AND THE UNIQUE TALE WITH AS MUCH OF THE ADVENTURES OF GILLY OF THE GOATSKIN AS IS GIVEN IN “THE CRANESKIN BOOK”

I

He came to the house that was thatched with the one great wing of a bird, and, as before, the Little Sage of the Mountain asked him to do a day’s work. The King’s Son reaped the corn for the Little Sage, and as he was reaping it his two foster-brothers, Dermott and Downal, rode by on their fine horses. They did not know who the young fellow was who was reaping in the field and they shouted for the Little Sage of the Mountain to come out of the house and speak to them. “We want to know where to find the Gobaun Saor who is to give us the Sword of Light,” said Dermott.

“Come in,” said the Sage, “and help me with my day’s work, and I’ll search in my book for some direction.”

“We can’t do such an unprincely thing as take service with you,” said Downal. “Tell us now where we must go to find the Gobaun Saor.”

“I think you have made a mistake,” said the Little Sage. “I’m an ignorant man, and I can’t answer such a question without study.”

“Ride on, brother,” said Downal, “he can tell us nothing.” Dermott and Downal rode off on their fine horses, the silver bells on their bridles ringing.

That night, when he had eaten his supper, the Little Sage told the King’s Son where to go. It is forbidden to tell where the King of Ireland’s Son found the Builder and Shaper for the Gods. In a certain place he came to where the Gobaun Saor had set up his forge and planted his anvil, and he saw the Gobaun Saor beating on a shape of iron.

“You want to find the Sword of Light,” said the Gobaun, his eyes as straight as the line of a sword-blade, “but show me first your will, your mind and your purpose.”

“How can I do that?” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“Guard my anvil for a few nights,” said the Gobaun Saor. “A Fua comes out of the river sometimes and tries to carry it off.”

The Gobaun Saor had to make a journey to look at trees that were growing in the forest, and the King’s Son guarded his anvil. And at night a Fua came out of the river and flung great stones, striving to drive him away from the anvil. He ran down to the river bank to drive it away, but the creature caught him in its long arms and tried to drown him in the deep water. The King of Ireland’s Son was near his death, but he broke away from the Fua, and when the creature caught him again, he dragged it up the bank and held it against a tree. “I will give you the mastery of all arts because you have mastered me,” said the Fua. “I do not want the mastery of arts, but maybe you can tell me where to find the Sword of Light.” “You want to know that—do you?” said the Fua, and then it twisted from him and went into the river.

The Fua came the next night and flung stones as before, and the King’s Son wrestled with it in the very middle of the river, and held him so that he could not get to the other bank. “I will give you heaps of wealth because you have mastered me,” said the creature with the big eyes and the long arms. “Not wealth, but the knowledge of where to come on the Sword of Light is what I want from you,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. But the Fua twisted from him and ran away again.

The next night the Fua came again, and the King’s Son wrestled with him in the middle of the river and followed him up the other bank, and held him against a tree. “I will give you the craft that will make you the greatest of Kings, because you have mastered me.” “Not craft, but knowledge of where the Sword of Light is, I want from you,” said the King’s Son. “Only one of the People of Light can tell you that,” said the Fua. It became a small, empty sort of creature and lay on the ground like a shadow.

The Gobaun Saor came back to his forge and his anvil. “You have guarded my anvil for me,” he said, “and I will tell you where to go for the Sword of Light. It is in the Palace of the Ancient Ones under the Lake. You have an enchanted steed that can go to that Lake. I shall turn his head, and he shall go straight to it. When you come to the edge of the Lake pull the branches of the Fountain Tree and give the Slight Red Steed the leaves to eat. Mount now and go.”

The King of Ireland’s Son mounted the Slight Red Steed and went traveling again.

II

From all its branches, high and low, water was falling in little streams. This was the Fountain Tree indeed. He did not dismount, the King of Ireland’s Son, but pulled the branches and he gave them to the Slight Red Steed to eat.

He ate no more than three mouthfuls. Then he stamped on the ground with his hooves, lifted his head high and neighed three times. With that he plunged into the water of the Lake and swam and swam as if he had the strength of a dragon. He swam while there was light on the water and he swam while there was night on the water, and when the sun of the next day was a hand’s breadth above the lake he came to the Black Island.

All on that Island was black and burnt, and there were black ashes up to the horse’s knees. And no sooner had the Slight Red Steed put his hooves on the Island than he galloped straight to the middle of it. He galloped through an opening in the black rock and went through a hundred passages, each going lower than the other, and at last he came into the wide space of a hall.

The hall was lighted. When the King’s Son looked to see where the light came from he saw a sword hanging from the roof. And the brightness of the Sword was such that the hall was well lighted. The King of Ireland’s Son galloped the Slight Red Steed forward and made it rear up. His hand grasped the hilt of the Sword. As he pulled it down the Sword screeched in his hand.

He flashed it about and saw what other things were in the Cave. He saw one woman, and two women and three women. He came to them and he saw they were sleeping. And as he flashed the Sword about he saw other women sleeping too. There were twelve women in the Cave where the Sword of Light had been hanging and the women were sleeping.

And in the hands of each of the sleeping women was a great gemmed cup. The spirit of the King’s Son had grown haughty since he felt the Sword in his hands. “You have the sword, why should you not have the cup?” something within him said. He took a cup from the hands of one of the sleeping women and drank the bubbling water that it held. His spirit grew more haughty with that draught. From the hands of each of the twelve sleeping women he took the cup and he drank the draught of bubbling water that it held. And when he had drunk the twelve draughts of bubbling water he felt that with the Sword of Light in his hands he could cut his way through the earth.

He mounted the Slight Red Steed and rode it through the Cave and swam it across the Lake with No Name. He held the Sword of Light across his saddle. The Steed went as the current drew him, for it was long since he had eaten the leaves of the Fountain Tree, and the spirit that had made him vigorous coming was feeble now. The current brought them to the shore below where the Fountain Tree grew.

And there on the shore he saw a bunch of little men, little women and littler children, all with smoke-colored skins, all with but one eye in their heads, all crying and screaming at each other like sea-birds, and all sitting round a fire of dried water weeds, cooking and eating eels and crab-apples.

The King of Ireland’s Son put his hands on the bridle-rein and drew the Slight Red Steed out of the water. The women with one right eye and the men with one left eye, and the children in their bare smoky skins screamed at him, “What do you want, what do you want, man with the horse?”

“Feed and water my steed for me,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“We are the Swallow People, and no one commands us to do things,” said an old fellow with a beard like knots of ropes.

“Feed my steed with red wheat and water it with pure spring water,” said the King’s Son fiercely. “I am the King of Ireland’s Son and the Sword of Light is in my hands, and what I command must be done.”

“We are the Swallow People and we are accounted a harmless people,” said the old fellow.

“Why are ye harmless?” said the King’s Son, and he flourished the sword at them.

“Come into our cave, King’s Son,” said the old fellow, “we will give you refreshment there, and the children will attend to your steed.”

He went into the cave with certain of the Swallow People. They were all unmannerly. They kept screaming and crying to each other; they pulled at the clothes of the King’s Son and pinched him. One of them bit his hands. When they came into the cave they all sat down on black stones. One pulled in a black ass loaded with nets. They took the nets off its back, and before the King’s Son knew that anything was about to happen they threw the nets around him. The meshes of the nets were sticky. He felt himself caught. He ran at the Swallow People and fell over a stone. Then they drew more nets around his legs.

The old fellow whom he had commanded took up the Sword of Light. Then the Swallow People pulled up the ass that had carried the nets and rubbed its hard hoof on the Sword. The King’s Son did not know what happened to it. Then he heard them cry, “The brightness is gone off the thing now.” They left the Sword on a black rock, and now no light came from it. Then all the Swallow People scrambled out of the cave.

They came back eating eels and crab-apples out of their hands. They paid no attention to the King of Ireland’s Son, but climbed into a cave above where he was lying.

He broke the nets that were round him. He found the Sword on the black stones, with the brightness all gone from it because of the rubbing with the ass’s hoof. He climbed up the wall of the other cave to punish the Swallow People. They saw him before he could see them in the darkness, and they all went into holes and hid themselves as if they were rats and mice.

With the blackened sword in his hands the King of Ireland’s Son went out of the Cave, and the horse he had left behind, the Slight Red Steed, was not to be found.

III

Without a steed and with a blackened sword the King of Ireland’s Son came to where the Gobaun Saor had set up his forge and planted his anvil. No water nor sand would clean the Sword, but he left it down before the Gobaun Saor, hoping that he would show him a way to dean it. “The Sword must be bright that will kill the King of the Land of Mist and cut the tress that will awaken the Enchanter’s daughter,” said the Gobaun Saor. “You have let the Sword be blackened. Carry the blackened Sword with you now.”

“Brighten it for me and I will serve you,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“It is not easy for me to brighten the Sword now,” said the Gobaun Saor. “But find me the Unique Tale and what went before its beginning and what comes after its end, and I shall brighten the sword for you and show you the way to the Land of Mist. Go now, and search for the Unique Tale.”

He went, and he had many far journeys, I can tell you, and he found no person who had any knowledge of the Unique Tale or who knew any way of coming to the Land of Mist. One twilight in a wood he saw a great bird flying towards him. It lighted on an old tree, and the King of Ireland’s Son saw it was Laheen the Eagle.

“Are you still a friend to me, Eagle?” said the King’s Son.

“I am still a friend to you, King’s Son,” said Laheen.

“Then tell me where I should go to get knowledge of the Unique Tale,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“The Unique Tale—I never heard of it at all,” said Laheen the Eagle, changing from one leg to the other. “I am old,” she said, shaking her wings, “and I never heard of the Unique Tale.”

The King’s Son looked and saw that Laheen was really old. Her neck was bare of feathers and her wings were gray. “Oh, if you are so old,” said the King’s Son, “and have gone to so many places, and do not know of the Unique Tale, to whom can I go to get knowledge of it?”

“Listen,” said Laheen the Eagle, “there are five of us that are called the Five Ancient Ones of Ireland, and it is not known which one of the five is the oldest. There is myself, Laheen the Eagle; there is Blackfoot the Elk of Ben Gulban, there is the Crow of Achill, the Salmon of Assaroe and the Old Woman of Beare. We do not know ourselves which of us is the oldest, but we know that we five are the most ancient of living things. I have never heard of the Unique Tale,” said Laheen, “but maybe one of the other Ancients has heard of it.”

“I will go to them,” said the King’s Son. “Tell me how I will find the Crow of Achill, the Elk of Ben Gulban, the Salmon of Assaroe and the Old Woman of Beare—tell me how to go to them, Laheen the Eagle.”

“You need not go to the Salmon of Assaroe,” said the Eagle, “for the Salmon would not have heard any tale. I will get you means of finding the other three. Follow the stream now until you come to the river. Wait at the ford and I will fly to you there.” Laheen the Eagle then shook her wings and flew slowly away. The King of Ireland’s Son followed the stream until he came to the river—the River of the Ox it was.

IV

And having come to the River of the Ox he sought the ford and waited there for Laheen the Eagle. When it was high noon he saw the shadow of the Eagle in the water of the ford. He looked up. Laheen let something fall into the shallows. It was a wheel. Then Laheen lighted on the rocks of a waterfall above the ford and spoke to the King of Ireland’s Son.

“Son of King Connal,” she said, “roll this wheel before you and follow it where it goes. It will bring you first where Blackfoot the Elk abides. Ask the Elk has he knowledge of the Unique Tale. If he has no knowledge of it start the wheel rolling again. It will bring you then where the Crow of Achill abides. If the Crow cannot tell you anything of the Unique Tale, let the wheel bring you to where the Old Woman of Beare lives. If she cannot tell you of the Unique Tale, I cannot give you any further help.”

Laheen the Eagle then spread out her wings and rising above the mist of the waterfall flew away.

The King of Ireland’s Son took the wheel out of the shallow water and set it rolling before him. It went on without his touching it again. Then he was going and ever going with the clear day going before him and the dark night coming behind him, going through scrubby fields and shaggy bog-lands, going up steep mountain sides and along bare mountain ridges, until at last he came to a high mound on a lonesome mountain. And as high as the mound and as lonesome as the mountain was the Elk that was standing there with wide, wide horns. The wheel ceased rolling.

“I am from Laheen the Eagle,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

The Elk moved his wide-horned head and looked down at him. “And why have you come to me, son?” said the Elk.

“I came to ask if you had knowledge of the Unique Tale,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“I have no knowledge of the Unique Tale,” said the Elk in a deep voice.

“And are you not Blackfoot, the Elk of Ben Gulban, one of the five of the oldest creatures in the world?” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“I am the Elk of Ben Gulban,” said Blackfoot, “and it may be that there is no creature in the world more ancient than I am. The Fianna hunted me with their hounds before the Sons of Mile’ came to the Island of Woods. If it was a Tale of Finn or Caelta or Goll, of Oscar or Oisin or Conan, I could tell it to you. But I know nothing of the Unique Tale.”

Then Blackfoot the Elk of Ben Gulban turned his wide-horned head away and looked at the full old moon that was coming up in the sky. And the King of Ireland’s Son took up the wheel and went to look for a shelter. He found a sheep-cote on the side of the mountain and lay down and slept between sheep.

V

When the sun rose he lifted up the wheel and set it going before him. He was going and ever going down long hillsides and across spreading plains till he came to where old trees and tree-stumps were standing hardly close enough together to keep each other company. The wheel went through this ancient wood and stopped before a fallen oak-tree. And sitting on a branch of that oak, with a gray head bent and featherless wings gathered up to her neck was a crow.

“I come from Laheen the Eagle,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“What did you say?” said the Crow, opening one eye.

“I come from Laheen the Eagle,” said the King of Ireland’s Son again.

“Oh, from Laheen,” said the Crow and dosed her eye again.

“And I came to ask for knowledge of the Unique Tale,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

“Laheen,” said the Crow, “I remember Laheen the Eagle.” Keeping her eyes shut, she laughed and laughed until she was utterly hoarse. “I remember Laheen the Eagle,” she said again. “Laheen never found out what I did to her once. I stole the Crystal Egg out of her nest. Well, and how is Laheen the Eagle?” she said sharply, opening one eye.

“Laheen is well,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. “She sent me to ask if you had knowledge of the Unique Tale.”

“I am older than Laheen,” said the Crow. “I remember Paralon’s People. The Salmon of Assaroe always said he was before Paralon’s People. But never mind! Laheen can’t say that. If I could only get the feathers to stay on my wings I’d pay Laheen a visit some day. How are Laheen and her bird-flocks?”

“O Crow of Achill,” said the King of Ireland’s Son, “I was sent to ask if you had knowledge of the Unique Tale.”

“The Unique Tale! No, I never heard of it,” said the Crow. She gathered her wings up to her neck again and bent her gray head.

“Think, O Crow of Achill,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. “I will bring you the warmest wool for your nest.”

“I never heard of the Unique Tale,” said the Crow. “Tell Laheen I was asking for her.” Nothing would rouse the Crow of Achill again. The King of Ireland’s Son set the wheel rolling and followed it. Then he was going and ever going with the clear day before him and the dark night coming behind him. He came to a wide field where there were field-fares or ground larks in companies. He crossed it. He came to a plain of tall daisies where there were thousands of butterflies. He crossed it. He came to a field of buttercups where blue pigeons were feeding. He crossed it. He came to a field of flax in blue blossom. He crossed it and came to a smoke-blackened stone house deep sunk in the ground. The wheel stopped rolling before it and he went into the house.

An old woman was seated on the ground before the fire basting a goose. A rabbit-skin cap was on her hairless head and there were no eye-brows on her face. Three strange birds were eating out of the pot—a cuckoo, a corncrake and a swallow. “Come to the fire, gilly,” said the old woman when she looked round.

“I am not a gilly, but the King of Ireland’s Son,” said he.

“Well, let that be. What do you want of me?”

“Are you the Old Woman of Beare?”

“I have been called the Old Woman of Beare since your fore-great-grandfather’s time.”

“How old are you, old mother?”

“I do not know. But do you see the three birds that are picking out of my pot? For two score years the swallow was coming to my house and building outside. Then he came and built inside. Then for three score years he was coming into my house to build here. Now he never goes across the sea at all, and do you see the corncrake? For five score years she was coming to the meadow outside. Then she began to run into the house to see what was happening here. For two score years she was running in and out. Then she stayed here altogether. Now she never goes across the sea at all. And do you see the cuckoo there? For seven score years she used to come to a tree that was outside and sing over her notes. Then when the tree was gone, she used to light on the roof of my house. Then she used to come in to see herself in a looking glass. I do not know how many score years the cuckoo was going and coming, but I know it is many score years since she went across the sea.”

“I went from Laheen the Eagle to Blackfoot the Elk, and from the Elk of Ben Gulban to the Crow of Achill, and from the Crow of Achill, I come to you to ask if you have knowledge of the Unique Tale.”

“The Unique Tale, indeed,” said the Old Woman of Beare. “One came to me only last night to tell me the Unique Tale. He is the young man who is counting the horns.”

“What young man is he and what horns is he counting?”

“He is no King’s Son, but a gilly—Gilly of the Goat-skin he is called. He is counting the horns that are in two pits outside. When the horns are counted I will know the number of my half-years.”

“How is that, old mother?”

“My father used to kill an ox every year on my birthday, and after my father’s death, my servants, one after the other, used to kill an ox for me. The horns of the oxen were put into two pits, one on the right-hand side of the house and one on the left-hand side. If one knew the number of the horns one would know the number of, my half-years, for every pair of horns goes to make a year of my life. Gilly of the Goatskin is counting the horns for me now, and when he finishes counting them I will let him tell the Unique Tale.”

“But you must let me listen to the tale too, Old Woman of Beare.”

“If you count the horns in one pit I will let you listen to the tale.”

“Then I will count the horns in one pit.”

“Go outside then and count them.”

The King of Ireland’s Son went outside. He found on the right-hand side of the house a deep quarry-pit. Round the edge of it were horns of all kinds, black horns and white horns, straight horns and crooked horns. And below in the pit he saw a young man digging for horns that were sunk in the ground. He had on a jacket made of the skin of a goat.

“Who are you?” said the young man in the quarry-pit. “I am the King of Ireland’s Son. And who may you be?”

“Who I am I don’t know,” said the young man in the goatskin, “but they call me Gilly of the Goatskin. What have you come here for?”

“To get knowledge of the Unique Tale.”

“And it was to tell the same Unique Tale that I came here myself. Why do you want to know the Unique Tale?”

“That would make a long story. Why do you want to tell it?”

“That would make a longer story. There is a quarry-pit at the left-hand side of the house filled with horns and it must be your task to count them.”

“I will count them,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. “But you will be finished before me. Do not tell the Old Woman of Beare the Tale until we both sit down together.”

“If that suits you it will suit me,” said Gilly of the Goatskin, and he began to dig again.

The King of Ireland’s Son went to the left-hand side of the house. He found the quarry-pit and went into it to count the horns that were there—black horns and white horns, straight horns and crooked horns. And now, while the King of Ireland’s Son is in the quarry-pit, I will tell you the adventures of Gilly—the Lad or the Servant—of the Goatskin, which adventures are written in “The Craneskin Book.”

VI

He never stirred out of the cradle till he was past twelve years of age, but lay there night and day, long days and short days; the only garment he ever put on was a goatskin; a hunter had once put it down on the floor beside his cradle and he reached out with his two hands, drew it in and put the goatskin on him. He got his name and his coat at the same time, for he was called ever afterwards “Gilly of the Goatskin.”

But although he never stirred out of the cradle, Gilly of the Goatskin had ways of diverting himself. He used to shoot arrows with a bow out of the door of the house and hit a mark on a tree that was opposite him. And where did he get the bow and arrows? The bow fell down from the roof of the house and into the cradle. And as for arrows he used to make them out of the wands that the Hags brought in to make baskets with. But the Hags never saw him using the bow and sending off the arrows. All day they would be going along the streams gathering the willow wands for the baskets they made.

He knew nobody except the three Hags of the Long Teeth, and he had never heard the name of mother or father. Often, when she was peeling the wands with a black-handled knife, the Hag of the House used to tell Gilly of the Goatskin the troubles that were in store for him—danger from the sword and the spear and the knife, from water and fire, from the beasts of the earth and the birds of the air. She delighted to tell him about the evils that would befall him. And she used to laugh when she told him he was a hump-back and that people would throw stones at him.

One day when the Hags were away gathering willow wands, Gilly turned the cradle over and lay under it. He wanted to see what they would do when they did not see him sitting up in the cradle. They came in. Gilly looked through a crack in the cradle and saw the Hags—they were old and crooked and had long teeth that came down below their chins.

“He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone!” screamed the Hag of the House, when she did not see Gilly in the cradle.

“He’s gone,” said one of the long-toothed Hags. “I told you he would go away. Why didn’t you cut out his heart yesterday, or the day before?”

“Mind what I tell you,” said the other Hag of the Long Teeth. “Mind what I tell you. His father’s son will grow into a powerful champion.”

“Not he,” said the Hag of the House, with great anger. “He’ll never become a Champion. He’s only a little hump-backed fellow with no weapons and with no garment but a goatskin.”

“It would be better to kill him when he comes back,” said the first of the Hags with the Long Teeth.

“And if he doesn’t come back, tell the Giant Crom Duv,” said the second.

Gilly of the Goatskin crept from under the cradle, put his bow resting on the bottom that was now turned uppermost, took up some of the rods that were on the floor and then shouted at the Hags. “Oh, if that’s a hazel rod he has at his bow he will kill us all,” they screamed out together.

He drew back the string, fired the willow rod and struck the middle Hag full on the breast. The three Hags fell down on the ground. The pot that was always hanging over the fire turned itself upside down and the house was filled with smoke. Gilly of the Goatskin, the bow in his hand, sprang across the cradle, over the threshold of the door, and out into the width and the height, the length and the breadth, the gloom and the gleam of the world.

VII

He was out, as I have said, in the width and the height, the length and the breadth, the gloom and the gleam of the world. He fired arrows into the air. He leaped over ditches, he rolled down hillsides, he raced over level places until he came to what surprised him more than all the things in the world—a river. He had never seen such water before and he wondered to see it moving with swiftness. “Where is it going?” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “Does it go on like that in the night as well as in the day?” He ran by its side and shouted to the river. He saw a wide-winged bird flying across it. It was the bird that we call the crane or the heron. And as Gilly watched the great winged thing he saw that it held a little animal in its claws. Gilly fired an arrow and the crane dropped towards the ground. The little animal that was in its claws fell down. The crane rose up again and flew back across the river.

The little animal that had been in the claws of the crane came to Gilly of the Goatskin. It was smaller than the one-eyed cat that used to sit on the hearth of the Hag of the House. It kept its head up and was very bold-looking. “Good morning, Lad in the Goatskin,” it said to Gilly, “you saved my life and I’m very thankful to you.” “What are you?” said Gilly of the Goat-skin. “I’m the Weasel. I’m the boldest and bravest creature in this country. I’m the lion of these parts, I am. And,” said the Weasel, “I never served anyone before, but I’ll be your servant for a quarter of a year. Tell me what way you’re going and I’ll go with you.” “I’m going the way he’s going,” said Gilly, nodding towards the river, “and I’ll keep beside him till he wants to turn back.” “Oh, then you’ll have to go a long way,” said the Weasel, “but I’ll go with you no matter bow far you go.” The Weasel walked by Gilly’s side very bravely and very independently.

“Oh, look,” said Gilly to the Weasel, “what is that that’s in the water?”

The Weasel looked and saw a crystal egg in the shallows.

“It’s an egg,” said the Weasel, “I often eat one myself. I’ll bring it up from the bottom to you. I’m good at carrying eggs.”

The Weasel went into the water and put his mouth to the egg and tried to lift it. He could not move it. He tried to lift it with his paws as well as with his mouth; but this did not do either. He came up the bank then, and said to Gilly, “You’ll think I’m a poor sort of a servant because I can’t take an egg out of the water. But if I can’t win one way I’ll win another way.” He went into the reeds by the river and he said, “Hear me, frogs! There’s a great army coming to take you out of the reeds and eat you red and raw.” Then Gilly saw the queer frogs lifting up their heads, “Oh, what will we do, what will we do?” they cried to the Weasel. “There’s only one thing to be done,” said the Weasel. “You gather up all the pebbles in the bed of the fiver and we’ll make a big wail on the bank to defend you.” The frogs dived into the water at once and dragged up pebbles. Gilly and the Weasel piled them on the bank. Then three frogs carried up the Crystal Egg. The Weasel took it from them when they left it on the bank. Then he climbed a tree and cried out to the frogs, “The army is frightened and is running away.” “Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the frogs, “we’ll never forget your goodness to us.” Then they sat down in the marsh and told each other what a narrow escape they all had.

The Weasel gave Gilly the Crystal Egg. It was heavy and he carried it for a while in his hand. They went on. After a while said Gilly of the Goatskin, “The night’s coming on and the fiver shows no sign of turning back. I wish there was a nice place to shelter us.” No sooner did he say the word than he and the Weasel found them-selves standing before the open door of a nice little house. They went in. A clear fire was burning on the hearth, an arm chair was before it, and a bed was made at the other side of the fire. “This is good,” said Gilly, “and now I wish that we had something to eat.” No sooner did he say the words than a table appeared with bread and meat, fruit and wine on it. “Where do these fine things come from, I wonder,” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “It’s my belief,” said the Weasel, “that all these things come to us on account of the egg you have in your hand. It’s a magic egg.” Gilly of the Goatskin put the egg on the table and wished that he might see himself as he had seen himself in the river. Nothing appeared. Then he took the egg in his hand and wished again. And then there was a looking glass on the wall before him, and he saw himself in it better than he had seen himself in the river. Gilly of the Goatskin knew that he had only to hold the Crystal Egg in his hand and wish, to get all he could think of.

VIII

Gilly of the Goatskin wished for wide windows in his house and he got them. He wished for a light within when there was darkness without, and he got a silver lamp that burned until he wished to sleep. He wished for the songs of birds and he had a blackbird singing upon his half-door, a lark over his chimney, a goldfinch and a green linnet within his window, and a shy wren in the evening singing from the top of his dresser. Then he wished to hear the conversation of the beasts and all the creatures of the fields and the wood and the mountain top came into his house.

The hare used to come in early in the morning. He was always the first visitor and he never remained long, and always while he was there he kept running up and down the house, and he generally ended his visit by jumping through the open window. The martens, the beautiful wild cats of the wood, came in to see Gilly once; they were very proud and told him nothing. The little black rabbits were very much impressed by the martens, and all the time the martens were there they stayed under the bed and the chairs. Two or three times the King of the Wood himself—the Boar of the Bristles and the Long Tusks—came to see Gilly; he used to push open the door and then stand in the middle of the floor grunting and grunting. Once he brought his wife with him, and six or seven of their little pigs that went running over the floor, with their ears hanging over their eyes, came with them too. The hedgehogs used to come, but they always made themselves disagreeable. They just lay down by the fire and snored, and when they wakened up they quarrelled with each other. Everybody said that the hedgehogs’ children were very badly brought up and very badly provided for. The squirrels who were so clean and careful, and so fond of their children, thought the hedgehogs were very bad creatures indeed. “It is just like them to have dirty sticky thorns around them instead of nice clean fur,” said the squirrel’s wife. “But, my dear,” said the squirrel, “every animal can’t have fur.” “How well,” said she, “the rabbits have fur, though dear knows they’re creatures of not much account. It’s all just to let us see that they’re some relation of that horrible, horrible boar that goes crashing and marching through the wood.”

The deer never came into the house, and Gilly had a shed made for them outside. They would come into it and stay there for many nights and days, and Gilly used to go out and talk with them. They knew about far countries, and strange paths and passes, but they did not know so much about men and about the doings of other creatures as the Fox did.

The Fox used to come in the evening and stay until nearly morning whether Gilly fell asleep or kept awake. The Fox was a very good talker. He used to lie down at the hearth with his paws stretched out, and tell about this one and that one, and what she said and what he did. If the Fox came to see you, and if he was in good humor for talking, you would stay up all night to listen to him. I know I should. It was the Fox who told Gilly what the Crow of Achill did to Laheen the Eagle. She had stolen the Crystal Egg that Laheen was about to hatch—the Crystal Egg that the Crane had left on a bare rock. It was the Fox who told Gilly how the first cat came into the world. And it was the Fox who told Gilly about the generations of the eel. All I say is that it is a pity the Fox cannot be trusted, for a better one to talk and tell a story it would be hard to find. He was always picking up and eating things that had been left over—a potato roasting in the ashes, an apple left upon a plate, a piece of meat under a cover. Gilly did not grudge these things to Rory the Fox and he always left something in a bag for him to take home to the young foxes.

I had nearly forgotten to tell you about Gilly’s friend, the brave Weasel. He had made a home for himself under the roof. Sometimes he would go away for a day or so and he would never tell Gilly where he had been. When he was at home he made himself the door-keeper of Gilly’s house. If any of the creatures made themselves disagreeable by quarrelling amongst each other, or by being uncivil to Gilly, the Weasel would just walk over to them and look them in the eyes. Then that creature went away. Always he held his head up and if Gilly asked him for advice he would say three words, “Have no fear; have no fear.”

One day Gilly wanted to have a bunch of cherries with his dinner, and he went to find the Crystal Egg so that he might wish for it. The Crystal Egg was not in the place he had left it. He called the Weasel and the two of them searched the house. The Crystal Egg was nowhere to be found. “One of the creatures has stolen the Egg,” said the Weasel, “but whoever stole it I will make bring it back. I’ll soon find out who did it.” The Weasel walked up to every creature that came in, looked him or her in the eye and said, “Did you steal the Crystal Egg?” And every creature that came in said, “No, Little Lion, I didn’t steal it.” Next day they had examined every creature except the Fox. The Fox had not been in the night before nor the night before that again. He did not come in the evening they missed the Crystal Egg nor the evening after that evening. That night the Weasel said, “As sure as there are teeth in my head the Fox stole the Crystal Egg. As soon as there is light we’ll search for him and make him give the Egg back to us.”

IX

The Weasel was right; it was Rory the Fox who had stolen Gilly’s Crystal Egg. One night, just as he was leaving Gilly’s house, the moon shone full upon the Crystal Egg. In the turn of a hand Rory the Fox had made a little spring and had taken the Egg in his mouth. Then he slipped out by the door as quick and as quiet as a leaf blown in the wind.

He couldn’t help himself stealing the Egg, when the chance came. He had had a dream about it. He dreamt that the Egg had been hatched and that out of it had come the most toothsome bird that a Fox had ever taken by the neck. He snapped his teeth in his sleep when he dreamt of it. The Fox told his youngsters about the bird he had dreamt of—a bird as big as a goose and so fat on the neck and the breast that it could hardly stir from sitting. The youngsters had smacked their lips and snapped their teeth. Every time he came home now they used to say to him—“Father, have you brought us the Boobrie Bird?” No wonder that his eyes used to turn to the Crystal Egg when he sat in Gilly’s house. And then because the moon shone on it just as he was leaving, and because he knew that Gilly’s back was turned, he could not keep himself from making a little spring and taking the Crystal Egg softly in his mouth.

He went amongst the dark, dark trees with the soft and easy trot of a Fox. He knew well what he should do with the Egg. He had dreamt that it had been hatched by the Spae-Woman’s old rheumatic goose. This goose was called Old Mother Hatchie and the Fox had never carried her off because he knew she was always hatching out goslings for his table. He went through the trees and across the fields towards the Spae-Woman’s house.

The Spae-Woman lived by telling people their fortunes and reading them their dreams. That is why she was called the Spae-Woman. The people gave her goods for telling them their dreams and fortunes and she left her land and stock to whatever chanced. The fences of her fields were broken and rotted. Her hens had been carried off by the Fox. Her goat had gone wild. She had neither ox nor ass nor sheep nor pig. The Fox went through her fence now as lightning would go through a gooseberry bush and he came out before her barn. There was a hole in the barn-door and he went through that. And in the north-west corner of the barn, he saw Old Mother Hatchie sitting on a nest of straw and he knew that there was a clutch of eggs under her. She cackled when she saw the Fox on the floor of the barn but she never stirred off the nest. Rory left what was in his mouth on the ground. Old Mother Hatchie put her head on one side and looked at the Egg that was clear in the full moonlight.

“This egg, Mistress Hatchie,” said Rory the Fox, “is from the Hen-wife of the Queen of Ireland. The Queen asked the Hen-wife to ask me to leave it with you. She thinks there’s no bird in the world but yourself that is worthy to hatch it and to rear the gosling that comes out of it.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Mother Hatchie. “Put it here, put it here.” She lifted her wing and the Fox put the Crystal Egg into the brood-nest.

He went out of the barn, crossed the field again, and went amongst the dark, dark trees. He went along slowly now for he began to think that Gilly might find out who stole the Crystal Egg and be vexed with him. Then he thought of the Weasel. The Fox began to think he might be sorry for himself if the Weasel was set on his track.

Rory did not go to Gilly’s house the next night nor the night after. The third night, as he was going home from a ramble, the Owl hooted at him. “Why do you hoot at me, Big Moth?” said the Fox stopping in his trot. (He always called the Owl “Big Moth” to pretend that he thought she wasn’t a bird at all, but a moth. He made this pretence because he was annoyed that he could never get an owl to eat). “Why do you hoot at me, Big Moth?” said he. “The Weasel’s going to have your bones for his stepping-stones and your blood for his morning dram,” said the Owl balefully as she went amongst the dark, dark trees. The Fox stopped long to consider. Then he went to his burrow and told his youngsters they would have to move house. He had them stirring at the first light. He gave them a frog each for their breakfast and took them across the country. They came to a burrow that Old-Fellow Badger had just left and Rory the Fox brought his youngsters into it and told them that it would be their new house.

X

The evening after when Rory the Fox was taking his nap he heard one of his youngsters give a sharp cry. They were playing outside the burrow, lie looked out and he saw that his three youngsters were afraid of something that was between them and the burrow. He looked again and saw the Weasel.

“Ahem,” said Rory the Fox, “and how are we this morning?”

The Weasel had marked one of Rory’s youngsters for attack. Although Rory spoke, he never took his eyes off the youngster he had marked.

“My dear friend,” said the Fox, “I was just going to say—if you are looking for anything, perhaps I could tell you where it might be found.”

“Crystal Egg,” said the Weasel without ever taking away his blood-thirsty gaze from Rory’s youngster.

“Oh, the Crystal Egg,” said Rory the Fox. “Yes, to be sure. I could bring you at once to the place where the Crystal Egg is.” He came out of the burrow and saw Gilly standing on the bank behind.

“I think it is time for my children to go back to their burrow,” said Rory the Fox. “Please excuse them, my friends.” The Weasel took his eyes off the youngster he had marked and the three little foxes scampered into the burrow.

“This way, friends,” said the Fox, and he started off towards the Spae-Woman’s house with the light and easy trot of a fox. Gilly and the Weasel went behind him. They crossed a field of flax, a field of hemp and a field of barley. They came to the broken fence before the Spae-Woman’s house, and in front of the house they saw the Spae-Woman herself and she was crying and crying.

The Fox hid behind the fence, the Weasel climbed up on the ditch and Gilly himself went to the woman.

“What ails you at all?” said Gilly to her.

“My goose—the only fowl left to me has been taken by robbers.”

“Ask her where the clutch of eggs is that the goose was hatching,” said Rory the Fox anxiously, putting his head over the fence.

“And where is the clutch of eggs, ma’am, that your goose was hatching?”

“The robbers took the nest with the goose and the eggs with the nest,” said the Spae-Woman.

“And the Crystal Egg was with the other eggs,” said the Fox to Gilly. He said no more. He made a quick turn and got clear away before the Weasel could spring on him. He ran back to his burrow. He told the little foxes they must change houses again. That night they lay in a wood and at the first light they crossed water and went to live on an island where the Weasel never came.

“Where did the robbers go with the goose, the nest, and the eggs?” said Gilly of the Goatskin.

“They went to the river,” said the Spae-Woman. “I followed them every inch of the way. They got into a boat and they hoisted their sails. They rowed and they rowed, so that the hard gravel of the bottom was brought to the top, and the froth of the top was driven down to the bottom of the river. And wherever they are,” said the Spae-Woman, “they are far from us now.”

“Will you come with me?” said Gilly to the Weasel, “we will track them down and take back the Crystal Egg.”

“I engaged myself to be with you for a quarter of a year,” said the Weasel, “and the three months are up now, Gilly. Winter is coming on and I must see to my own affairs.”

“Then good-by, Weasel,” said Gilly. “I will search for the Crystal Egg myself. But first I must ask the woman to let me rest in the house and to give me some provision for my journey.” The Weasel looked up into Gilly’s face and said good-by to him. Then Gilly followed the Spae-Woman into her house. “Ocone,” she was saying to herself, “my dream told me I was to lose my poor goose, and still I never did anything to make it hard for the robbers to take her from me.”

XI

Well, in the Spae-Woman’s house he stayed for three-quarters of a year. He often went in search of the robbers who had taken the Crystal Egg with the Spae-Woman’s goose, but no trace of them nor their booty could he ever find. He met birds and beasts who were his friends, but he could not have speech with them without the Egg that let him have anything he wished. He did work for the Spae-Woman—fixed her fences and repaired her barn and brought brosna for her fire every evening from the wood. At night, before he went to sleep, the Spae-Woman used to tell him her dreams of the night before and tell him about the people who had come to her house to have their fortunes told.

One Monday morning she said to him, “I have had an inlook, son of my heart, and I know that my gossip, the Churl of the Townland of Mischance, is going to come and take you into his service.”

“And what sort of a man is your gossip, the Churl of the Townland of Mischance?” Gilly asked.

“An unkind man. Two youths who served me he took away, one after the other, and miserable are they made by what he did to them. I’m in dread of your being brought to the Townland of Mischance.”

“Why are you in dread of it, Spae-Woman?” said Gilly. “Sure, I’ll be glad enough to see the world.”

“That’s what the other two youths said,” said the Spae-Woman. “Now I’ll tell you what my gossip the Churl of the Townland of Mischance does: he makes a bargain with the youth that goes into his service, telling him he will give him a guinea, a groat and a tester for his three months’ service. And he tells the youth that if he says he is sorry for the bargain he must lose his wages and part with a strip of his skin, an inch wide. He rode on a bob-tailed, big-headed, spavined and spotted horse, from his neck to his heel. Oh, he is an unkind man, my gossip, the Churl of the Townland of Mischance.”

“And is there no way to get the better of him?” asked Gilly.

“There is, but it is a hard way,” said the Spae-Woman. “If one could make him say that he, the master, is sorry for the bargain, the Churl himself would lose a strip of his skin an inch wide from his neck to his heel, and would have to pay full wages no matter how short a time the youth served him.”

“It’s a bargain anyway,” said Gilly, “and if he comes I’ll take service with the Churl of the Townland of Mischance.”

The first wet day that came brought the Churl of the Townland of Mischance. He rode on a bob-tailed, big-headed, spavined and spotted horse. He carried an ash-plant in his hand to flog the horse and to strike at the dogs that crossed his way. He had blue lips, eyes looking crossways and eyebrows like a furze bush. He had a bag before him filled with boiled pigs’ feet. Now when he rode up to the house, he had a pig’s foot to his mouth and was eating. He got down off the bob-tailed, big-headed, spavined and spotted horse, and came in.

“I heard there was a young fellow at your house and I want him to take service with me,” said he to the Spae-Woman.

“If the bargain is a good one I’ll take service with you,” said Gilly.

“All right, my lad,” said the Churl. “Here is the bargain, and it’s as fair as fair can be. I’ll give you a guinea, a groat and a tester for your three months’ work with me.”

“I believe it’s good wages,” said Gilly.

“It is. Howsoever, if you ever say you are sorry you made the bargain you will lose your wages, and besides that you will lose a strip of your skin an inch wide from your neck to your heel. I have to put that in or I’d never get work done for me at all. The serving boys are always saying ‘I can’t do that,’ and ‘I’m sorry I made the bargain with you.’”

“And if you say you’re sorry you made the bargain?”

“Oh, then I’ll have to lose a strip of my skin an inch wide from my neck to my heel, and besides that I’ll have to give you full wages no matter how short a time you served me.”

“Well, if that suits you it will suit me,” said Gilly of the Goatskin.

“Then walk beside my horse and we’ll get back to the Townland of Mischance to-night,” said the Churl. Then he swished his ash-plant towards Gilly and ordered him to get ready. The Spae-Woman wiped the tears from her face with her apron, gave Gilly a cake with her blessing, and he started off with the Churl for the Townland of Mischance.

XII

What did Gilly of the Goatskin do in the Townland of Mischance? He got up early and went to bed late; he was kept digging, delving and ditching until he was so tired that he could go to sleep in a furze bush; he ate a breakfast that left him hungry five hours before dinner-time, and he ate a dinner that made it seem long until supper-time. If he complained the Churl would say, “Well, then you are sorry for your bargain,” and Gilly would say “No,” rather than lose the wages he had earned and a strip of his skin into the bargain.

One day the Churl said to him, “Go into the town for salt for my supper, take the short way across the pasture-field, and be sure not to let the grass grow under your feet.” “All right, master,” said Gilly. “Maybe you would bring me my coat out of the house so that I needn’t make two journeys.” The Churl went into the house for Gilly’s coat. When he came back he found Gilly standing in the nice grass of the pasture-field lighting a wisp of hay. “What are you doing that for?” said the Churl to him. “To burn the grass on the pasture-field,” said Gilly. “To burn the grass on my pasture-field, you villain—the grass that is for my good race-horse’s feeding! What do you mean, at all?” “Sure, you told me not to let the grass grow under my feet,” said Gilly. “Doesn’t the world know that the grass is growing every minute, and how will I prevent it from growing under my feet if I don’t burn it?” With that he stooped down to put the lighted hay to the grass of the pasture-field. “Stop, stop,” said the Churl, “I meant that you were to go to the town, without loitering on the way.” “Well, it’s a pity you didn’t speak more clearly,” said Gilly, “for now the grass is a-fire.” The Churl bad to stamp on the grass to put the fire out. He burnt his shins, and that made him very angry. “O you fool,” said he to Gilly, “I’m sorry—” “Are you sorry for the bargain you made with me, Master?” “No. I was going to say I was sorry I hadn’t made my meaning clear to you. Go now to the town and bring me back salt for my supper as quickly as you can.”

After that the Churl was very careful when he gave Gilly an order to speak to him very exactly. This became a great trouble to him, for the people in the Townland of Mischance used always to say, “Don’t let the grass grow under your feet,” when they meant “Make haste,” and “Don’t be there until you’re back,” when they meant “Go quickly” and “Come with horses’ legs” when they meant “come with great speed.” He became tired of speaking to Gilly by the letter, so he made up his mind to give him an order that could not be carried out, so that he might have a chance of sending him away without the wages he had earned.

One Monday morning he called Gilly to the door of the house and said to him, “Take this sheep-skin to the market and bring me back the price of it and the skin.” “Very well, Master,” said Gilly. He put the skin across his arm and went towards the town. The people on the road said to him, “What do you want for the sheep-skin, young fellow?” “I want the skin and the price of it,” Gilly said. The people laughed at him and said, “You’re going to give yourself a long journey, young fellow.”

He went through the market asking for the skin and the price of it. Everyone joked about him. He went into the market-house and came to a woman who was buying things that no one else would buy. “What do you want, youth?” said she. “The price of the skin and the skin itself,” said Gilly. She took the skin from him and plucked the wool out of it. She put the wool in her bag and put the skin back on the board. “There’s the skin,” said she, “and here’s the price of it.” She left three groats and a tester on top of the skin.

The Churl had finished his supper when Gilly came into the house. “Well, Master, I’ve come back to you,” said Gilly. “Did you bring me the price of it and the skin itself?” said the Churl. “There is the skin,” said Gilly, putting on the table the sheep-skin with the wool plucked out of it. “And here’s the price of it—three groats and a tester,” said he, leaving the money on top of the skin.

After that the Churl of the Townland of Mischance began to be afraid that Gilly of the Goatskin would be too wise for him, and would get away at the end of the three months with his wages, a guinea, a groat and a tester, in his fist. This thought made the Churl very downcast, because, for many months now, he had got hard labor out of his serving-boys, without giving them a single cross for wages.

XIII

The day after Christmas the Churl said to Gilly, “This is Saint Stephen’s Day. I’m going to such a man’s barn to see the mummers perform a play. Foolish people give these idle fellows money for playing, but I won’t do any such thing as that. I’ll see something of what they are doing, drink a few glasses and get away before they start collecting money from the people that are watching them. They call this collection their dues, no less.”

“And what can I do for you, Master?” said Gilly. “Run into the barn at midnight and shout out, ‘Master, Master, your mill is on fire.’ That will give me an excuse for running out. Do you understand now what I want you to do?”

“I understand, Master.”

The Churl put on his coat and took his stick in his hand. “Mind what I’ve said to you,” said he. “Don’t be a minute later than midnight. Be sure to come in with a great rash—come in with horse’s legs—do you understand me?”

“I understand you, Master,” said Gilly.

The mummers were dancing before they began the play when the Churl came into the barn. “That’s a rich man,” said one of them to another. “We must see that he puts a good handful into our bag.” The Churl sat on the bench with the farmer who had a score of cows, with the blacksmith who shod the King’s horses, and with the merchant who had been in foreign parts and who wore big silver rings in his ears. Half the people who were there I could not tell you, but there were there—

Some said that the King of Ireland’s Son was there too. The play was “The Unicorn from the Stars.” The mummers did it very well although they had no one to take the part of the Unicorn.

They were in the middle of the play when Gilly of the Goatskin rushed into the barn. “Master, master,” he shouted, “your mill—your mill is on fire.” The Churl stood up, and then put his glass to his head and drained what was in it. “Make way for me, good people,” said he. “Let me out of this, good people.” Some people near the door began to talk of what Gilly held in his hands. “What have you there, my servant?” said the Churl. “A pair of horse’s legs, Master. I could only carry two of them.”

The Churl caught Gilly by the throat. “A pair of horse’s legs,” said he. “Where did you get a pair of horse’s legs?”

“Off a horse,” said Gilly. “I had trouble in cutting them off. Bad cess to you for telling me to come here with horse’s legs.”

“And whose horse did you cut the legs off?” “Your own, Master. You wouldn’t have liked me to cut the legs off any other person’s horse. And I thought your race-horse’s legs would be the most suitable to cut off.”

The mummers and the people were gathered round them and they saw the Churl’s face get black with vexation.

“O my misfortune, that ever I met with you,” said the Churl.

“Are you sorry for your bargain, Master?” said Gilly.

“Sorry—I’ll be sorry every day and night of my life for it,” said the Churl.

“You hear what my Master says, good people,” said Gilly.

“Aye, sure. He says he’s sorry for the bargain he made with you,” said some of the people.

“Then,” said Gilly, “strip him and put him across the bench until I cut a strip of his skin an inch wide from his neck to his heel.”

None of the people would consent to do that. “Well, I’ll tell you something that will make you consent,” said Gilly. “This man made two poor servant-boys work for him, paid them no wages, and took a strip of their skin, so that they are sick and sore to this day. Will that make you strip him and put him across the bench?”

“No,” said some of the people.

“He ordered me to come here to-night and to shout ‘Master, master, your mill is on fire,’ so that he might be able to leave without paying the mummers their dues. His mill is not on fire at all.”

“Strip him,” said the first mummer.

“Put him across the bench,” said another.

“Here’s a skinner’s knife for you,” said a third.

The mummers seized the Churl, stripped him and put him across the bench. Gilly took the knife and began to sharpen it on the ground.

“Have mercy on me,” said the Churl.

“You did not have mercy on the other two poor servant-boys,” said Gilly.

“I’ll give you your wages in full.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I’ll give you double wages to give to the other servant-boys.”

“And will you pay the mummers’ dues for all the people here?”

“No, no, no. I can’t do that.”

“Stretch out your neck then until I mark the place where I shall begin to cut the skin.”

“Don’t put the knife to me. I’ll pay the dues for all,” said the Churl.

“You heard what he said,” said Gilly to the people. “He will pay me wages in full, give me double wages to hand to the servant-boys he has injured, and pay the mummers’ dues for everyone.”

“We heard him say that,” said the people.

“Stand up and dress yourself,” said Gilly to the Churl. “What do I want with a strip of your skin? But I hope all here will go home with you and stand in your house until you have paid all the money that’s claimed from you.”

“We’ll go home with him,” said the mummers.

“We’ll stand on his floor until he has paid all the money he has agreed to pay,” said the others.

“And now I must tell you, neighbors,” said Gilly, “that I never cut the legs of a living horse—neither his horse nor anyone else’s. This pair was taken off a poor dead horse by the skinners that were cutting it up.”

Well, they all went to the Churl’s house and there they stayed until he opened his stone chest and took out his money-box and paid to the mummers the dues of all the people with sixpence over, and paid Gilly his wages in full, one guinea, one groat and a tester, and handed him double wages to give to each of the servant-boys he had injured. Gilly took the money and left the house of the Churl of the Townland of Mischance, and the people and the mummers went to the road with him, and cheered him as he went on his way.

XIV

So, without hap or mishap, Gilly came again to the house of the Spae-Woman. She was sitting at her door-step grinding corn with a quern when he came before her. She cried over him, not believing that he had come safe from the Townland of Mischance. And as long as he was with her she spoke to him of his “poor back.”

He stayed with her for two seasons. He mended her fences and he cleaned her spring-well; he ground her corn and he brought back her swarm of bees; he trained a dog to chase the crows out of her field; he had the ass shod, the sheep washed and the goat spancelled. The Spae-Woman was much beholden to him for all he did for her, and one day she said to him, “Gilly of the Goat-skin you are called, but another name is due to you now.” “And who will give me another name?” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “Who’ll give it to you? Who but the Old Woman of Beare,” said the Spae-Woman.

The next day she said to him, “I had a dream last night, and I know now what you are to do. You must go now to the Old Woman of Beare for the name that is due to you. And before she gives it to you, you must tell her and whoever else is in her house as much as you know of the Unique Tale.”

“But I know nothing at all of the Unique Tale,” said Gilly of the Goatskin.

“There is always a blank before a beginning,” said the Spae-Woman. “This evening, when I am grinding the corn at the quern I shall tell you the Unique Tale.”

That evening when she sat at the door-step of her house and when the sun was setting behind the elder-bushes the Spae-Woman told Gilly the third part of the Unique Tale. Then she baked a cake and killed a cock for him and told him to start on the morrow’s morning for the house of the Old Woman of Beare.

Well, he started off in the morning bright and early, leaving good health with the Spae-Woman behind him, and away he went, crossing high hills, passing low dales, and keeping on his way without halt or rest, the clear day going and the dark night coming, taking lodgings each evening wherever he found them, and at last he came to the house of the Old Woman of Beare.

He went into the house and found her making marks in the ashes of her fire while her cuckoo, her corncrake and her swallow were picking grains off the table.

“And what can I do for you, good youth?” said the Old Woman of Beare.

“Give me a name,” said Gilly, “and listen to the story I have to tell you.”

“That I will not,” said the Old Woman of Beare, “until you have done a task for me.”

“What task can I do for you?” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “I would know,” said she, “which of us four is the oldest creature in the world—myself or Laheen the Eagle, Blackfoot the Elk or the Crow of Achill—I leave the Salmon of Assaroe out of account altogether.”

“And how can a youth like me help you to know that?” said Gilly of the Goatskin.

“An ox was killed on the day I was born and on every one of my birthdays afterwards. The horns of the oxen are in two quarries outside. You must count them and tell me how much half of them amounts to and then I shall know my age.”

“That I’ll do if you feed me and give me shelter,” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “Eat as you like,” said the Old Woman of Beare. She pushed him a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. When he cut a slice of the loaf it was just as if nothing had been cut off, and when he took a cupful out of the bottle it was as if no water had been taken out of it at all. When he had drunk and eaten he left the complete loaf and the full bottle of water on the shelf, went outside and began to count the horns on the right-hand side.

On the second day a strange youth came to him and saluted him, and then went to count the horns in the quarry on the left-hand side. This youth was none other than the King of Ireland’s Son.

On the third day they had the horns all counted. Then Gilly of the Goatskin and the King of Ireland’s Son met together under a bush. “How many horns have you counted?” said the King of Ireland’s Son. “So many,” said Gilly of the Goatskin. “And how many horns have you counted?” “So many,” said the King of Ireland’s Son.

Just as they were adding the two numbers together they both heard sounds in the air—they were like the sounds that Bards make chanting their verses. And when they looked up they saw a swan flying round and round above them. And the swan chanted the story of the coming of the Milesians to Eirinn, and as the two youths listened they forgot the number of horns they had counted. And when the swan had flown away they looked at each other and as they were hungry they went into the house and ate slices of the unwasted loaf and drank cupfuls out of the inexhaustible bottle. Then the Old Woman of Beare wakened up and asked them to tell her the number of her years.

“We cannot tell you although we counted all the horns,” said the King of Ireland’s Son, “for just as we were putting the numbers together a swan sang to us and we forgot the number we had counted.”

“You didn’t do your task rightly,” she said, “but as I promised to give this youth a name and to listen to the story he had to tell, I shall have to let it be. You may tell the story now, Gilly of the Goatskin.”

They sat at the fire, and while the Old Woman of Beare spun threads on a very ancient spindle, and while the corncrake, the cuckoo and the swallow picked up grains and murmured to themselves, Gilly of the Goatskin told them the Unique Tale. And the story as Gilly of the Goatskin told it follows this.—