Shiana/Chapter 5

by Peadar Ua Laoghaire

CHAPTER V.

MYSTIFICATION.

Abbie.—Take care that the money didn't turn into little flat bits of slate, as Michael Redmond's money did.

Peg.—That's not what you said before, Abbie, but that Michael turned the bits of slate into money.

Abbie.—And so he did, too, but then the money turned into bits of slate again.

Nora.—Just hear her! Don't our ears remember your saying to us that he brought the money in to the woman, and that she looked at it, and that she thought it was lawful money, and by the same token, that she gave him his hat?

Abbie.—Yes, she did think that, and she did give the hat. But it was after that that the money turned into bits of slate again.

Nora.—And how could it turn back into bits of slate again, unless Michael himself were to take the witchcraft off it?

Kate.—And how do you know he didn't?

Nora.—She said he went away home when he got his hat.

Abbie.—But then he was in Millstreet a week afterwards, he and "Thade of the Eggs," and they went into the same house, and Michael called the woman aside. "I owe you two and eight pence," said he. "Here it is for you." "You don't owe me any two and eight pence," said she. "I do, honestly," said he. "Here it is for you." "But I say you do not," said she. "Don't you remember," said she, "that I was keeping your hat, and that you got the money somewhere and gave it to me?" "What did you do with it?" said Michael. "I didn't do anything with it," said she. "I have it here in the box yet." "I would like to see it," said Michael. "It is there," said she; "a shilling and two sixpences and two fourpenny pieces. Come here," said she, "and see them again for yourself." They went over to the box and she opened it, and when she looked into it and saw the little bits of slate, she turned upon Michael and looked at him as she would look at a mad dog. "Here," said Michael, handing the money to her. "Keep it!" said she, "and leave my house! The Evil One is in it, and in you too! Be off!" I promise you they both went, and in a hurry too.

Sheila.—I wonder what she did with the five little bits of slate?

Abbie.—I don't know, Sheila. But I rather think they got the outside of the door as quickly as the two men.

Sheila.—I would be afraid to touch them.

Kate.—I heard that he made a goat of Thade of the Eggs.

Abbie.—He didn't do that, but indeed he set the broom beating him. He made the broom turn Thade out of the house.

Nora.—Oh, how, Abbie?

Abbie.—Well, they were all, the full of the place of them, gathered west at Thade of the Eggs' house, playing cards, and some disturbance arose between them, so that Michael said to Thade, "If you don't shut your mouth, I'll make a goat of you." "You couldn't do it," said Thade. "I could," said Michael. "Do your best, and don't make two parts of it," said Thade. "Do you mean that?" said Michael. "I do," said Thade. "Let us see now what you can do." Michael drew a little black book out of his pocket, and there were red edges on the leaves of it, and he began to read it. After a while he stopped, and he looked at Thade. "There is only one danger in the thing, Thade," said he. "If the wind were to change while you were a goat, I couldn't turn you back." "What, you thief of the black gallows! Why didn't you tell me that at first?" "I am telling it to you now, and you have only to tell me to stop in time." "Stop, then," said Thade. "I wouldn't believe from all the world that you could do it, but at the same time I don't mind letting you play your tricks upon somebody else." "I'll engage," said Michael, "that the broom will put you out at the door if I tell it to do it." Thade looked at the broom. It was standing near the door. It was a fine new heavy broom. All the company laughed when they heard the word. "You couldn't put me out yourself," said Thade, "and it is hard to believe that you could make the broom do what you couldn't do yourself." "I couldn't put you out myself," said Michael; "and, if you had a good stick, there are no four men here that could put you out" (Thade had got a name for his great strength since the day when he beat the seven men who followed him from Millstreet to kill him); "but I'll bet you now that that broom below will put you out." Thade got his stick ready, and Michael spoke to the broom. Thade stood in the middle of the house. The broom rose and tried to strike him between the eyes. The stick was good and the arm was strong, and indeed Thade defended his head and face, but it struck him on the feet, and it struck him on the shins, and it struck him on the knees, and it struck him on the thighs, and in the back, and in the ribs, so that after a while he didn't know what was happening to him. At last he shouted for the door to be opened for him, and I promise you that he thought it long enough before he was outside.

Sheila.—The hand that was in the broom was too strong for him!

Kate.—That's a very strange thing indeed! Maybe if Thade had got sight of the one whose hand was in it, he wouldn't have got off so easily as he did. And, look here, Abbie. How could Shiana's money turn into bits of slate, when it wasn't made out of bits of slate?

Abbie.—How do you know, Kate, of what the man with the horns made it? Surely the world knows it was not honestly or lawfully he got it.

Peg.—Whatever way he got it, it didn't turn into any little bits of slate, or if it did, they didn't stay in Shiana's pockets. He had them empty enough when he was getting the leather from Grey Dermot. He got the leather, and the wax, and the thread, and he turned toward home; and I promise you that the pride was taken out of him clean.

When he reached home, weary and worn-out and heavy-hearted, and when he saw the chair and the malvogue and the apple-tree, and thought of the three beautiful wishes that had been spoilt, a great bitterness and vexation and trouble of mind came upon him, so that he was not able to taste a grain of meal, nor an apple. He threw himself into the chair, for he was tired, and it was not long till he fell asleep.

The poor fellow spent the night there. When he opened his eyes the day was just breaking. The cold had almost gone through his heart. He was awake for a little time before he thought of the purse, and of the Black Man, and of all the adventures of the previous day. No sooner did he move than he felt a weight in the pocket of his waistcoat. He put in his hand. What should be there but the purse!

"Now, did any Christian ever see such a thing as that?" said he, and he pulled it out. He put his hand in his breeches' pocket. There were the two hundred pounds, no more and no less!

"Well!" said he, "if this business hasn't beaten all the wonders I ever saw! It couldn't have been in my possession unknown to me! Search? There never was searching like it! Everything except putting my fingers out through the corners of the pockets! Search! Didn't I search them, if ever pockets were searched! Empty? They were as empty—as empty as ever they were, and that was enough for them. They couldn't be more empty. Well, then, where was the money while I was searching? Where did it go to? Where did it stay while it was away? Who brought it back? What is the meaning of the whole business? That is the question. That is the difficulty. What good is it to me to have a heavy fat purse in my pocket and two hundred pounds in cash, and then for me to go to the fair, and that it should be in the power of every mean little wretch of a thimble-rigger to abuse me before the neighbours, and to call me a 'little yellow shoemaker,' and to reproach me with 'brown patches,' and 'stout awls,' and 'smelly shoes,' and to proclaim it before the whole fair that there wasn't a penny in my pocket? If every man lives up to his bargain, it isn't a child's bargain they usually make. And if that's the bargain about which the 'virtue of the Holy Things' was laid upon me, it's no great thing. 'It will be as plump the last day as it is now'—upon my word, it'll be no wonder if it is!"

He went on talking to himself like that for a long time. At last he jumped up.

"I will go now, at once," said he, "and I'll pay Dermot, and I'll bring home some more leather."

He went on straight ahead, and never stopped until he was in front of Dermot's house.

Dermot was standing between the two doorposts in the same way as he had been the day before. He was accustomed to spend a great deal of his time like that, standing in the doorway, with his shoulder to the doorpost, looking down the road and up the road, by turns.

"Why, Shiana, what's happened to you?" said Dermot.

"Nothing at all, indeed, Dermot," said he, "but I have come to you with your money. Here it is for you." And he handed him a pound.

"It wasn't long coming in to you," said Dermot, and he gave a queer look at Shiana, as if he doubted that it was not out of his trade he had got the money.

Shiana understood the look, and he said, "This was promised to me before the fair, and I didn't get it until to-day."

"Well," said Dermot, "and what need was there for all the hurry? Wouldn't it have done at the end of a week or a fortnight? You are as fagged as if you hadn't lain down on a bed for three nights. Were you out anywhere last night?"

"Out anywhere last night? Why, where should I be out last night? Indeed I was not. But when I went home from the fair I sat down in my chair and I fell asleep, and I declare to you I stayed there till morning."

"Why then indeed, that's strange! And look you, when you were leaving this house yesterday evening there was no sign of drink on you, and it was quite early in the evening. Where did you stop?"

"Oh, the blessing of God be on the souls of your dead, Dermot, and let me alone. I didn't stop anywhere, but went straight home. It wasn't drink or play that was troubling me, I promise you."

He handed the pound to Dermot, and took the road without more delay, for fear that any further questions would be put to him. He had made up his mind to take three or four pounds' worth more leather, but he was afraid that Dermot would ask who had given him the money. As he was going the road home, his mind and thoughts were much disturbed, and he was turning things over and over, and over and over, trying to make out what had happened to the money on the fair-day.

"If I were to be thinking of it for a year from to-day," said he, "I could never understand what is the meaning of it."

And all the way his left hand never parted from the side of his waistcoat in which the purse was, and he kept his right hand thrust to the elbow in his breeches' pocket, running the gold through his fingers.

Sheila.—What good did it do him to be running it through his fingers, Peg?

Peg.—I don't know in the world, Sheila, but he was doing it, any way, and he didn't stop doing it until he got home. He felt more in humour for the meal and for the apples than he had felt the day before, and he ate as much as he wanted of them. He was eating and thinking for a long time. At last he stopped, and struck his knee with his open hand.

"By the book!" said he, "if Dermot were to see me buy that black horse, there's no knowing where the questions would stop. I should have no chance of escaping him. He is too sharp altogether. When you had given him an excuse and you would think you had done with him, he would just fasten on you all the more firmly. Perhaps, after all, it is best that I didn't buy a horse or a cow. I don't care, since I have the money. That horse would kill me, and then I wouldn't have even the thirteen years. And as I didn't buy the cow, I needn't be looking out for a wife to milk her. Perhaps it is just as well as it is. 'The thing a man would dislike more than death, for all he knows may be his best good-fortune!' I will make these shoes, and then I will go to Dermot and get two pounds' worth, and then four pounds' worth, and so on. Ha! ha! Dermot, well, well, well! The thing will slide on and up unknown to you. Wasn't I a great blockhead not to think of that plan at first? Of course nothing could be worse for me than that the reputation of having money should go out about me suddenly like that. People would say I had stolen it from somebody. But when it is put out by degrees, everybody will think, of course, that I have made it out of my trade."

When he had settled his mind so far, he took another bit of the meal and ate it, and he got another apple and chewed it. Then he drew his leather to him, and his wax and his thread, and the fine awls and the thick awls and the lasts, and he began to work. He had a habit of always humming while he was working, and this is the tune he used to keep going most of the time:—

Oh, torment and trouble to you,
You bristly hag!
Who have brought on me the hate of the
⁠women
⁠Of Ireland;
 
You with your two ears
As large as a shovel,
And your great thick lips
⁠For a mouth!

If I were to get from Ruachtach
To the bank of Avonmore
And Mallow away to the north
⁠As a portion with you,

The brown Cledach
And all the cows upon it,
I would not stretch out
⁠My life with you.