Irish Folk Tales (78 page)

The Buideach drew the dead man over to the dunghill and covered him up. The Black Donkey walked into the house and said, “I was the son of a gentleman, but I was a bad son, and I died under a heavy load of deadly sins on my poor soul; and I would be burning in Hell now were it not for the Virgin Mary. I used to say a little prayer in honor of her every night, and when I went into the presence of the Great Judge I was sentenced to Hell until His mother spoke to the Judge and He changed his sentence, and there was made of me a Black Donkey, and I was given to the Tinker for the space of seven years, until he should die a worldly death. The Tinker was a limb of the Devil, and it was I who gave you strength to kill him. But you are not done with him yet. He will come to life again at the end of seven days, and if you are there before him he will kill you as sure as you are alive.”

“I never left this townland since I was born,” said the Buideach, “and I would not like to desert my mother.”

“Would it not be better for you to leave your mother than to lose your life in a state of mortal sin and be forever burning in Hell?”

“I don’t know any place where I could go into hiding,” said the Buideach. “But since it has turned out that it was you who put strength into my hand to kill the Tinker, perhaps you would direct me to some place where I could be safe from him.”

“Did you ever hear talk of Lough Derg?”

“Indeed, I did,” said the Buideach. “My grandmother was once on a pilgrimage there, but I don’t know where it is.”

“I will bring you there tomorrow night. There is a monastery underground on the island, and an old friar in it who sees the Virgin Mary every Saturday. Tell him your case and take his advice in every single thing. He will put you to penance, but penance on this world is better than the pains of Hell forever. You know where the little dun is, which is at the back of the old castle. If you are in the dun about three hours after nightfall I shall be there before you and bring you to Lough Derg.”

“I shall be there if I’m alive,” said the Buideach. “But is there any fear of me that the Tinker will get up before that time?”

“There is no fear,” said the Black Donkey, “unless you tell somebody that you killed him. If you tell anything about him he will get up and he will slay yourself and your mother.”

“By my soul, then, I’ll be silent about him,” said the Buideach.

That evening when the Buideach’s mother came home she asked him did anybody come to the house since she went away.

“I did not see anyone,” said he, “but an old pedlar with a bag, and he got nothing from me.”

“I see the track of the shoe of a horse or a donkey outside the door, and it was not there in the morning when I was going out,” said she.

“It was Páidin Éamoinn the fool, who was riding Big Mary O’Brien’s ass,” said the Buideach.

The Buideach never slept a wink all that night but thinking of the Tinker and the Black Donkey. The next day he was in great anxiety. His mother observed that and asked him what was on him.

“There’s not a feather on me,” says he.

That night when the mother was asleep the Buideach stole out and never stopped until he came to the little dun. The Black Donkey was there before him and said, “Are you ready?”

“I am,” said the Buideach, “but I am grieved that I did not get my mother’s blessing. She will be very anxious until I come back again.”

“Indeed she will not be anxious at all, because there is another Buideach at your mother’s side at home, so like you that she won’t know that it is not yourself that’s in it; but I’ll bring him away with me before you come back.”

“I am very much obliged to you and I am ready to go with you now,” said he.

“Leap up on my back. There is a long journey before us,” said the Donkey.

The Buideach leapt on his back, and the moment he did so he heard thunder and saw great lightning. There came down a big cloud which closed
around the black ass and its rider. The Buideach lost the sight of his eyes, and a heavy sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke he was on an island in Lough Derg, standing in the presence of the ancient friar.

The friar began to talk to him, and said, “What brought you here, my son?”

“Well, then, indeed, I don’t rightly know,” said the Buideach.

“I will know soon,” said the friar. “Come with me.”

He followed the old friar down under the earth, until they came to a little chamber that was cut in the rock. “Now,” said the friar, “go down on your knees and make your confession and do not conceal any crime.”

The Buideach went down on his knees and told everything that happened to him concerning the Tinker and the Black Donkey.

The friar then put him under penance for seven days and seven nights, without food or drink, walking on his bare knees amongst the rocks and sharp stones. He went through the penance, and by the seventh day there was not a morsel of skin or flesh on his knees, and he was like a shadow with the hunger. When he had the penance finished the old friar came and said, “It’s time for you to be going home.”

“I have no knowledge of the way or of how to go back,” said the Buideach.

“Your friend the Black Donkey will bring you back,” said the friar. “He will be here tonight; and when you go home spend your life piously and do not tell to anyone except to your father confessor that you were here.”

“Tell me, Father, is there any danger of me from the Tinker?”

“There is not,” said the friar; “he is an ass himself now with a tinker from the province of Munster, and he will be in that shape for one-and-twenty years, and after that he will go to eternal rest. Depart now to your chamber. You will hear a little bell after the darkness of night, and as soon as you shall hear it, go up onto the island, and the Black Donkey will be there before you, and he will bring you home; my blessing with you.”

The Buideach went to his room, and as soon as he heard the bell he went up to the island and his friend the Black Donkey was waiting for him.

“Jump up on my back, Buideach, I have not a moment to lose,” said the donkey.

He did so, and on the spot he heard the thunder and saw the lightning. A great cloud came down and enveloped the Black Donkey and its rider. Heavy sleep fell upon the Buideach, and when he awoke he found himself in the little dun at home, standing in the presence of the Black Donkey.

“Go home now to your mother. The other Buideach is gone from her side. She is in deep sleep and she won’t feel you going in.”

“Is there any fear of me from the Tinker?” said he.

“Did not the blessed friar tell you that there is not,” said the Black Donkey. “I will protect you. Put your hand in my left ear, and you will get there a purse which will never be empty during your life. Be good to poor people and to widows and to orphans, and you will have a long life and a happy death, and Heaven at the end.”

The Buideach went home and went to sleep, and the mother never had had a notion that the other Buideach was not her own son.

At the end of a week after this the Buideach said to his mother, “Is not this a fair day in Castlebar?”

“Yes, indeed,” said she.

“Well then, you ought to go there and buy a cow,” says he.

“Don’t be humbugging your mother or you’ll have no luck,” says she.

“Upon my word I am not humbugging,” said he. “God sent a purse my way, and there is more than the price of a cow in it.”

“Perhaps you did not get it honestly. Tell me, where did you find it?”

“I’ll tell you nothing about it, except that I found it honestly, and if you have any doubt about my word, let the thing be.”

Women are nearly always given to covetousness, and she was not free from it.

“Give me the price of the cow.”

He handed her twenty pieces of gold. “You’ll get a good cow for all that money,” said he.

“I will,” said she, “but I’d like to have the price of a pig.”

“Do not be greedy, Mother,” said he. “You won’t get any more this time.”

The mother went to the fair and she bought a milch cow, and some clothes for the Buideach, and when he got her gone he went to the parish priest and said that he would like to make confession. He told the priest then everything that happened to him from the time he met the Tinker and the Black Donkey.

“Indeed, you are a good boy,” said the priest. “Give me some of the gold.”

The Buideach gave him twenty pieces, but he was not satisfied with that, and he asked for the price of a horse.

“I did not think that a priest would be covetous,” said he, “but I see now that they are as covetous as women. Here are twenty more pieces for you. Are you satisfied now?”

“I am, and I am not,” said the priest. “Since you have a purse which will never be empty as long as you live, you should be able to give me as much as would set up a fine church in place of the miserable one which we have in the parish now.”

“Get workmen and masons, and begin the church, and I’ll give you the workmen’s wages from week to week,” said the Buideach.

“I’d sooner have it now,” said the priest. “A thousand pieces will do the work, and if you give them to me now I’ll put up the church.”

The Buideach gave him one thousand pieces of gold out of the purse, and the purse was none the lighter for it.

The Buideach came home and his mother was there before him, with a fine milch cow and new clothes for himself. “Indeed, that’s a good cow,” said he. “We can give the poor people some milk every morning.”

“Indeed they must wait until I churn, and I’ll give them the buttermilk—until I buy a pig.”

“It’s the new milk you’ll give the poor people,” said the Buideach. “We can buy butter.”

“I think you have lost your senses,” says the mother. “You’ll want the little share of riches which God sent you before I’m a year in the grave.”

“How do you know but that I might not be in the grave before you?” said he. “But at all events God will send me my enough.”

When they were talking there came a poor woman, and three children to the door and asked for alms in the honor of God and Mary.

“I have nothing for ye this time,” said the widow.

“Don’t say that, Mother,” said the Buideach. “I have alms to give in the name of God and His mother Mary.” With that he went out and gave a gold piece to the poor woman, and said to his mother, “Milk the cow and give those poor children a drink.”

“I will not,” said the mother.

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said he.

He got the vessel, milked the cow, and gave lots of new milk to the poor children and to the woman. When they were gone away the mother said to him, “Your purse will be soon empty.”

“I have no fear of that,” said he. “It’s God who sent it to me, and I’ll make a good use of it,” says he.

“Have your own way,” said she. “But you’ll be sorry for it yet.”

The next day lots of people came to the Buideach asking for alms, and he never let them go away from him empty-handed. The name and fame of the Buideach went through the country like lightning, and men said that he was in partnership with the Good People. But others said that it was the Devil who was giving him the gold, and they made a complaint against him to the parish priest. But the priest said that the Buideach was a decent good boy, and that it was God who gave him the means, and that he was making good use of them.

The Buideach went on well now, and he began growing until he was almost six feet high.

His mother died and he fell in love with a pretty girl, and he was not long until they were married.

He had not a day’s luck from that time forward. His wife got to know that he had a wonderful purse and nothing could satisfy her but she must get it. He refused her often, but she was giving him no rest, day or night, until she got the purse from him at last. Then, when she got it, she had no respect for it. She went to Castlebar to buy silks and satins, but when she opened the purse, in place of gold pieces being in it there was nothing but pieces of pebbles. She came back and great anger on her, and said, “Isn’t it a nice fool you made of me giving me a purse filled with little stones instead of the purse with the gold in it.”

“I gave you the right purse,” said he. “I have no second one.”

He seized the purse and opened it, and as sure as I’m telling it to you, there was nothing in it but little bits of pebbles.

There was an awful grief upon the Buideach, and it was not long until he was mad, tearing his hair, and beating his head against the wall.

The priest was sent for but he could get neither sense nor reason out of the Buideach. He tore off his clothes and went naked and mad through the country.

About a week after that the neighbors found the poor Buideach dead at the foot of a bush in the little dun.

That old bush is growing in the dun yet, and the people call it the “Buideach’s Bush,” but as for himself it is certain that he went to Heaven.

T
HE MAN WHO HAD NO STORY