OFTEN a youth leaves Donegal and goes out into the world, does well for a time, writes frequently home to his own people, sends them a sum of money in every letter (which shows that he is not a spendthrift), asking them for a little gift in return, a scapular blessed by the priest, or a bottle of water from the holy well (which shows that he has not forgotten the faith in which he was born); but in the end he ceases to write, drops out of the ken of his people and disappears. The father mourns the son for a while, regrets that the usual money-order is not forthcoming, weeps little, for too much sentiment is foreign to the hardened sensibilities of the poor; the mother tells her beads and does not fail to say one extra decade for the boy or to give a hard-earned guinea to the priest for masses for the gasair’s soul. Time rapidly dries their tears of regret, their sorrow disappears and the more pressing problems of their lives take up their whole interests again. In later years they may learn that their boy died of fever in a hospital, or was killed by a broken derrick-jib, or done to death by a railway train. “Them foreign parts were always bad,” they may say. “Black luck be with the big boat, for it’s few it takes back of the many it takes away!”

A year had passed by since James Ryan last heard from Fergus his son. No word came of the youth, and none of the Frosses people, great travellers though the young of Frosses were, had ever come across him in any corner of the world.

“We are missing the blue pieces of paper,” Mary Ryan said to her husband one evening in the late autumn, fully three years after Fergus’s departure. She now spent her days sitting at the fire, and though her health was not the best it had greatly improved within recent years. “They were the papers!” she exclaimed. “They could buy meal in the town of Greenanore and pay the landlord his rent. Maybe the gasair is dead!”

“Maybe he is,” the husband answered. He was a man of few words and fewer ideas. Life to him, as to the animals of the fields, was naturally simple. He married, became the father of many children, all unnecessary to an overcrowded district, and most of them were flicked out by death before they were a year old. Once every eighteen months James Ryan’s wife became suddenly irritable and querulous and asked her husband to leave the house for a while. The cattle were allowed to remain inside, the husband went out and walked about in the vicinity of his home for two or three hours. From time to time he would go up to the door and call out: “Are you all right, Mary?” through the keyhole. “I am all right, Shemus,” she would answer, and the man would resume his walk. When the wife allowed him to come in he always found that his family had increased in number.

One day a child was born to him, and its third breath killed it. It was the seventh, and the year was a bad one. Potatoes lay rotting in the fields, and the peat being wet refused to burn. Somehow James Ryan felt a great relief when the child was buried. Twelve children in all were born to him, and ten of these died before they reached the age of three. “The hunger took them, I suppose,” he said, and never wept over any of his offspring, and even in time forgot the names of most of those who were dead. The third who came to him was the boy Fergus; Norah was the youngest of all.

“Maybe, indeed, he is dead,” he repeated to his wife. “I suppose there is nothing for it but to put out the curragh to the fishing again.”

“And never catch anything,” said his wife, as if blaming him for the ill-luck. “It is always the way.... If Fergus would send a few gold guineas now it would be a great help.”

“It would be a great help.”

“We could keep Norah at school for another year.”

“We could.”

“And then send her to the convent like a lady.”

“Just.”

“When are you going to put the curragh out again?”

“Maybe this very night,” answered the husband. “It is now Michaelmas a week past. There were blue lights seen out beyond the bar last night, and a sea-gull dropped from the sky and fell dead on the rocks of Dooey. The same happened ten years ago, and at that time there was a big catch out by Arranmore.”

“Then you had better go out to-night, for there is not much money in the tea-pot this minute.”

“The byre cost a big penny,” said James Ryan, and he spoke as if regretting something.

“It did that, and the house does not look half as well with the cattle gone from it.” So saying the woman turned over some live turf on the pile of potatoes that was toasting beside the fire, and rising emptied part of the contents of a jug of milk into a bowl. “It is a wonder that Norah is not in,” she remarked. “She should be back from school over an hour ago.”

II

AT that moment Norah entered, placed her cotton satchel and books on the window sill, and sat down to her meal. She was a winsome girl, neat, delicate and good-looking. She had grown taller; her tresses were glossier, her clear grey eyes, out of which the radiance of her pure soul seemed to shine, were dreamy and thoughtful. She was remarkable for a pure and exquisite beauty, not alone of body, but of mind. She was dressed in peasant garb, but her clothes, though patched and shabby, showed the lines of her well-formed figure to advantage. Her feet were small, an unusual thing amongst country children who run about bare-footed, and her dainty little hands matched her feet to perfection. Her accomplishments were the knowledge of a few Irish songs and country dances, and her intellectual gifts could be summed up in the words, simple innocence.

“Are you getting on well with your lessons, Norah?” asked the father.

Every day for the last two years, on her return from school, he asked a similar question and took no heed of the answer, which was always the same.

“I am getting on very well, father.”

“He’s going out to the fishing to-night,” said the mother, handing a bowl of milk to Norah and pointing her finger at her husband.

“Any letter from Fergus?” asked the girl.

“Never a word,” said the mother. “Maybe one will be here to-morrow.”

“To-morrow never comes,” said James Ryan. He had heard somebody use this phrase years ago and he repeated it almost hourly ever since. “It is off on the curragh that I am going now.”

He rose and went out. The dusk had fallen and a heaven of brilliant stars glittered overhead. A light gust of wind surged up angrily for a moment and swept along the ground, crooning amidst rock and boulder. Outside James Ryan stood for a moment and looked up at the sky, his thoughts running on the conversation which had just taken place inside. “To-morrow never comes,” he repeated and hurried towards the sea.

Mary Ryan lit the paraffin lamp which hung from the great beam that stretched across the middle of the house. The rushlight was now used no longer; the oil lamp had taken its place in most of the houses in Frosses. Norah finished her meal and turned to her books. For a long while there was silence in the cabin, but outside the wind was rising, whirling round the corners and sweeping in under the door.

“Tell me a story, mother,” Norah said, putting her books aside and curling up like a pretty ball on the earthen floor in front of the fire.

“All right, I will tell you a story, silly baby that you are!” said the old woman, sitting down on the hassock by the hearth. “Will it be about the wee red-headed man with the flock of goats before him, and the flock of goats behind him, and the salmon tied to the laces of his brogues for supper?”

“Not that one, a maghair, I know it myself.”

“Will it be about Kitty the Ashy pet who said ‘Let you be combing there, mother, and I’ll be combing here,’ and who went up the Bay of Baltic, carrying the Rock of Cattegat on her shoulders?”

“I know that one, mother.”

“And the Bonnie Bull of Norway you know as well. Then it will be about the cat that would not dress its whiskers if it wasn’t in front of the biggest looking-glass in all the world. The biggest looking-glass in all the wide world is the broad ocean in a calm.”

“Not that one, mother.”

“You are hard to please this very night. I will tell you the story of the little green-coated boy who wandered on the rainy roads.... There’s the wind rising. Mercy of God be on your father if the sea is out of order!”

Mary Ryan began the story which she knew by heart, having heard it so often from the lips of her own mother. Here, it may be remarked, most of the folk stories of Donegal are of Norwegian or Danish origin and have in many cases been so well preserved that the Scandinavian names of people and places are retained in the stories until the present day.

“Once upon a time when cows were kine and when eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of Giants, a little green-coated boy with a stick in his hand and a bundle of bannocks over his shoulder went out on the rainy roads to push his fortune——”

“I’m going to marry a prince when I get very old, mother,” said Norah, interrupting the story-teller. “Prince Charming, for that’s what the girl did in the fairy stories when she grew up and got old at twenty or twenty-one. She was very poor at first and did nothing grand, but stopped at home, sweeping the floor and washing dishes. Then one night an old woman came down the chimney and told the girl to go to a dance, and the girl didn’t leave the dance in time and she lost one of her slippers and—Oh! it was a great story, mother. I read it in a book that Fergus had.”

“You were reading those books, too!”

“Just only that one, mother, and Fergus didn’t like it at all. He said it was very silly!”

“So it was, alannah, when it put thoughts like that into your head. Marry Prince Charming, and you going to be a holy nun! Nuns never marry like that.”

“Don’t they? Well, I’ll not marry a Prince Charming. I’ll marry one of the White Horsemen who are under the mountain of Aileach.”

“But nuns never marry anybody.”

“They don’t?” exclaimed Norah in a puzzled voice. Then with childish irrelevance: “But tell me the story about the White Horsemen of Aileach, mother. That’s the best story of all.”

“Long, long ago, when the red-haired strangers came to Ireland, they put nearly everybody to the sword; the old and young, the fit and feeble, and mind you, Ireland was in worse than a bad way,” the mother began, drifting easily into her narrative. “Ireland was a great place in those days with castles and kings. Kings, Norah! There were five of them; now there isn’t even one in the four corners of the country. But the red-haired strangers came like a storm from the sea and there was no standing before them. Red were their swords, red as their hair, but not with rust but with the blood of men, women, and children. And the chieftains of Ireland and the men of Ireland could make no stand against the enemy atall. ‘What am I to do?’ cried the Ardrigh, the top king of the whole country, speaking from the door of his own castle. ‘There will soon be no Ireland belonging to me, it will all go to the red-haired strangers.’ Then up spoke an old withered stick of a man, that nobody knew, and who had been listening to the words of the King.

“‘Have you asked the Chieftain of the White Horsemen for help?’

“‘I never met him, decent stranger,’ answered the King. ‘I know him not.’

“‘Go to the sea when it strikes in storm on the coast of Tir Conail,’ said the old man to the King, ‘and call out to Maanan MacLir for aid and he’ll send to your help his ten score and ten white horsemen. You’ll see the white horses far out, rearing on the top of the waves, every steed pawing the ocean and all mad for the fight before them.’

“Well, to cut a long story short, the King did as he was told and called to the White Horsemen to come and help him, and they came, ten score of them and ten, with their shields shining like polished silver and lances bright as frosty stars. Down from the North they rode, driving the foe on in front of them, and never was seen such a rout, neither in the days that went before nor the days that came after. The White Horsemen cut their way right through mountains in their haste to get to the other side; for nothing could stand against their lances. Nobody could go as quickly as them, not even the red-haired strangers who were in such a hurry to get out of their way.

“And when victory was theirs, the White Horsemen came back here to Tir Conail again and stood on the verge of the ocean while Maanan MacLir headed his horse out on the waves. But lo, and behold! the steed could no longer gallop across the water. The poor animal sank into the sea and the chieftain was nearly drowned. At that moment a voice, nobody knew where it came from, called to Maanan MacLir:

“‘Long enough has the sea called for the rest and quiet that was not given to it by the white horses of MacLir. Never more will the sea bend under them; now it will break apart and let them through!’

“When they heard these words the White Horsemen turned away from the sea and went galloping to the foot of the Mountain of Aileach. When they arrived there the mountain raised itself upon one side just like the lid of a kettle and Maanan MacLir and his White Horsemen disappeared under it. Since that day they have never been seen again.”

“But the mountain didn’t close on top of them, did it?” asked Norah.

“Of course it did. Isn’t it closed to this very day?”

“And will it be a true story?”

“True, child!” exclaimed the mother. “Sure the mountain is there to this very hour. And besides, Saint Columbkille talks about it in his prophecies.”

“Then the White Horsemen will come out again?”

“They’ll come out when the great war comes,” said the mother. “And that will be when there are roads round every mountain like the frills round the cap of an old woman. It will start, the great war, when the nights lengthen and the year grows brown, between the seasons of scythe and sickle; murder and slaughter, madder than cattle in the heat of summer, will run through the land, and the young men will be killed and the middle-aged men and the old. The very crutches of the cripples will be taken out to arm the fighters, and the bed-ridden will be turned three times three in their beds to see if they are fit to go into the field of battle. Death will take them all, for that is how it is to be; that way and no other. And when they’re all gone it will be the turn of the White Horsemen, who have been waiting for the great war ever since they chased the red-haired strangers from the country. They’ll come out from under Aileach when the day arrives, ten score and ten of them with silver shields and spears, bright as stars on a frosty night. They’ll fight the foe and win and victory will come to Ireland. These are the words of the great saint, Columbkille.”

“Are the White Horsemen very tall, mother?” asked Norah, her eyes alight with enthusiastic interest.

“Tall is not the word!”

“High as a hill?”

“Higher!”

“As Sliab a Tuagh?”

“It’s as nothing compared to one of the men of Maanan MacLir.”

“Then I’ll marry one of the White Horsemen,” said Norah, decision in her clear voice. “I’ll live in a castle, polish his lance and shield, and—Who will that be at the door?”

IV

NORAH paused. Someone was moving outside as if fumbling for the latch; then a tall, heavily-bearded man pushed the door of the cabin inwards and entered, bringing with him a terrific gust of wind that almost shook the house to its foundations. On his face was a scared look, and his clothes were dripping wet, although it was not raining.

“Was it himself?” cried the old woman, alluding to her husband and speaking to the man who entered. It was evident from the tone in which she spoke that she anticipated something terrible.

“It was himself,” said the man in a low, hoarse voice. “He’s coming on the flat of two oars. God bless us! But it is a black heart that the sea has.”

With these words the visitor went out again, and the excited voices of men could be heard floating on the wind.

“It’s your father, Norah,” said the old woman. “He went down with the curragh, I’m thinking; down through the black water. Mother of God! but it’s the sea that has the black heart! There they are coming with him. Open the door wider, Norah!”

The girl, who had risen from her seat, pulled the door inwards and placed a stone against the sill to keep it open. She felt as if a thousand pins were pricking her legs; her head was heavy, her fingers felt enormous and when they pressed against the door it seemed to Norah as if they did not belong to her at all. Outside it was very dark, the heavens held no stars and it looked as if the howling gale had whirled them away. In the darkness a torch swayed in the wind, and behind the torch black forms of men and white, pallid faces could be discerned. Norah’s mind turned to the stories which her mother had been telling her. She knew it was wrong to think of them at that moment but she felt an inordinate desire to laugh at something; what she wanted to laugh at she did not know; why she wanted to laugh she could not fathom.

“Are they coming, Norah?” asked the old woman, rising from her seat and hobbling with difficulty towards the door. “Mother of Christ! but the hand of God is heavy on me this night of nights! Children of my own and man of my own, all, all going away from me! I’ll see the last of them go down into the grave before me, for with my hard cough and the long sickness I’ll outlive them all: that is the will of God. Ten sons and daughters of my body; every one of them gone, and one away in black foreign parts.... Are they coming, Norah?”

The woman reached the door and leant against the jamb for support. The torch was flaring outside and very near.

“Watch that you don’t set the thatch on fire!” a voice cried.

Two men entered the house, the water streaming from their clothes and each holding a burdened oar in his hands. Across the oars a sail was bound tightly, and cold in death on the sail lay James Ryan, his grey beard sticking out stiffly, his eyes open, his head shaking from side to side, his bare feet blue with the cold. The oars, which brushed sharply against the old woman in passing, were laid on the floor and the dead man was placed on the bed.

“I’m sweatin’ like a pig!” said one of the bearers, and he rubbed his wrinkled brow violently with the back of his hand.

“Watch the thatch!” someone outside shouted. The torch was extinguished and a crowd of men entered the cabin. An old red-haired fisherman lifted the oars; the sail was rolled into a bundle and carried out again. Pools of water formed on the floor and tracks of wet feet showed all over it. The old woman hobbled back to her bed and gazed long and earnestly at her husband; some of the men took off their hats; one was smoking, another dressed a bleeding foot and told how he hit it against a sharp rock when carrying the dead man up from the sea; several of the neighbouring women were already in the house. Maire a Crick was on her knees by the bedside.

“I am used to it now,” said the old woman, as she sorted the blankets on the bed with her withered hands. “Ten sons and daughters, and another away and maybe never hearing from him again.... Himself said when he was going out that the morrow never comes.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, ran her fingers over the wet clothes of her husband, opened his vest, put her hand on his heart, shook her head sadly and buttoned the coat again.

“Just when he was putting out the wind caught him, and he dropped like a stone over the side of the curragh,” the red-haired fisherman was saying. “But the boat was no good anyway. It is one of the Congested Districts Board’s boats that he should have.”

“Where would he get the money to buy one?” asked Maire a Crick, turning round from the prayer which she was saying for the dead man.

“The money can be paid in instalments,” answered the red fisherman. He spoke the Gaelic, as nearly everybody in Frosses did, but the words “instalments” and “Congested Districts Board” were said in English. “Ten pounds the new boats cost, and there is five years allowed for paying the money.”

“The Congested Districts Board is going to be a great help,” someone remarked.

“Is the curragh safe?” asked Mary Ryan, turning round. She was still sitting beside the bed, turning over the clothes with lean, shaky fingers.

“It is at the bottom,” said a neighbour, Eamon Doherty by name. “It was rotten anyhow, and it hadn’t been in wet water for close on two years.... Now, I wonder what made Shemus go out on it?”

“Nothing atall, atall left,” said the old woman in a feeble voice. “If I only had the curragh even.... And himself dead after all the times that the sea has bent under him! Never to see him again, never! Isn’t it hard to think that a thing like that could be?”

Whereupon, saying this she began to cry, at first quietly, but afterwards, as if getting warmed to the task, more loudly, until her sobs could be heard a hundred yards away from the house.

“If I only had the curragh left!” she repeated time and again.

Norah approached the bed timidly. She had been weeping silently by the door ever since the corpse had been carried in. Death was here in the house; it had already taken possession of her father. And it was with her also. Not to-night nor to-morrow, but at the end of forty years or of fifty, and was it not all the same? And what was this death? She did not know; she only thought it cruel and strange. Her own helplessness in face of such a crisis almost overpowered her. For death there was no help, from it there was no escape. It was all powerful and terrible. To-morrow and to-morrow might come and go, but her father would lie still and unheeding. He would not return, he could not return. This fact hammered at her mind, and the cruelty of her own thoughts tortured her. She tried to think of something apart from the tragedy, but ever her mind reverted to the one and same dreadful subject. Of a great fact she was certain; one that would never be contradicted. Her father was dead; thousands of years might pass and one truth would still remain unquestioned. Her father was dead. “To think of it!” she said in a low voice. “Dead for ever!”

She went down on her knees by the bedside but could not pray. God was cruel; He had no mercy. She sobbed no longer, but with wide, tearless eyes she gazed at the face of her father. It had now become yellow, the lips blue, the nose was pinched and the eyes sunken. The water from his clothes was dripping underneath the bed, and she could hear the drip-drip of it falling on the floor.

Everything in the house had suddenly taken on a different aspect. The bed appeared strange to her; so did the fire, the low droning voices of the neighbours, and the play of light and shadow on the walls. The old cat sitting on top of the dresser, gazing down at her, had a curious look in its wide-open eyes; the animal seemed to have changed in some queer way. Outside the wind was beating against the house and wailing over the chimney. Never in her life before had she heard such a melancholy sob in the wind.