There was once a boy in the County Mayo, and he never washed a foot from the day he was born. Guleesh was his name; but as nobody could ever prevail on him to wash his feet, they used to call him Guleesh na guss dhu, or Guleesh Black-foot. It’s often the father said to him: “Get up, you strone-sha (lubber), and wash yourself,” but the devil a foot would he get up, and the devil a foot would he wash. There was no use in talking to him. Every one used to be humbugging him on account of his dirty feet, but he paid them no heed nor attention. You might say anything at all to him, but in spite of it all he would have his own way afterwards. One night the whole family were gathered in by the fire, telling stories and making fun for themselves, and he amongst them. The father said to him: “Guleesh, you are one and twenty years old to-night, and I believe you never washed a foot from the day you were born till to-day.”
“You lie,” said Guleesh, “didn’t I go a’swimming on May day last? and I couldn’t keep my feet out of the water.”
“Well, they were as dirty as ever they were when you came to the shore,” said the father.
“They were that, surely,” said Guleesh.
“That’s the thing I’m saying,” says the father, “that it wasn’t in you to wash your feet ever.”
“And I never will wash them till the day of my death,” said Guleesh.
“You miserable behoonugh! you clown! you tinker! you good-for-nothing lubber! what kind of answer is that?” says the father; and with that he drew the hand[105] and struck him a hard fist on the jaw. “Be off with yourself,” says he, “I can’t stand you any longer.”
Guleesh got up and put a hand to his jaw, where he got the fist. “Only that it’s yourself that’s in it, who gave me that blow,” said he, “another blow you’d never strike till the day of your death.” He went out of the house then and great anger on him.
There was the finest lis, or rath, in Ireland, a little way off from the gable of the house, and he was often in the habit of seating himself on the fine grass bank that was running round it. He stood, and he half leaning against the gable of the house, and looking up into the sky, and watching the beautiful white moon over his head. After him to be standing that way for a couple of hours, he said to himself: “My bitter grief that I am not gone away out of this place altogether. I’d sooner be any place in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon,” says he, “that’s turning round, turning round, as you please yourself, and no man can put you back. I wish I was the same as you.”
Hardly was the word out of his mouth when he heard a great noise coming like the sound of many people running together, and talking, and laughing, and making sport, and the sound went by him like a whirl of wind, and he was listening to it going into the rath. “Musha, by my soul,” says he, “but ye’re merry enough, and I’ll follow ye.”
What was in it but the fairy host, though he did not know at first that it was they who were in it, but he followed them into the rath. It’s there he heard the fulparnee, and the folpornee, the rap-lay-hoota, and the roolya-boolya.[29] that they had there, and every man of[106] them crying out as loud as he could: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!”
“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “my boy, that’s not bad. I’ll imitate ye,” and he cried out as well as they: “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!” And on the moment there was a fine horse with a bridle of gold, and a saddle of silver, standing before him. He leaped up on it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that the rath was full of horses, and of little people going riding on them.
Said a man of them to him: “Are you coming with us to-night, Guleesh?”
“I am, surely,” said Guleesh.
“If you are, come along,” said the little man, and out with them altogether, riding like the wind, faster than the fastest horse ever you saw a’hunting, and faster than the fox and the hounds at his tail.
The cold winter’s wind that was before them, they overtook her, and the cold winter’s wind that was behind them, she did not overtake them. And stop nor stay of that full race, did they make none, until they came to the brink of the sea.
Then every one of them said: “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and that moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh had time to remember where he was, they were down on dry land again, and were going like the wind. At last they stood, and a man of them said to Guleesh: “Guleesh, do you know where you are now?”
“Not a know,” says Guleesh.
“You’re in Rome, Guleesh,” said he;[107] “but we’re going further than that. The daughter of the king of France is to be married to-night, the handsomest woman that the sun ever saw, and we must do our best to bring her with us, if we’re only able to carry her off; and you must come with us that we may be able to put the young girl up behind you on the horse, when we’ll be bringing her away, for it’s not lawful for us to put her sitting behind ourselves. But you’re flesh and blood, and she can take a good grip of you, so that she won’t fall off the horse. Are you satisfied, Guleesh, and will you do what we’re telling you?”
“Why shouldn’t I be satisfied?” said Guleesh. “I’m satisfied, surely, and anything that ye will tell me to do I’ll do it without doubt; but where are we now?”
“You’re in Rome now, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue (fairy).
“In Rome, is it?” said Guleesh. “Indeed, and no lie, I’m glad of that. The parish priest that we had he was broken (suspended) and lost his parish some time ago; I must go to the Pope till I get a bull from him that will put him back in his own place again.”
“Oh, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “you can’t do that. You won’t be let into the palace; and, anyhow, we can’t wait for you, for we’re in a hurry.”
“As much as a foot, I won’t go with ye,” says Guleesh, “till I go to the Pope; but ye can go forward without me, if ye wish. I won’t stir till I go and get the pardon of my parish priest.”
“Guleesh, is it out of your senses you are? You can’t go; and there’s your answer for you now. I tell you, you can’t go.”
“Can’t ye go on, and to leave me here after ye,” said Guleesh, “and when ye come back can’t ye hoist the girl up behind me?”
[108]
“But we want you at the palace of the king of France,” said the sheehogue, “and you must come with us now.”
“The devil a foot,” said Guleesh, “till I get the priest’s pardon; the honestest and the pleasantest man that’s in Ireland.”
Another sheehogue spoke then, and said:
“Don’t be so hard on Guleesh. The boy’s a kind boy, and he has a good heart; and as he doesn’t wish to come without the Pope’s bull, we must do our best to get it for him. He and I will go in to the Pope, and ye can wait here.”
“A thousand thanks to you,” said Guleesh. “I’m ready to go with you; for this priest, he was the sportingest and the pleasantest man in the world.”
“You have too much talk, Guleesh,” said the sheehogue, “but come along now. Get off your horse and take my hand.”
Guleesh dismounted, and took his hand; and then the little man said a couple of words he did not understand, and before he knew where he was he found himself in the room with the Pope.
The Pope was sitting up late that night reading a book that he liked. He was sitting on a big soft chair, and his two feet on the chimney-board. There was a fine fire in the grate, and a little table standing at his elbow, and a drop of ishka-baha (eau-de-vie) and sugar on the little tableeen; and he never felt till Guleesh came up behind him.
“Now Guleesh,” said the sheehogue,[109] “tell him that unless he gives you the bull you’ll set the room on fire; and if he refuses it to you, I’ll spurt fire round about out of my mouth, till he thinks the place is really in a blaze, and I’ll go bail he’ll be ready enough then to give you the pardon.”
Guleesh went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. The Pope turned round, and when he saw Guleesh standing behind him he frightened up.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Guleesh, “we have a parish priest at home, and some thief told your honour a lie about him, and he was broken; but he’s the decentest man ever your honour saw, and there’s not a man, woman, or child in Ballynatoothach but’s in love with him.”
“Hold your tongue, you bodach,” said the Pope. “Where are you from, or what brought you here? Haven’t I a lock on the door?”
“I came in on the keyhole,” says Guleesh, “and I’d be very much obliged to your honour if you’d do what I’m asking.”
The Pope cried out: “Where are all my people? Where are my servants? Shamus! Shawn! I’m killed; I’m robbed.”
Guleesh put his back to the door, the way he could not get out, and he was afraid to go near Guleesh, so he had no help for it, but had to listen to Guleesh’s story; and Guleesh could not tell it to him shortly and plainly, for he was slow and coarse in his speaking, and that angered the Pope; and when Guleesh finished his story, he vowed that he never would give the priest his pardon; and he threatened Guleesh himself that he would put him to death for his shamelessness in coming in upon him in the night; and he began again crying out for his servants. Whether the servants heard him or no, there was a lock on the inside of the door, so that they could not come in to him.
“Unless you give me a bull under your hand and seal, and the priest’s pardon in it,” said Guleesh;[110] “I’ll burn your house with fire.”
The sheehogue, whom the Pope did not see, began to cast fire and flame out of his mouth, and the Pope thought that the room was all in a blaze. He cried out: “Oh, eternal destruction! I’ll give you the pardon; I’ll give you anything at all, only stop your fire, and don’t burn me in my own house.”
The sheehogue stopped the fire, and the Pope had to sit down and write a full pardon for the priest, and give him back his old place again, and when he had it ready written, he put his name under it on the paper, and put it into Guleesh’s hand.
“Thank your honour,” said Guleesh; “I never will come here again to you, and bannacht lath (good-bye).”
“Do not,” said the Pope; “if you do I’ll be ready before you, and you won’t go from me so easily again. You will be shut up in a prison, and you won’t get out for ever.”
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t come again,” said Guleesh. And before he could say any more the sheehogue spoke a couple of words, and caught Guleesh’s hand again, and out with them. Guleesh found himself amongst the other sheehogues, and his horse waiting for him.
“Now, Guleesh,” said they, “it’s greatly you stopped us, and we in such a hurry; but come on now, and don’t think of playing such a trick again, for we won’t wait for you.”
“I’m satisfied,” said Guleesh, “and I’m thankful to ye; but tell me where are we going.”
“We’re going to the palace of the king of France,” said they; “and if we can at all, we’re to carry off his daughter with us.”
Every man of them then said, “Rise up, horse;” and the horses began leaping, and running, and prancing.[111] The cold wind of winter that was before them they overtook her, and the cold wind of winter that was behind them, she did not overtake them, and they never stopped of that race, till they came as far as the palace of the king of France.
They got off their horses there, and a man of them said a word that Guleesh did not understand, and on the moment they were lifted up, and Guleesh found himself and his companions in the palace. There was a great feast going on there, and there was not a nobleman or a gentleman in the kingdom but was gathered there, dressed in silk and satin, and gold and silver, and the night was as bright as the day with all the lamps and candles that were lit, and Guleesh had to shut his two eyes at the brightness. When he opened them again and looked from him, he thought he never saw anything as fine as all he saw there. There were a hundred tables spread out, and their full of meat and drink on each table of them, flesh-meat, and cakes and sweetmeats, and wine and ale, and every drink that ever a man saw. The musicians were at the two ends of the hall, and they playing the sweetest music that ever a man’s ear heard, and there were young women and fine youths in the middle of the hall, dancing and turning, and going round so quickly and so lightly, that it put a soorawn in Guleesh’s head to be looking at them. There were more there playing tricks, and more making fun and laughing, for such a feast as there was that day had not been in France for twenty years, because the old king had no children alive but only the one daughter, and she was to be married to the son of another king that night. Three days the feast was going on, and the third night she was to be married, and that was the night that Guleesh and the sheehogues came, hoping if[112] they could, to carry off with them the king’s young daughter.
Guleesh and his companions were standing together at the head of the hall, where there was a fine altar dressed up, and two bishops behind it waiting to marry the girl, as soon as the right time should come. Nobody could see the sheehogues, for they said a word as they came in, that made them all invisible, as if they had not been in it at all.
“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he was becoming a little used to the noise and the light.
“Don’t you see her there from you?” said the little man that he was talking to.
Guleesh looked where the little man was pointing with his finger, and there he saw the loveliest woman that was, he thought, upon the ridge of the world. The rose and the lily were fighting together in her face, and one could not tell which of them got the victory. Her arms and hands were like the lime, her mouth as red as a strawberry, when it is ripe, her foot was as small and as light as another one’s hand, her form was smooth and slender, and her hair was falling down from her head in buckles of gold. Her garments and dress were woven with gold and silver, and the bright stone that was in the ring on her hand was as shining as the sun.
Guleesh was nearly blinded with all the loveliness and beauty that was in her; but when he looked again, he saw that she was crying, and that there was the trace of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” said Guleesh, “that there’s grief on her, when everybody round her is so full of sport and merriment.”
“Musha, then, she is grieved,” said the little man;[113] “for it’s against her own will she’s marrying, and she has no love for the husband she is to marry. The king was going to give her to him three years ago, when she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young, and requested him to leave her as she was yet. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when that year was up he gave her another year’s grace, and then another; but a week or a day he would not give her longer, and she is eighteen years old to-night, and it’s time for her to marry; but, indeed,” says he, and he crooked his mouth in an ugly way; “indeed, it’s no king’s son she’ll marry, if I can help it.”
Guleesh pitied the handsome young lady greatly when he heard that, and he was heart-broken to think that it would be necessary for her to marry a man she did not like, or what was worse, to take a nasty Sheehogue for a husband. However, he did not say a word, though he could not help giving many a curse to the ill-luck that was laid out for himself, and he helping the people that were to snatch her away from her home and from her father.
He began thinking, then, what it was he ought to do to save her, but he could think of nothing. “Oh, if I could only give her some help and relief,” said he, “I wouldn’t care whether I were alive or dead; but I see nothing that I can do for her.”
He was looking on when the king’s son came up to her and asked her for a kiss, but she turned her head away from him. Guleesh had double pity for her then, when he saw the lad taking her by the soft white hand, and drawing her out to dance. They went round in the dance near where Guleesh was, and he could plainly see that there were tears in her eyes.
When the dancing was over, the old king, her father, and her mother, the queen, came up and said that this[114] was the right time to marry her, that the bishop was ready and the couch prepared, and it was time to put the wedding-ring on her and give her to her husband.
The old king put a laugh out of him: “Upon my honour,” he said, “the night is nearly spent, but my son will make a night for himself. I’ll go bail he won’t rise early to-morrow.”
“Musha, and maybe he would,” said the Sheehogue in Guleesh’s ear, “or not go to bed, perhaps, at all. Ha, ha, ha!”
Guleesh gave him no answer, for his two eyes were going out on his head watching to see what they would do then.
The king took the youth by the hand, and the queen took her daughter, and they went up together to the altar, with the lords and great people following them.
When they came near the altar, and were no more than about four yards from it, the little sheehogue stretched out his foot before the girl, and she fell. Before she was able to rise again he threw something that was in his hand upon her, said a couple of words, and upon the moment the maiden was gone from amongst them. Nobody could see her, for that word made her invisible. The little maneen seized her and raised her up behind Guleesh, and the king nor no one else saw them, but out with them through the hall till they came to the door.
Oro! dear Mary! it’s there the pity was, and the trouble, and the crying, and the wonder, and the searching, and the rookawn, when that lady disappeared from their eyes, and without their seeing what did it. Out on the door of the palace with them, without being stopped or hindered, for nobody saw them, and, “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says every man of them.[115] “My horse, my bridle, and saddle!” says Guleesh; and on the moment the horse was standing ready caparisoned before him. “Now, jump up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and we will be going; the morning is not far off from us now.”
Guleesh raised her up on the horse’s back, and leaped up himself before her, and, “Rise horse,” said he; and his horse, and the other horses with him, went in a full race until they came to the sea.
“Highover, cap!” said every man of them.
“Highover, cap!” said Guleesh; and on the moment the horse rose under him, and cut a leap in the clouds, and came down in Erin.
They did not stop there, but went of a race to the place where was Guleesh’s house and the rath. And when they came as far as that, Guleesh turned and caught the young girl in his two arms, and leaped off the horse.
“I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” said he; and on the spot, before the word was out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and what was in it but the beam of a plough, of which they had made a horse; and every other horse they had, it was that way they made it. Some of them were riding on an old besom, and some on a broken stick, and more on a bohalawn (rag weed), or a hemlock-stalk.
The good people called out together when they heard what Guleesh said:
“Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, that no good may happen you, why did you play that trick on us?”
But they had no power at all to carry off the girl, after Guleesh had consecrated her to himself.
[116]
“Oh, Guleesh, isn’t that a nice turn you did us, and we so kind to you? What good have we now out of our journey to Rome and to France? Never mind yet, you clown, but you’ll pay us another time for this. Believe us you’ll repent it.”
“He’ll have no good to get out of the young girl,” said the little man that was talking to him in the palace before that, and as he said the word he moved over to her and struck her a slap on the side of the head. “Now,” says he, “she’ll be without talk any more; now, Guleesh, what good will she be to you when she’ll be dumb? It’s time for us to go—but you’ll remember us, Guleesh na Guss Dhu!”
When he said that he stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh was able to give an answer, he and the rest of them were gone into the rath out of his sight, and he saw them no more.
He turned to the young woman and said to her: “Thanks be to God, they’re gone. Would you not sooner stay with me than with them?” She gave him no answer. “There’s trouble and grief on her yet,” said Guleesh in his own mind, and he spoke to her again: “............