time, giving a hand to a\nfarmer now and again in the hurried time of the year, and telling his\nstories and making his share of songs at wakes and at weddings.\n\nHe chanced one day to overtake on the road to Collooney one Margaret\nRooney, a woman he used to know in Munster when he was a young man. She\nhad no good name at that time, and it was the priest routed her out\nof the place at last. He knew her by her walk and by the colour of her\neyes, and by a way she had of putting back the hair off her face with\nher left hand. She had been wandering about, she said, selling herrings\nand the like, and now she was going back to Sligo, to the place in the\nBurrough where she was living with another woman, Mary Gillis, who had\nmuch the same story as herself. She would be well pleased, she said, if\nhe would come and stop in the house with them, and be singing his\nsongs to the bacachs and blind men and fiddlers of the Burrough. She\nremembered him well, she said, and had a wish for him; and as to Mary\nGillis, she had some of his songs off by heart, so he need not be afraid\nof not getting good treatment, and all the bacachs and poor men that\nheard him would give him a share of their own earnings for his stories\nand his songs while he was with them, and would carry his name into all\nthe parishes of Ireland.\n\nHe was glad enough to go with her, and to find a woman to be listening\nto the story of his troubles and to be comforting him. It was at the\nmoment of the fall of day when every man may pass as handsome and every\nwoman as comely. She put her arm about him when he told her of the\nmisfortune of the Twisting of the Rope, and in the half light she looked\nas well as another.\n\nThey kept in talk all the way to the Burrough, and as for Mary Gillis,\nwhen she saw him and heard who he was, she went near crying to think of\nhaving a man with so great a name in the house.\n\nHanrahan was well pleased to settle down with them for a while, for he\nwas tired with wandering; and since the day he found the little cabin\nfallen in, and Mary Lavelle gone from it, and the thatch scattered, he\nhad never asked to have any place of his own; and he had never stopped\nlong enough in any place to see the green leaves come where he had seen\nthe old leaves wither, or to see the wheat harvested where he had seen\nit sown. It was a good change to him to have shelter from the wet, and a\nfire in the evening time, and his share of food put on the table without\nthe asking.\n\nHe made a good many of his songs while he was living there, so well\ncared for and so quiet, The most of them were love songs, but some were\nsongs of repentance, and some were songs about Ireland and her griefs,\nunder one name or another.\n\nEvery evening the bacachs and beggars and blind men and fiddlers would\ngather into the house and listen to his songs and his poems, and his\nstories about the old time of the Fianna, and they kept them in their\nmemories that were never spoiled with books; and so they brought his\nname to every wake and wedding and pattern in the whole of Connaught. He\nwas never so well off or made so much of as he was at that time.\n\nOne evening of December he was singing a little song that he said he had\nheard from the green plover of the mountain, about the fair-haired boys\nthat had left Limerick, and that were wandering and going astray in\nall parts of the world. There were a good many people in the room that\nnight, and two or three little lads that had crept in, and sat on the\nfloor near the fire, and were too busy with the roasting of a potato\nin the ashes or some such thing to take much notice of him; but they\nremembered long afterwards when his name had gone up, the sound of his\nvoice, and what way he had moved his hand, and the look of him as he sat\non the edge of the bed, with his shadow falling on the whitewashed wall\nbehind him, and as he moved going up as high as the thatch. And they\nknew then that they had looked upon a king of the poets of the Gael, and\na maker of the dreams of men.\n\nOf a sudden his singing stopped, and his eyes grew misty as if he was\nlooking at some far thing.\n\nMary Gillis was pouring whiskey into a mug that stood on a table beside\nhim, and she left off pouring and said, 'Is it of leaving us you are\nthinking?'\n\nMargaret Rooney heard what she said, and did not know why she said it,\nand she took the words too much in earnest and came over to him, and\nthere was dread in her heart that she was going to lose so wonderful a\npoet and so good a comrade, and a man that was thought so much of, and\nthat brought so many to her house.\n\n'You would not go away from us, my heart?' she said, catching him by the\nhand.\n\n'It is not of that I am thinking,' he said, 'but of Ireland and the\nweight of grief that is on her.' And he leaned his head against his\nhand, and began to sing these words, and the sound of his voice was like\nthe wind in a lonely place.\n\n  The old brown thorn trees break in two high over Cummen Strand\n  Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;\n  Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies,\n  But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes\n  Of Cathleen the daughter of Hoolihan.\n\n  The winds was bundled up the clouds high over Knocknarea\n  And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say;\n  Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat,\n  But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet\n  Of Cathleen the daughter of Hoolihan.\n\n  The yellow pool has overflowed high upon Clooth-na-Bare,\n  For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;\n  Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood,\n  But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood\n  Is Cathleen the daughter of Hoolihan.\n\nWhile he was singing, his voice began to break, and tears came rolling\ndown his cheeks, and Margaret Rooney put down her face into her hands\nand began to cry along with him. Then a blind beggar by the fire shook\nhis rags with a sob, and after that there was no one of them all but\ncried tears down.\n\n\n\n\nRED HANRAHAN'S CURSE.\n\n\nOne fine May morning a long time after Hanrahan had left Margaret\nRooney's house, he was walking the road near Collooney, and the sound\nof the birds singing in the bushes that were white with blossom set him\nsinging as he went. It was to his own little place he was going, that\nwas no more than a cabin, but that pleased him well. For he was tired of\nso many years of wandering from shelter to shelter at all times of the\nyear, and although he was seldom refused a welcome and a share of what\nwas in the house, it seemed to him sometimes that his mind was getting\nstiff like his joints, and it was not so easy to him as it used to be to\nmake fun and sport through the night, and to set all the boys laughing\nwith his pleasant talk, and to coax the women with his songs. And a\nwhile ago, he had turned into a cabin that some poor man had left to\ngo harvesting and had never come to again. And when he had mended the\nthatch and made a bed in the corner with a few sacks and bushes, and\nhad swept out the floor, he was well content to have a little place for\nhimself, where he could go in and out as he liked, and put his head in\nhis hands through the length of an evening if the fret was on him, and\nloneliness after the old times. One by one the neighbours began to send\ntheir children in to get some learning from him, and with what they\nbrought, a few eggs or an oaten cake or a couple of sods of turf, he\nmade out a way of living. And if he went for a wild day and night now\nand again to the Burrough, no one would say a word, knowing him to be a\npoet, with wandering in his heart.\n\nIt was from the Burrough he was coming that May morning, light-hearted\nenough, and singing some new song that had come to him. But it was not\nlong till a hare ran across his path, and made away into the fields,\nthrough the loose stones of the wall. And he knew it was no good sign a\nhare to have crossed his path, and he remembered the hare that had led\nhim away to Slieve Echtge the time Mary Lavelle was waiting for him, and\nhow he had never known content for any length of time since then. 'And\nit is likely enough they are putting some bad thing before me now,' he\nsaid.\n\nAnd after he said that he heard the sound of crying in the field beside\nhim, and he looked over the wall. And there he saw a young girl sitting\nunder a bush of white hawthorn, and crying as if her heart would break.\nHer face was hidden in her hands, but her soft hair and her white\nneck and the young look of her, put him in mind of Bridget Purcell and\nMargaret Gillane and Maeve Connelan and Oona Curry and Celia Driscoll,\nand the rest of the girls he had made songs for and had coaxed the heart\nfrom with his flattering tongue.\n\nShe looked up, and he saw her to be a girl of the neighbours, a farmer's\ndaughter. 'What is on you, Nora?' he said. 'Nothing you could take from\nme, Red Hanrahan.' 'If there is any sorrow on you it is I myself should\nbe well able to serve you,' he said then, 'for it is I know the history\nof the Greeks, and I know well what sorrow is and parting, and the\nhardship of the world. And if I am not able to save you from trouble,'\nhe said, 'there is many a one I have saved from it with the power that\nis in my songs, as it was in the songs of the poets that were before me\nfrom the beginning of the world. And it is with the rest of the poets I\nmyself will be sitting and talking in some far place beyond the world,\nto the end of life and time,' he said. The girl stopped her crying,\nand she said, 'Owen Hanrahan, I often heard you have had sorrow and\npersecution, and that you know all the troubles of the world since the\ntime you refused your love to the queen-woman in Slieve Echtge; and that\nshe never left you in quiet since. But when it is people of this earth\nthat have harmed you, it is yourself knows well the way to put harm\non them again. And will you do now what I ask you, Owen Hanrahan?' she\nsaid. 'I will do that indeed,' said he.\n\n'It is my father and my mother and my brothers,' she said, 'that are\nmarrying me to old Paddy Doe, because he has a farm of a hundred acres\nunder the mountain. And it is what you can do, Hanrahan,' she said, 'put\nhim into a rhyme the same way you put old Peter Kilmartin in one the\ntime you were young, that sorrow may be over him rising up and lying\ndown, that will put him thinking of Collooney churchyard and not of\nmarriage. And let you make no delay about it, for it is for to-morrow\nthey have the marriage settled, and I would sooner see the sun rise on\nthe day of my death than on that day.'\n\n'I will put him into a song that will bring shame and sorrow over him;\nbut tell me how many years has he, for I would put them in the song?'\n\n'O, he has years upon years. He is as old as you yourself, Red\nHanrahan.' 'As old as myself,' said Hanrahan, and his voice was as if\nbroken; 'as old as myself; there are twenty years and more between us!\nIt is a bad day indeed for Owen Hanrahan when a young girl with the\nblossom of May in her cheeks thinks him to be an old man. And my grief!'\nhe said, 'you have put a thorn in my heart.'\n\nHe turned from her then and went down the road till he came to a stone,\nand he sat down on it, for it seemed as if all the weight of the years\nhad come on him in the minute. And he remembered it was not many days\nago that a woman in some house had said: 'It is not Red Hanrahan you are\nnow but yellow Hanrahan, for your hair is turned to the colour of a wisp\nof tow.' And another woman he had asked for a drink had not given him\nnew milk but sour; and sometimes the girls would be whispering and\nlaughing with young ignorant men while he himself was in the middle of\ngiving out his poems or his talk. And he thought of the stiffness of his\njoints when he first rose of a morning, and the pain of his knees after\nmaking a journey, and it seemed to him as if he was come to be a very\nold man, with cold in the shoulders and speckled shins and his wind\nbreaking and he himself withering away. And with those thoughts there\ncame on him a great anger against old age and all it brought with it.\nAnd just then he looked up and saw a great spotted eagle sailing slowly\ntowards Ballygawley, and he cried out: 'You, too, eagle of Ballygawley,\nare old, and your wings are full of gaps, and I will put you and your\nancient comrades, the Pike of Dargan Lake and the Yew of the Steep Place\nof the Strangers into my rhyme, that there may be a curse on you for\never.'\n\nThere was a bush beside him to the left, flowering like the rest, and\na little gust of wind blew the white blossoms over his coat. 'May\nblossoms,' he said, gathering them up in the hollow of his hand, 'you\nnever know age because you die away in your beauty, and I will put you\ninto my rhyme and give you my blessing.'\n\nHe rose up then and plucked a little branch from the bush, and carried\nit in his hand. But it is old and broken he looked going home that day\nwith the stoop in his shoulders and the darkness in his face.\n\nWhen he got to his cabin there was no one there, and he went and lay\ndown on the bed for a while as he was used to do when he wanted to make\na poem or a praise or a curse. And it was not long he was in making it\nthis time, for the power of the curse-making bards was upon him. And\nwhen he had made it he searched his mind how he could send it out over\nthe whole countryside.\n\nSome of the scholars began coming in then, to see if there would be\nany school that day, and Hanrahan rose up and sat on the bench by the\nhearth, and they all stood around him.\n\nThey thought he would bring out the Virgil or the Mass book or the\nprimer, but instead of that he held up the little branch of hawthorn he\nhad in his hand yet. 'Children,' he said, 'this is a new lesson I have\nfor you to-day.\n\n'You yourselves and the beautiful people of the world are like this\nblossom, and old age is the wind that comes and blows the blossom away.\nAnd I have made a curse upon old age and upon the old men, and listen\nnow while I give it out to you.' And this is what he said--\n\n   The poet, Owen Hanrahan, under a bush of may\n   Calls down a curse on his own head because it withers grey;\n   Then on the speckled eagle cock of Ballygawley Hill,\n   Because it is the oldest thing that knows of cark and ill;\n   And on the yew that has been green from the times out of mind\n   By the Steep Place of the Strangers and the Gap of the Wind;\n   And on the great grey pike that broods in Castle Dargan Lake\n   Having in his long body a many a hook and ache;\n   Then curses he old Paddy Bruen of the Well of Bride\n   Because no hair is on his head and drowsiness inside.\n   Then Paddy's neighbour, Peter Hart, and Michael Gill, his friend,\n   Because their wandering histories are never at an end.\n   And then old Shemus Cullinan, shepherd of the Green Lands\n   Because he holds two crutches between his crooked hands;\n   Then calls a curse from the dark North upon old Paddy Doe,\n   Who plans to lay his withering head upon a breast of snow,\n   Who plans to wreck a singing voice and break a merry heart,\n   He bids a curse hang over him till breath and body part;\n   But he calls down a blessing on the blossom of the may,\n   Because it comes in beauty, and in beauty blows away.\n\nHe said it over to the children verse by verse till all of them could\nsay a part of it, and some that were the quickest could say the whole of\nit.\n\n'That will do for to-day,' he said then. 'And what you have to do now is\nto go out and sing that song for a while, to the tune of the Green Bunch\nof Rushes, to everyone you meet, and to the old men themselves.'\n\n'I will do that,' said one of the little lads; 'I know old Paddy Doe\nwell. Last Saint John's Eve we dropped a mouse down his chimney, but\nthis is better than a mouse.'\n\n'I will go into the town of Sligo and sing it in the street,' said\nanother of the boys. 'Do that,' said Hanrahan, 'and go into the Burrough\nand tell it to Margaret Rooney and Mary Gillis, and bid them sing to it,\nand to make the beggars and the bacachs sing it wherever they go.' The\nchildren ran out then, full of pride and of mischief, calling out the\nsong as they ran, and Hanrahan knew there was no danger it would not be\nheard.\n\nHe was sitting outside the door the next morning, looking at his\nscholars as they came by in twos and threes. They were nearly all come,\nand he was considering the place of the sun in the heavens to know\nwhether it was time to begin, when he heard a sound that was like the\nbuzzing of a swarm of bees in the air, or the rushing of a hidden river\nin time of flood. Then he saw a crowd coming up to the cabin from the\nroad, and he took notice that all the crowd was made up of old men, and\nthat the leaders of it were Paddy Bruen, Michael Gill and Paddy Doe,\nand there was not one in the crowd but had in his hand an ash stick or\na blackthorn. As soon as they caught sight of him, the sticks began to\nwave hither and thither like branches in a storm, and the old feet to\nrun.\n\nHe waited no longer, but made off up the hill behind the cabin till he\nwas out of their sight.\n\nAfter a while he came back round the hill, where he was hidden by the\nfurze growing along a ditch. And when he came in sight of his cabin he\nsaw that all the old men had gathered around it, and one of them was\njust at that time thrusting a rake with a wisp of lighted straw on it\ninto the thatch.\n\n'My grief,' he said, 'I have set Old Age and Time and Weariness and\nSickness against me, and I must go wandering again. And, O Blessed Queen\nof Heaven,' he said, 'protect me from the Eagle of Ballygawley, the\nYew Tree of the Steep Place of the Strangers, the Pike of Castle Dargan\nLake, and from the lighted wisps of their kindred, the Old Men!'\n\n\n\n\nHANRAHAN'S VISION.\n\nIt was in the month of June Hanrahan was on the road near Sligo, but\nhe did not go into the town, but turned towards Beinn Bulben; for there\nwere thoughts of the old times coming upon him, and he had no mind to\nmeet with common men. And as he walked he was singing to himself a song\nthat had come to him one time in his dreams:\n\n   O Death's old bony finger\n   Will never find us there\n   In the high hollow townland\n   Where love's to give and to spare;\n   Where boughs have fruit and blossom\n   At all times of the year;\n   Where rivers are running over\n   With red beer and brown beer.\n   An old man plays the bagpipes\n   In a gold and silver wood;\n   Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,\n   Are dancing in a crowd.\n\n   The little fox he murmured,\n   'O what of the world's bane?'\n   The sun was laughing sweetly,\n   The moon plucked at my rein;\n   But the little red fox murmured,\n   'O do not pluck at his rein,\n   He is riding to the townland\n   That is the world's bane.'\n\n   When their hearts are so high\n   That they would come to blows,\n   They unhook their heavy swords\n   From golden and silver boughs:\n   But all that are killed in battle\n   Awaken to life again:\n   It is lucky that their story\n   Is not known among men.\n   For O, the strong farmers\n   That would let the spade lie,\n   Their hearts would be like a cup\n   That somebody had drunk dry.\n\n   Michael will unhook his trumpet\n   From a bough overhead,\n   And blow a little noise\n   When the supper has been spread.\n   Gabriel will come from the water\n   With a fish tail, and talk\n   Of wonders that have happened\n   On wet roads where men walk,\n   And lift up an old horn\n   Of hammered silver, and drink\n   Till he has fallen asleep\n   Upon the starry brink.\n\nHanrahan had begun to climb the mountain then, and he gave over singing,\nfor it was a long climb for him, and every now and again he had to sit\ndown and to rest for a while. And one time he was resting he took notice\nof a wild briar bush, with blossoms on it, that was growing beside a\nrath, and it brought to mind the wild roses he used to bring to Mary\nLavelle, and to no woman after her. And he tore off a little branch of\nthe bush, that had buds on it and open blossoms, and he went on with his\nsong:\n\n   The little fox he murmured,\n   'O what of the world's bane?'\n   The sun was laughing sweetly,\n   The moon plucked at my rein;\n   But the little red fox murmured,\n   'O do not pluck at his rein,\n   He is riding to the townland\n   That is the world's bane.'\n\nAnd he went on climbing the hill, and left the rath, and there came to\nhis mind some of the old poems that told of lovers, good and bad, and\nof some that were awakened from the sleep of the grave itself by the\nstrength of one another's love, and brought away to a life in some\nshadowy place, where they are waiting for the judgment and banished from\nthe face of God.\n\nAnd at last, at the fall of day, he came to the Steep Gap of the\nStrangers, and there he laid himself down along a ridge of rock, and\nlooked into the valley, that was full of grey mist spreading from\nmountain to mountain.\n\nAnd it seemed to him as he looked that the mist changed to shapes of\nshadowy men and women, and his heart began to beat with the fear and\nthe joy of the sight. And his hands, that were always restless, began to\npluck off the leaves of the roses on the little branch, and he watched\nthem as they went floating down into the valley in a little fluttering\ntroop.\n\nSuddenly he heard a faint music, a music that had more laughter in it\nand more crying than all the music of this world. And his heart rose\nwhen he heard that, and he began to laugh out loud, for he knew that\nmusic was made by some who had a beauty and a greatness beyond the\npeople of this world. And it seemed to him that the little soft rose\nleaves as they went fluttering down into the valley began to change\ntheir shape till they looked like a troop of men and women far off in\nthe mist, with the colour of the roses on them. And then that colour\nchanged to many colours, and what he saw was a long line of tall\nbeautiful young men, and of queen-women, that were not going from\nhim but coming towards him and past him, and their faces were full of\ntenderness for all their proud looks, and were very pale and worn, as\nif they were seeking and ever seeking for high sorrowful things. And\nshadowy arms were stretched out of the mist as if to take hold of them,\nbut could not touch them, for the quiet that was about them could not\nbe broken. And before them and beyond them, but at a distance as if in\nreverence, there were other shapes, sinking and rising and coming and\ngoing, and Hanrahan knew them by their whirling flight to be the Sidhe,\nthe ancient defeated gods; and the shadowy arms did not rise to take\nhold of them, for they were of those that can neither sin nor obey.\nAnd they all lessened then in the distance, and they seemed to be going\ntowards the white door that is in the side of the mountain.\n\nThe mist spread out before him now like a deserted sea washing the\nmountains with long grey waves, but while he was looking at it, it began\nto fill again with a flowing broken witless life that was a part of\nitself, and arms and pale heads covered with tossing hair appeared in\nthe greyness. It rose higher and higher till it was level with the\nedge of the steep rock, and then the shapes grew to be solid, and a new\nprocession half lost in mist passed very slowly with uneven steps,\nand in the midst of each shadow there was something shining in the\nstarlight. They came nearer and nearer, and Hanrahan saw that they also\nwere lovers, and that they had heart-shaped mirrors instead of hearts,\nand they were looking and ever looking on their own faces in one\nanother's mirrors. They passed on, sinking downward as they passed, and\nother shapes rose in their place, and these did not keep side by side,\nbut followed after one another, holding out wild beckoning arms, and he\nsaw that those who were followed were women, and as to their heads they\nwere beyond all beauty, but as to their bodies they were but shadows\nwithout life, and their long hair was moving and trembling about them,\nas if it lived with some terrible life of its own. And then the mist\nrose of a sudden and hid them, and then a light gust of wind blew them\naway towards the north-east, and covered Hanrahan at the same time with\na white wing of cloud.\n\nHe stood up trembling and was going to turn away from the valley, when\nhe saw two dark and half-hidden forms standing as if in the air just\nbeyond the rock, and one of them that had the sorrowful eyes of a beggar\nsaid to him in a woman's voice, 'Speak to me, for no one in this world\nor any other world has spoken to me for seven hundred years.'\n\n'Tell me who are those that have passed by,' said Hanrahan.\n\n'Those that passed first,' the woman said, 'are the lovers that had the\ngreatest name in the old times, Blanad and Deirdre and Grania and their\ndear comrades, and a great many that are not so well known but are as\nwell loved. And because it was not only the blossom of youth they were\nlooking for in one another, but the beauty that is as lasting as the\nnight and the stars, the night and the stars hold them for ever from the\nwarring and the perishing, in spite of the wars and the bitterness their\nlove brought into the world. And those that came next,' she said, 'and\nthat still breathe the sweet air and have the mirrors in their hearts,\nare not put in songs by the poets, because they sought only to triumph\none over the other, and so to prove their strength and beauty, and\nout of this they made a kind of love. And as to the women with\nshadow-bodies, they desired neither to triumph nor to love but only to\nbe loved, and there is no blood in their hearts or in their bodies until\nit flows through them from a kiss, and their life is but for a moment.\nAll these are unhappy, but I am the unhappiest of all, for I am\nDervadilla, and this is Dermot, and it was our sin brought the Norman\ninto Ireland. And the curses of all the generations are upon us, and\nnone are punished as we are punished. It was but the blossom of the man\nand of the woman we loved in one another, the dying beauty of the\ndust and not the everlasting beauty. When we died there was no lasting\nunbreakable quiet about us, and the bitterness of the battles we brought\ninto Ireland turned to our own punishment. We go wandering together for\never, but Dermot that was my lover sees me always as a body that has\nbeen a long time in the ground, and I know that is the way he sees me.\nAsk me more, ask me more, for all the years have left their wisdom in my\nheart, and no one has listened to me for seven hundred years.'\n\nA great terror had fallen upon Hanrahan, and lifting his arms above\nhis head he screamed out loud three times, and the cattle in the valley\nlifted their heads and lowed, and the birds in the wood at the edge\nof the mountain awaked out of their sleep and fluttered through the\ntrembling leaves. But a little below the edge of the rock, the troop of\nrose leaves still fluttered in the air, for the gateway of Eternity had\nopened and shut again in one beat of the heart.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF HANRAHAN.\n\n\nHanrahan, that was never long in one place, was back again among the\nvillages that are at the foot of Slieve Echtge, Illeton and Scalp and\nBallylee, stopping sometimes in one house and sometimes in another, and\nfinding a welcome in every place for the sake of the old times and of\nhis poetry and his learning. There was some silver and some copper money\nin the little leather bag under his coat, but it was seldom he needed to\ntake anything from it, for it was little he used, and there was not one\nof the people that would have taken payment from him. His hand had grown\nheavy on the blackthorn he leaned on, and his cheeks were hollow and\nworn, but so far as food went, potatoes and milk and a bit of oaten\ncake, he had what he wanted of it; and it is not on the edge of so wild\nand boggy a place as Echtge a mug of spirits would be wanting, with the\ntaste of the turf smoke on it. He would wander about the big wood at\nKinadife, or he would sit through many hours of the day among the\nrushes about Lake Belshragh, listening to the streams from the hills, or\nwatching the shadows in the brown bog pools; sitting so quiet as not to\nstartle the deer that came down from the heather to the grass and the\ntilled fields at the fall of night. As the days went by it seemed as if\nhe was beginning to belong to some world out of sight and misty, that\nhas for its mearing the colours that are beyond all other colours and\nthe silences that are beyond all silences of this world. And sometimes\nhe would hear coming and going in the wood music that when it stopped\nwent from his memory like a dream; and once in the stillness of midday\nhe heard a sound like the clashing of many swords, that went on for long\ntime without any break. And at the fall of night and at moonrise the\nlake would grow to be like a gateway of silver and shining stones, and\nthere would come from its silence the faint sound of keening and of\nfrightened laughter broken by the wind, and many pale beckoning hands.\n\nHe was sitting looking into the water one evening in harvest time,\nthinking of all the secrets that were shut into the lakes and the\nmountains, when he heard a cry coming from the south, very faint at\nfirst, but getting louder and clearer as the shadow of the rushes grew\nlonger, till he could hear the words, 'I am beautiful, I am beautiful;\nthe birds in the air, the moths under the leaves, the flies over the\nwater look at me, for they never saw any one so beautiful as myself. I\nam young; I am young: look upon me, mountains; look upon me, perishing\nwoods, for my body will shine like the white waters when you have been\nhurried away. You and the whole race of men, and the race of the beasts\nand the race of the fish and the winged race are dropping like a candle\nthat is nearly burned out, but I laugh out because I am in my youth.'\nThe voice would break off from time to time, as if tired, and then it\nwould begin again, calling out always the same words, 'I am beautiful,\nI am beautiful.' Presently the bushes at the edge of the little lake\ntrembled for a moment, and a very old woman forced her way among them,\nand passed by Hanrahan, walking with very slow steps. Her face was of\nthe colour of earth, and more wrinkled than the face of any old hag that\nwas ever seen, and her grey hair was hanging in wisps, and the rags\nshe was wearing did not hide her dark skin that was roughened by all\nweathers. She passed by him with her eyes wide open, and her head high,\nand her arms hanging straight beside her, and she went into the shadow\nof the hills towards the west.\n\nA sort of dread came over Hanrahan when he saw her, for he knew her to\nbe one Winny Byrne, that went begging from place to place crying always\nthe same cry, and he had often heard that she had once such wisdom that\nall the women of the neighbours used to go looking for advice from her,\nand that she had a voice so beautiful that men and women would come from\nevery part to hear her sing at a wake or a wedding; and that the Others,\nthe great Sidhe, had stolen her wits one Samhain night many years ago,\nwhen she had fallen asleep on the edge of a rath, and had seen in her\ndreams the servants of Echtge of the hills.\n\nAnd as she vanished away up the hillside, it seemed as if her cry, 'I\nam beautiful, I am beautiful,' was coming from among the stars in the\nheavens.\n\nThere was a cold wind creeping among the rushes, and Hanrahan began to\nshiver, and he rose up to go to some house where there would be a fire\non the hearth. But instead of turning down the hill as he was used, he\nwent on up the hill, along the little track that was maybe a road and\nmaybe the dry bed of a stream. It was the same way Winny had gone, and\nit led to the little cabin where she stopped when she stopped in any\nplace at all. He walked very slowly up the hill as if he had a great\nload on his back, and at last he saw a light a little to the left, and\nhe thought it likely it was from Winny's house it was shining, and he\nturned from the path to go to it. But clouds had come over the sky, and\nhe could not well see his way, and after he had gone a few steps his\nfoot slipped and he fell into a bog drain, and though he dragged himself\nout of it, holding on to the roots of the heather, the fall had given\nhim a great shake, and he felt better fit to lie down than to go\ntravelling. But he had always great courage, and he made his way on,\nstep by step, till at last he came to Winny's cabin, that had no window,\nbut the light was shining from the door. He thought to go into it and\nto rest for a while, but when he came to the door he did not see Winny\ninside it, but what he saw was four old grey-haired women playing cards,\nbut Winny herself was not among them. Hanrahan sat down on a heap of\nturf beside the door, for he was tired out and out, and had no wish for\ntalking or for card-playing, and his bones and his joints aching the\nway they were. He could hear the four women talking as they played, and\ncalling out their hands. And it seemed to him that they were saying,\nlike the strange man in the barn long ago: 'Spades and Diamonds, Courage\nand Power. Clubs and Hearts, Knowledge and Pleasure.' And he went on\nsaying those words over and over to himself; and whether or not he was\nin his dreams, the pain that was in his shoulder never left him. And\nafter a while the four women in the cabin began to quarrel, and each one\nto say the other had not played fair, and their voices grew from loud to\nlouder, and their screams and their curses, till at last the whole\nair was filled with the noise of them around and above the house, and\nHanrahan, hearing it between sleep and waking, said: 'That is the sound\nof the fighting between the friends and the ill-wishers of a man that is\nnear his death. And I wonder,' he said, 'who is the man in this lonely\nplace that is near his death.'\n\nIt seemed as if he had been asleep a long time, and he opened his eyes,\nand the face he saw over him was the old wrinkled face of Winny of the\nCross Road. She was looking hard at him, as if to make sure he was not\ndead, and she wiped away the blood that had grown dry on his face with a\nwet cloth, and after a while she partly helped him and partly lifted him\ninto the cabin, and laid him down on what served her for a bed. She gave\nhim a couple of potatoes from a pot on the fire, and, what served him\nbetter, a mug of spring water. He slept a little now and again, and\nsometimes he heard her singing to herself as she moved about the house,\nand so the night wore away. When the sky began to brighten with the dawn\nhe felt for the bag; where his little store of money was, and held it\nout to her, and she took out a bit of copper and a bit of silver money,\nbut she let it drop again as if it was nothing to her, maybe because\nit was not money she was used to beg for, but food and rags; or maybe\nbecause the rising of the dawn was filling her with pride and a new\nbelief in her own great beauty. She went out and cut a few armfuls of\nheather, and brought it in and heaped it over Hanrahan, saying something\nabout the cold of the morning, and while she did that he took notice of\nthe wrinkles in her face, and the greyness of her hair, and the broken\nteeth that were black and full of gaps. And when he was well covered\nwith the heather she went out of the door and away down the side of the\nmountain, and he could hear her cry, 'I am beautiful, I am beautiful,'\ngetting less and less as she went, till at last it died away altogether.\n\nHanrahan lay there through the length of the day, in his pains and his\nweakness, and when the shadows of the evening were falling he heard\nher voice again coming up the hillside, and she came in and boiled the\npotatoes and shared them with him the same way as before. And one day\nafter another passed like that, and the weight of his flesh was heavy\nabout him. But little by little as he grew weaker he knew there were\nsome greater than himself in the room with him, and that the house began\nto be filled with them; and it seemed to him they had all power in their\nhands, and that they might with one touch of the hand break down the\nwall the hardness of pain had built about him, and take him into their\nown world. And sometimes he could hear voices, very faint and joyful,\ncrying from the rafters or out of the flame on the hearth, and other\ntimes the whole house was filled with music that went through it like a\nwind. And after a while his weakness left no place for pain, and there\ngrew up about him a great silence like the silence in the heart of a\nlake, and there came through it like the flame of a rushlight the faint\njoyful voices ever and always.\n\nOne morning he heard music somewhere outside the door, and as the day\npassed it grew louder and louder until it drowned the faint joyful\nvoices, and even Winny's cry upon the hillside at the fall of evening.\nAbout midnight and in a moment, the walls seemed to melt away and to\nleave his bed floating on a pale misty light that shone on every side\nas far as the eye could see; and after the first blinding of his eyes he\nsaw that it was full of great shadowy figures rushing here and there.\n\nAt the same time the music came very clearly to him, and he knew that it\nwas but the continual clashing of swords.\n\n'I am after my death,' he said, 'and in the very heart of the music of\nHeaven. O Cheruhim and Seraphim, receive my soul!'\n\nAt his cry the light where it was nearest to him filled with sparks\nof yet brighter light, and he saw that these were the points of swords\nturned towards his heart; and then a sudden flame, bright and burning\nlike God's love or God's hate, swept over the light and went out and he\nwas in darkness. At first he could see nothing, for all was as dark as\nif there was black bog earth about him, but all of a sudden the fire\nblazed up as if a wisp of straw had been thrown upon it. And as he\nlooked at it, the light was shining on the big pot that was hanging from\na hook, and on the flat stone where Winny used to bake a cake now and\nagain, and on the long rusty knife she used to be cutting the roots of\nthe heather with, and on the long blackthorn stick he had brought into\nthe house himself. And when he saw those four things, some memory came\ninto Hanrahan's mind, and strength came back to him, and he rose sitting\nup in the bed, and he said very loud and clear: 'The Cauldron, the\nStone, the Sword, the Spear. What are they? Who do they belong to? And I\nhave asked the question this time,' he said.\n\nAnd then he fell back again, weak, and the breath going from him.\n\nWinny Byrne, that had been tending the fire, came over then, having her\neyes fixed on the bed; and the faint laughing voices began crying out\nagain, and a pale light, grey like a wave, came creeping over the room,\nand he did not know from what secret world it came. He saw Winny's\nwithered face and her withered arms that were grey like crumbled earth,\nand weak as he was he shrank back farther towards the wall. And then\nthere came out of the mud-stiffened rags arms as white and as shadowy as\nthe foam on a river, and they were put about his body, and a voice that\nhe could hear well but that seemed to come from a long way off said to\nhim in a whisper: 'You will go looking for me no more upon the breasts\nof women.'\n\n'Who are you?' he said then.\n\n'I am one of the lasting people, of the lasting unwearied Voices, that\nmake my dwelling in the broken and the dying, and those that have lost\ntheir wits; and I came looking for you, and you are mine until the whole\nworld is burned out like a candle that is spent. And look up now,' she\nsaid, 'for the wisps that are for our wedding are lighted.'\n\nHe saw then that the house was crowded with pale shadowy hands, and\nthat every hand was holding what was sometimes like a wisp lighted for a\nmarriage, and sometimes like a tall white candle for the dead.\n\nWhen the sun rose on the morning of the morrow Winny of the Cross\nRoads rose up from where she was sitting beside the body, and began her\nbegging from townland to townland, singing the same song as she walked,\n'I am beautiful, I am beautiful. The birds in the air, the moths under\nthe leaves, the flies over the water look at me. Look at me, perishing\nwoods, for my body will be shining like the lake water after you have\nbeen hurried away. You and the old race of men, and the race of the\nbeasts, and the race of the fish, and the winged race, are wearing away\nlike a candle that has been burned out. But I laugh out loud, because I\nam in my youth.'\n\nShe did not come back that night or any night to the cabin, and it was\nnot till the end of two days that the turf cutters going to the bog\nfound the body of Red Owen Hanrahan, and gathered men to wake him and\nwomen to keen him, and gave him a burying worthy of so great a poet.","title":"Stories of Red Hanrahan","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":14710}