63. #7 Tugaigí Domsa É

Tugaigí Domsa É

ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh le John Henry

Mhoithigh mé m’athair mór ag insint ‘ (go ndéana Dia grásta air).

Fada ó shin bhí fear i gCeathrú na gCloch. ‘Sé an t-ainm a bhí air, Tomás Mór agus ba fhear cinéal aimhleasach é, mar a déarfá. Ní thabharfadh sé isteach i ngnoithe slua sí nó i ngnoithe Dhia nó Mhuire; bhí sé ag obair ar a bhealach féin.

Ach an uair sin, bhíthí ar siúl le gnoithe leathaigh i gCladach na Rinne Ruaidhe ar ndóigh. Ba ann a chaitheadh na créatúir oíche agus lá ag iarraidh bheith ag tiomsú leas fataí agus rudaí…

Ach an lá seo, bhí páist le bású i gCeathrú na gCloch. Ach má bhí féin, d’imigh Tomás Mór tráthnóna leathmhall siar go Cladach an Phoirt ar thóir leathaigh. Agus thiomsaigh sé ar mhodh ar bith. Bhí sé ag tiomsú leis siar i mBearna an Leathaigh go ndeachaigh sé go dtí an Staca Liath go ndearna sé obair lae le leathaigh le haghaidh an asail. Asail a bhí ann an uair sin ag imeacht ag gach uile fhear.

Ach nuair a bhí ‘ sin déanta aige, dúirt sé go siúlfadh sé leis soir go dtéadh sé go dtí Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí go bhfeicfeadh sé an bhfaigheadh sé píosa adhmaid nó rud ar bith eile ar an trá. Ach ní bhfuair, sílim. Ach ag gabháil anoir ag Fáilín an Ghairtéil dó, mhothaigh sé an páiste ag caoineadh. Agus sheas sé agus chuir sé cluas air féin agus mhoithigh sé na mná ag caint.

“Tabhair domsa é,” a d’abraíodh bean acu.

“Ní thabharfaidh,” a d’abraíodh bean eile acu, “ach tabhair domsa é.”

“Ní hea,” arsa Tomás. Labhair sé. “Ach tugaigí domsa é,” a dúirt sé.

Ó bhuel, an uair sin mhoithigh sé an-chlabhasán ach sháraigh air a dtuigbhéil ach gur thuig sé focal amháin. Dúirt bean acu leis na mná eile:

“Rug bean ar an bpáiste seo a raibh lorg an uisce coisreac ar a méara,” a dúirt sí, “agus ní thig linn tada a dhéanamh. Caithfidh muid ‘ a thabhairt don bhfear a labhair.”

Ach thug siad an páiste do Thomás. Thug Tomás an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus níor stop ‘ go dtáinig ‘ go Ceathrú na gCloch go dtí an teach ‘ a raibh an páiste tinn ann. Ach ins an am céanna, bhí an páiste os cionn cláir agus é nite acu. ‘Brón mór at mhuinir an tí agus gach aon tsórt.

Ach shiúil Tomás isteach agus an páiste leis idir a dhá láimh agus í, an páiste beo beathamach, ag gártháil agus ag iarraidh ‘bheith ag caint ar ndóigh. Ní raibh sé (an páiste) ach bliain. Ach ar áit na bonn nuair a shiúil Tomás isteach, d’éirigh an páiste a bhí ar an gclár ‘ amach agus d’imigh sé ina cheo agus ní fhaca éinne ag imeacht é.

Bhuel, bhí go maith ansin. Leag Tomás an páiste thuas ins an gclúid acu.

“Anois,” a dúirt Tomás. “Seo é bhúr bpáiste beo slán arís,” a dúirt sé.

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt siad.

Ach chuaigh siad chuig an tsagart. Agus bhí sagart thall ag na hAchadh a dtugadh siad an sagart dubh air. Ach tháinig an sagart dubh anall agus chuaigh sé ag léitheoireacht os cionn an pháiste a thug Tomás Mór beo leis.

“Anois,” a dúirt an sagart, “seo é an páiste ceart. Ní raibh fágtha,” a dúirt sé, “ach píosa de chrompán giúsaigh,” a dúirt sé.

“Agus fhad agus bheas sibh beo,” a dúirt sé, “coinnigh uisce coisreac ar bhúr gcuid páistí agus,” a dúirt an sagart, “nuair a chuirfeas sibh an naíonán a chodladh ins an gcliabhán, cuirgí smearóid siar faoin bpiolúir agus ní féidir le tada a ghabháil ina ghaobhar.”

Ach ó sin amach, táthar ag cur smearóidí ó shin agus i gcónaí. Feicim féin an obair i gcónaí. Nuair a leagtar leanbh beag isteach ins an gcliabhán, cuireadar sméaróid siar faoin bpiolúir. Agus leagadar brat eile os a chionna dtugann siad an Brat Bríde air. Sin brat a chuirtear amach Oíche Fhéile Bríde agus deir’ siad go bhfuil leigheas ann. Agus ó shin amach, ní fheicim éinne ag imeacht go fánach nó go dona.

Give It To ME!

I heard my grandfather telling [this one] (make God grant him grace).

Long ago, there was a man in Ceathrú na gCloch (the stoney quarter). He was called Big Tomás (Tumaws) and he was a bit contrary, you might say. He wouldn’t get involved with the business of the fairy crowd or the God business or Mary: he was working on his own.

Back then they would be taken up with the business of gathering seaweed at Cladach na Rinne Ruaidhe (the shore at Red Point) of course. It was there the poor things would spend night and day trying to gather fertilizer for the spuds and other [crops].

But this particular day there was a child about to die in Stoney Quarter. But even so big Tomás went out in the latter half of the afternoon down to  the Cladach an Phoirt (Port Beach) looking for seaweed. And he gathered it somehow or other. He was gathering it down in Bearna an Leathaigh (Seaweed Gap) until he came to Staca Liath (Grey Stack)  when he had got a day’s work of seaweed for the donkey [to carry]. Donkeys was what they had with them back then when they went out, every single man.

But when he had that done, he said he’d walk back eastwards until he’s go to Tóin an Chorráin Bhuí (the foot of Yellow Crescent) until he’d see if he could get any bit of wood on the beach. But he didn’t find any, I think. But as he was coming back at Fáilín an Ghairtéil, he heard a child crying. And he stood and listened intently and he heard the women talking.

Give it to me,” one of the women would say.

“I won’t,” another woman would say, “but give it to ME.”

“No,” said Tomás. He spoke. “But give it to ME,” he said.

Oh well, then he heard fierce complaining but it was beyond him to understand their talk except for one thing he understood. One woman said to the other women:

“A woman who had the trace of holy water on her hands held this child,” said she, “and we cannot do anything [about that]. We have to give [it] to the man who spoke.”

But they gave the child to Tomás.  Tomás took the child with him in his two hands and didn’t stop until he came to Stony Quarter to the house where the sick child was. But in the same time, the child was laid out and they had washed him.  There was great sadness on the people of the house and all that goes with that.

But Tomás walked in and the child in his two hands and it (the living lively child) laughing and trying to talk of course. It (the child) was only a year old.  But in the place where the dead one was when Tomás walked in, the child that was laid out on the board rose and went into a mist and no one saw it go.

Well, things were good then. Tomás put the child wrapped up in a blanket for them.

“Now,” said Tomás. “This is your child alive and well again,” he said.

“Fair enough,” they said.

But they went to the priest. And there was a priest over at Aughoose that they called ‘The Black Priest.’ But the black priest came over and he went reading over the head of the child that big Tomás brought [there] alive with him.

“Now,” said the priest, “this is the right child. Nothing was left,” he said , “but a bit of a stump of a fir tree,” he said.

“And as long as you all live,” he said, “keep holy water on your children and,” said the priest, “when you put the infant to sleep in his crib, put a cold ember under the pillow and nothing can go near him.”

But from then on, they’ve been putting embers [there] from then and for all times. I myself always see the work. When a baby is being put in his crib, they’d put a cold ember back under his pillow. And they’d put a cloak over him, that they call Brigid’s cloak. That’s the cloak they put out on the Night of Brigid’s Festival ahus they say there’s a cure in it. And from them on, I see no one going missing or in harm’s way.

62. #6 An Dílleachta agus an tSíofróg

An Dílleachta agus an tSíofróg

ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh

le John Henry

Bhí, fad ó shin, bhí dílleachta beag thiar ‘ an Tír Thiar, thaobh thiar de Bhaol an Mhuirthead. Bhí sí istigh ag a máthair mór. Agus, ar ndóigh, an áit a bhfuil dílleachta mar sin, nuair a bhéas sé (an dílleachta bocht ) fásta suas, bíonn cineál sclábhaíocht bheag oibre le déanamh aige thar dhuine eile.

Ach bhí an dílleachta bocht seo, bhíodh sí saigheadaithe amach gach uile lá le ba, ag faire ba síos ar an dumnaigh, dumnaigh a dtugann siad Dumhaigh Eilí air. Ach bhíodh sí síos ar an dumhaigh gach uile lá ag faire ar na mbó.

Ach an lá seo, bhí sí thíos ‘ tháinig buachaill óg chuici. Agus bhuel, bhí an cailín, b’fhéidir go raibh sí ceithre bliana déag nó cúig bliana déag d’aois. Ach bhí an buachaill óg ag caint léi giota maith. Ach d’imigh sé ar deireadh. Ach, by gearrachaí, nuair a tháinig sí abhaile san oíche chuig a máthair mhór ( tá ‘fhios ‘at, bhí a máthair agus a athair curtha, ba dílleachta a bhí inti) d’fhiafraigh an mháthair mhór di:

“Cén sórt gábh a bhí tú inniu?” a deir sí. “Tá tú ag amharc an-mhíshuaite,” a deir sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom.”

“Ní raibh mé i ngábh ar bith,” a deir sí.

” Má…bhuel, bhí rud éigin ort. B’fhéidir gur iomarca siúil nó routeáil a rinne tú,” a dúirt an máthair mhór léi.

“Ní hea,” a deir sí.

‘Lá arna mhárach cuireadh leis na ba arís í síos go Dumhaigh Eilí. Ach nuair a bhí sí thíos, an créatúir, tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus bhí sé ag caint léi.

“Bhuel,” a deir sé léi. “An gcíorfá mo chloigeann dom?” a dúirt sé.

“Cíorfaidh,” a dúirt sí.

Ní raibh aon chiall aici. Bhí ráca ina phóca aige agus chíor sí a chloigeann. Agus bhí sé ansin ag caint léi scathamh. Agus d’imigh sé. Ach nuair a tháinig sí abhaile…

“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin as bealach leat,” a dúirt sí. “Ní thaitníonn tú liom ar chor ar bith. Tá drochdhath ort. Céard ‘tá ort ar chor ar bith?”

“Níl rud ar bith orm,” a dúirt an gearrachaile. “Ní aithním tada. Ní fheicimse. Ní mhoithím rud ar bith,” a deir sí.

“Bhuel, bíonn tú ag déanamh an- routeáil,” a dúirt sí, “nó ag déanamh an-súgradh thíos ar an dumhaigh nó an mbíonn éinne agat?”

“Ní bhíonn,” a deir sí.

Ach ba é cic an scéil é, chuaigh sí síos an triú lá leis na ba agus tháinig an buachaill óg chuici arís agus shuigh sé lena taobh.

“Bhuel,” a deir sé. ” Breathnaigh ‘mo choigeann,” a deir sé. “Agus cuir mo ghruaig dá chéile agus shtáil mo ghruaig dom,” a deir sé.

Agus rinne an créatúir sin, ar ndóigh. Bhí sí díchéillí an uair sin. Tháinig sí abhaile an oíche sin agus na ba léi.

“Bhuel,” a deir an mháthair mhór léi. “Tá rud éigin ort,” a dúirt sí.

Bhí an gearrchaile ag cailleadh agus ag éirí míshuait agus í bán go maith faoina haghaidh.

“Bhuel,” a deir sí. ” A ghranny,” a deir sí. “Tá fear óg ag tíocht chugham le trí lá,” a dúirt sí.

Agus d’inis an bhean óg di gach aon tsórt.

“Feicim anois,” a deir an mháthair mhór. “Bhuel, anois,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór. “Nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach, nuair a thiocfas sé chugat, abair leis an fear,” a dúirt sí, “go bhfuil gamhain tinn ag do mháthair mhór ins an teach agus ‘cén leigheas atá air lena choinneál beo.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.

Bhí go maith is ní raibh go dona. An ceathrú lá, chuaigh an cailín óg síos. Bhí sí ina gearrachaile óg ar ndóigh idir cúig bliana d’aois agus sé bliana d’aois. Chuaigh sí síos leis na ba agus tháinig an fear óg chuici agus shuigh sé ag a taobh. Agus sular dhúirt sé tada, dúirt an bhean óg go raibh gamhain óg ag a mháthair mhór agus go raibh sé go dona, slackáilte go maith agus go raibh sé ‘mórán an bás air.

“Bhuel anois,” a deir an fear óg. “Leis an ngamhain a choinneáil beo, abair le do mháthair mhór nuair a gheobhas tú abhaile anocht, abair léi mún bréan, cacanna cearc, scian na coise duibhe agus an tseanúir a dhó agus a shuathadh fud a chéile agus a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain agus gnóthóidh sé.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt an bhean óg.

Ach scathamh ina dhiaidh d’imigh an buachaill óg uaithi agus tháinig an bhean óg abhaile.

“Bhuel,” a dúirt an mháthair mhór léi, “an dtáinig an fear óg inniu chugat?”

“Tháinig,” a dúirt an cáilín.

“Bhuel,” a deir sí, “ar dhúirt tú an chaint sin leis?”

“Dúras,” a dúirt an cailín óg.

“Bhuel, cén leigheas a thug sé duit ar an ngamhain?” a dúirt sí.

“Bhuel, dúirt sé leat cacanna cearc a dhéanamh suas, mún bréan agus uisce coisreac, scian na coise duibhe a mheascadh ann agus é sin a chroitheadh ar an ngamhain.”

“Maith go leor,” a dúirt sí.

Ní dhearna an chailleach… Bhí pota múin bhréin istigh aici le haghaidh tuaradh bréidín. Ba shin an leigheas a bhí ‘ fad ó shin le haghaidh bréidín. Ach rinne sí suas cacanna cearc, an mún bréan, an tseanúir a dhó agus a mheascadh fud a chéile agus an t-uisce coisreac agus chuir sí i mbuidéal dó é.”

“Anois,” a dúirt sí leis an mnaoi óg, “nuair a ghabhas tú síos amárach leis na ba, nuair a thiocas an fear óg seo chugat, ar áit na bonn a suífidh sé agat, croith braon de seo air go bhfeicfidh tú céard a dhéanfaidh sé.”

Thug an bhean óg an buidéal ina póca léi agus an búiléiste sin déanta suas ann. Ach nuair a shuigh an buachaill óg ag a taobh mar i gcónaí, ní dhearna sí ach an buidéal a tharraingt amach as a póca agus a chroitheadh ar an mbuachaill óg. D’éirigh sé in aon bhall tine amháin agus d’imigh sé leis ar fud na farraige móire.

Tháinig an bhean óg abhaile agus d’inis sí an scéal don mháthair mhór.

“Anois,” a dúirt sí, “tá do leigheas déanta. Beidh tú i do chailín mhaith go fóill.”

Sin é mo scéal.

The Orphan Girl and The Fairy Boy

Long ago there was a little orphan girl, out in the western land, beyond Belmullet. She lived with her grandmother. And of course where there’s an orphan like that, as she grows up there some kind of odd job skivvy work for her more than any other child would get.

But this poor orphan was sent out to mind the cows every day down on the sand dunes, the dunes they call Elly Dunes. And she used to be down on the dunes every single day minding the cows.

But this particular day she was down there and along came a young boy towards her. And well, the girl was maybe she was fourteen or fifteen years old.  But the young lad was talking to her a fair bit. But he left in the end. But by dad when she came home that night to her grandmother (you know her father and mother were in their graves and she was an orphan)  her grandmother asked her:

“What come over you today?” says she. “You’re looking very upset,” says she. “I don’t like the look of you.”

“Nothing came over me at all,” says she.

“If…well, somethings up with you. Maybe you walked too much or you took a long route ,” said the grandmother to her.

“No,” says she.

The next day she was put out with the cows again down to Elly Dunes. But when she was down there, the poor creature, the young boy came to her again and he was talking with her.

“Well,” says he to her. “Would you comb my hair for me?” he said.

“I will comb it,” she said.

She had no sense. He had a comb in his pocket and she combed his hair. And he was there talking to her a while. And then he left. But when she got home…

“Well,” said her grandmother to her. “Something is not right with you,” she said. “I don’t like the look of you at all. You have a bad color. What’s up with you at all?”

“There’s nothing up with me at all,” said the young girl. “I don’t feel a thing. I can’t see anything . I don’t feel anything [different],” says she.

“Well, you’re doing the rounds,” she said, “or playing too much down on the dunes or do you have someone with you there?”

“No,” says she.

But the kick of the tale is that she went down on the third day with the cows and the young boy came to her again and sat down beside her.

“Well,” says he. “Look at my head,” says he. “And untangle put my hair and put a style on it for me,” says he.

And the poor creature did that of course. She was without sense back time. She came home that night and the cows with her.

“Well,” says the grandmother to her. “Something is up with you,” she said.

The young girl was failing and getting upset and her face was fairly pale.

“Well,” says she. ” Granny,” says she. “There’s a young man who’s been coming to see me for three days now,” she said.

And the young woman told her everything that had happened.

“I see now,” says the grandmother. “Well now,” said the granny. “When you go down there tomorrow, when he comes to you, say to the man,” she said, “that there’s a sick calf that your granny has at home and what cure is there for it to keep it alive.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

All was grand and nothing wrong. On the fourth day the young girl went down. She was a young girl, of course, between fourteen and fifteen years old. She went down with the cows and the young man came to her  and sat down beside her. But before he said anything the young woman said that her granny had a sick calf and that is was poorly and listless and near death.

“Well now,” says the young man. “To keep the calf alive tell your granny, when you get home tonight, tell her to get stale urine, hen dung, a black-shafted knife and an old palm leaf and to boil them together and to shake the mixture on the calf and it will work.”

“Fair enough,” said the young woman.

But a while after that the young boy left her and the young woman came home.

“Well,” said the granny to her, “did the young man come to you today?”

“He did,” said the girl.

“Well,” says, “did you have that talk with him?”

“I did,” said the young girl.

“Well, what cure did he give you for the calf?” she said.

“Well, he said you were to make up [a mixture of] hen dung, stale urine and holy water and to stir in with a black-shafted knife and to shake it all on the calf.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

The old woman didn’t have to do anything [for the first one]. She had a pot of stale urine in the house for bleaching tweed. That was the way they had long ago for treating tweed. But she got the hen dung, the stale urine and the old palm branch and boiled them and the holy water and she put it in a bottle for him.”

“Now,” she said to the young lady, “when you go down tomorrow with the cows, when the young man comes to you, at the foot of where he sits shake a drop of this on him till you see what he will do.”

The young woman took the bottle with that potion made up inside it with her in her pocket. But when the young boy sat down at her side as always, she just took out the bottle from her pocket and shook it on the young boy.He rose in a single ball of fire and went off with himself into the big sea.

The young woman came home and told the story to her grandmother.

“Now,” she said, “your cure is done. You’ll be a fine girl yet.”

That’s my story.

57. #5 Gearrchaile a Tugadh As

Gearrchaile a Tugadh As

ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh

Fada ó shin, ar ndóiche, ‘ bhfeicfeá a ceathair nó a cúig déag de bhlianta an uair sin nuair a ghabhadh bróg ort. Bhíodh na daoine ag imeacht ‘ cosnocht. Ní ghabhadh aon bhróg ort go mbeifeá in ann a luacht a shaothrú go maith. Ach bhí cineál…ba é an dlí a bhí ann an uair sin… bhíodh fataí bruite, ar ndóiche, ar bhoilg an lae agus ba é an bhéile deiridh ag gabháil a chodladh dófa, fataí.

Ach caithfí na cosa, an té a bhí ag imeacht cosnochta – an t-aos óg, chaithfeadh siad na cosa a ní in uisce na bhfataí. Bhí sé go maith leis na cosa a ní.

Ach an oíche seo taobh thiar ag an Lag, an áit ‘a raibh na seantithe (bhí mé dá insint cheana féin), bhí teach ansin. Agus nuair a bhí na fataí ite acu dúirt lánúin an tí, (bhí triúr clainne acu; triúr gearrchaile agus an ceann ba sine seacht mbliana a bhí sí), dúirt siad, láúin an tí, leis na gearrchailí na cosa a ní. Ach nuair a chuaigh siad chuig uisce na bhfataí, bhí uisce na bhfataí ruidín beag ró-the leis na cosa a ní.

‘Tabhair leat an sáspan sin thíos,’ a dúirt an t-athair leis an ngearrchaile seo ba shine anois. Seacht mbliana a bhí sí. ‘Agus tabhair isteach sáspan uisce agus fuaraigh an t-uisce na bhfataí go nífidh sibh na cosa.’

Chuaigh sí amach chuig an lochán beag a bhí giota ón teach ach níor phill sí ariamh ó shin, an créatúir! Ach nuair a b’fhada leofa a bhí amuigh, déirigh an cuartú amach agus ní raibh aon dath di le fáil. Déirigh muintir an bhaile amach nuair a chuaigh an gleo amach go raibh sí imithe.

Ach, lá arna mhárach, shiúil siad na bogaigh i mBaile na Cille agus chuaigh siad amach go barr aillte ag cuartú. Agus tá aill ansin a dtugann siad Gob Leaba Choimín air agus fuair siad an t-anúnfairt déanta thiar ar bharr an ghoib. Agus bhí lorg cosa bó, fuair siad amach, mar a bheadh dhá bhó ag troid.

Ach bhí siad ag faire síos fúthu agus thíos ar an gcarraig chonaic siad an corp thíos ar an gcarraig. Agus d’ísligh siad síos agus thug siad aníos í. Agus, an créatúir, ba í an gearrchaile a bhí ann. Agus bhí sí chomh dubh leis an mbac uile go léir.

Ach cuireadh an créatúir agus sin a méid atá. Bhítear ag leagan amach gur tugtha a bhí sí.

Sin an méid a mhoithigh mise anois faoi ghnoithe tiomáint ar an gcaoi sin ag an tslua sí.

The Stolen Girl

Long ago, of course, you’d have seen four or five years of this life before a shoe would go on you. People went around barefoot. You wouldn’t have a shoe on you until you were well able to earn the price of it. And it was like…it was the way it was that time …you’d have boiled spuds in the middle of the day and it was also the last meal as people would go to sleep, the spuds.

But the feet had to be, the people who were barefoot – the young people, they’d have to wash their feet in the water in which the spuds had been boiled. It was good for washing feet.

But this night back at a place called The Lag, a place where the old houses were (I was telling about this before) there was a house there. And when the people in it had eaten, the full house of them, (they had three children; three girls and the eldest was seven), they all told the girls to wash their feet. But when they went to the potato water it was a bit too hot for them to wash their feet with it.

‘Take that saucepan,’ said the father to the oldest girl. She was seven years old. ‘And bring in a saucepan of water to cool down the potato water so you can wash your feet.’

She went out to the pond, a short distance from the house, but, the poor thing, she never returned., the poor creature! But as soon as they felt she was too long out, the search party went out but there was not a trace of her to be found. The townspeople came out when the heard the commotion of her being gone.

But then, the next day they walked the bogs in Baile na Cille (Kilgalligan) and they went out along the cliff tops looking for her. And there is a cliff there they call Gob Leaba Choimín  and they found the  ground there in bits at the edge of the cliff. And there were cattle prints as if two cows had been fighting there.

But then they were looking down and below them on a rock they saw the body, on a rock. And they lowered themselves down and brought it up. And it was the little girl, the poor creature. And she was black all over, as black as the hob.

And she was buried and that’s it. They were making out that she had been spirited away.

That’s all I heard now of that kind of carry on by the fairy crowd.

53. #4 Páiste a Tugadh As

Ag athrú

Tá leath mo shaol caite agam nó gar dó má mhairim céad bliain. Sa chaoi ina bhfuilim caithfidh mé athrú mór a dhéanamh má tá saol fada at teastáil uaim. Milleann an strus an tsláinte.

Ní raibh saoirse agam i mo shaol ach go dtí gur bhris mé na rialacha. B’shin an seal a chaith mé san ollscoil. Saoirse. Meas. Cairde. Eolas. Ciall. Ach ní mhaireann sé.

Is féidir do shaol go léir a chaitheamh ag iarraidh daoine a shásamh ach gheobhaidh tú meas má éisteann tú led’ chroí. Is tá sé fíor-dheacair an ceacht sin a fhoghlaim.

Tá m’fhear céile ag imeacht uaim arís: seachtain san India an uair seo. Mo liosta: cuir glaoch gutháin ar mo Dhaid, tóg m’fhear céile go dtí an aerfort (arís) is tar ar ais le béarlagair http://www.edsource.org/acronyms.html is rialacha seafóideacha a léamh. Oideachas sna Stáit Aontaithe! Bheadh sé greannmhar muna mbeadh sé scannalach. Is níor éirigh mé as mo phost mar a bhí sé i gceist agam a dhéanamh. Is cladhaire ceart mé.

Tuigim go bhfuil na daoine i gceannas ag dul sa treo mícheart. Is bhí fonn orm fáil réidh leis an seafóid agus siúl saor amach as arís. Ach is páiste fós mé ag leanúint le rialacha agus ag rá liom féin gur féidir liom difríocht a dhéanamh sa chóras sin.

Ach tá cuid láidir de m’intinn anois ag rá liom: má tá ceo ann, abair gur ceo atá ann. Níl an faitíos orm anois agus mar a bhí. Tá mé braon den dlí díomasach. Bliain eile sa scoil? B’fhéidir. Ach má tá orm éalú amach uair eiginnt i rith na biana, siúlfaidh mé amach cosúil le cat ag siúl amach an doras. Tuigim anois go bhfuil bóithre eile amuigh ansin dom.

Ar maidin léigh mé an ceathrú scéal ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh 

#4 Páiste a Tugadh As

Ba shin páiste a d’imigh i gceo fada ó  shin, Bhí sé imithe i gceo agus héiríodh amach dá iarraidh agus caitheadh lá agus oíche dá iarraidh. Agus ins an am céanna bhí an páiste sa teach. Páistí eile mar a déarfá, b’fhacthas dófa a tháinig isteach. Ba stráinséir é. Bhí sé cineál coirpigh agus cointinneach agus rudaí mar sin.

Ach fuair siad an páiste a bhí amú sa gceo. Agus ag tíocht abhaile dófa dúirt ‘an páiste a bhí contráilte go mbruithfeadh siad sa tine é. Ó bhí ciall aige. Bhí sé a naoi nó a deich de bhlianta, an páiste sin. Ní páiste a bhí ann.

Ach dúirt siad go mbruithfeadh siad ar chúl na tine é. Chuir siad síos tine mhór agus nuair a bhí siad ag gabháil ag fail greim air, d’imigh sé ina chat amach an doras. Ní fhachas ariamh ó sin é.

Sin an chaoi a mhoithigh mise anois é.

A Stolen Child

That was a child that left in a fog long ago. He was gone in a fog and they’d get up and go out searching for him and they’d spend night and day searching. And in that same time the child was in the house.  It seemed to them that he was another child that had come in you’d say.

But they got the child that was lost in the fog. And as they were coming home they said that they’d burn the child that was contrary in the fire. Oh there was sense to that. He was nine or ten years, that child. He wasn’t really a child.

But they said they would burn him in the depths of the fire. They made a big fire and when they were getting ready to grab him, he turned into a cat and went out the door. He was never seen again.

Now that’s the way I heard it.

Is nach bhfuil sé cosúil le Yeats ar bhealach?

Leagan The Waterboys le Tomás Mac Eoin

The Stolen Child

by William Butler Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

51. #3 An Bhean a Tugadh As

Ní aithním thú ach teastaíonn tú uaim

Caillte

‘How’s my little gearrachaile?’ a chloisinn fadó ó mo Dhaid. Bhí amantaí maithe ann ach ‘siad na nóiméidí caillte a fhanann liom: nuair a bhí mo Mhaim a lorg fáisce is dhiúltaigh sé di é, nuair a bhí sé ag obair gan stad… Níor airigh mé mórán grá uaidh. B’fhéidir nach raibh grá ann ach ní dóigh liom gur fíor é sin ach oiread. B’aisteoir é nuair a bhí gá leis is nuair a thagadh duine ar chuairt bhí sé i dea humor ar feadh an ama sin. Is bhí grá ann fadó sular chaill said é is faoi dheireadh tháinig sé ar ais arís is anois níl ‘fhios agam cá bhfuil sé.

Teach na seandaoine

Tá mo Dhaid i dteach na seandaoine sa Mhuileann gCearr anois. Bíonn laethanta maithe aige agus amantaí eile nuair nach mbíonn sé ag iarraidh caint le duine ar bith is é ar a leaba leath ina chodladh ag déanamh tada is an t-am ag sciobadh uaidh. N’fheadar cén sórt smaointe a bhíonns aige ansin. Tá Parkinsons aige anois is tá sé fíor-dhian air dul amach ag siúl. Is cinnte go bhíonn gruaim air go minic agus mo Mhaim imithe ar shlí na fírinne tar éis bheith san áit céanna le blianta fada le Alzheimers. Caillte.

An pháirc in aice le mo theach (sa gheimreadh ar ndóigh)

Is mé ag fás suas chuala mé faoi dhaoine i dteach na ngealt ach dúirt mo Mhaim liom gur ‘daoine le Dia’ a bhí san áit sin agus thaitin an frása sin liom. Bhí cineáltas ann. Nuair a bhí mé an-óg is cuimhin liom mo thuismitheoirí  ag glaoch ‘sweethearts’ orthu féin. De réir a chéile d’imigh an grá. Chaill said beirt dá gclann: mo dhearthair is mo dheirfiúr a d’fhág an saol seo sula raibh seans acu fásadh. Caithfidh go ndeachaigh sé i bhfeidhm orthu. Níl a n-ainmneacha le fáil in aon reilig. Stair caillte.

An Muileann gCearr

Ach nuair a chuir siad Maim isteach i dteach na seandaoine tháinig athrú ar Dhaid. Bhí siad uilig ag caint faoi: an fear a tháinig isteach lá i ndiaidh a chéile is a bhí ag caint lena bhean chéile is gan clú aici céard a bhí sé a rá. Ach d’aithin sí an grá arís is bhí sí óg arís ar bhealach is ‘le Dia’ ar bhealach eile. Tógadh í. Agus fuair sí sonas sular imigh sí, ró-dhéanach ar bhealach ach b’fhéidir go raibh sí níos fearr as. Agus Daid agus a chlann? Tá an gleic ann a bhí ann i gcónaí. Tá sé fós stuacach agus creideann sé i ndílseacht agus meascann sé a obair le luach agus is mór an trua é. Ní ligeann sé do dhaoine an grá a thug sé do mo Mhaim a thabhairt dó. Seansanna caillte.

Is dóigh nár chóir dom an lúdramán a luaigh ach, bhuel, níl meas dá laghad agam ar a dhochtúir.  Ach sin scéal eile. Fágfaigh mé ar cheall é. Ach tá gá le feabhas ar an staid ina bhfuil cúrsaí. Ní bheidh mé san mbaile ar feadh bliain eile agus níl dabht ar bith orm go mbeidh rudaí ag dul in olcas. Sin an chaoi ina bhfuil an saol is níl neart agam air. Chlúdaigh mé a chosa leis na pluideanna is dúirt mé ‘Slán go bhfeicfidh mé aríst thú’ is tháinig an dea humor ar ais agus bhí mé buíochasach as an mbronntanas sin.

Mo bhealach abhaile: an saol san aer

Go dtí go bhfeicfidh muid a chéile aríst…

D’fhill mé an lá sin ag an teach inar fhás mé suas is léigh mé an triú scéal ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh.

3. Bean a Tógadh As

Bhí bean i dtinneas clainne thoir i nGeannraí fada ó shin agus bhí sí go dona. Ní raibh aon dochtúir ann an uair sin ach na mná glún, an dtuigeann tú? Bhí bean ghlún istigh ann. Ba sheo cailleach ar ndóiche a raibh cineál láimh aici ar an obair. Ach ní rabhthar ag déanamh aon mhaith.

Ach bhí fear istigh ann ina shuí ar chloich an bhaic, ar ndóiche, agus bhí an bhean a bhí sa leaba le bású. Ní raibh aon mhaith le déanamh di.

Fuair sí bás agus timpeall mí ina dhiaidh nó b’fhéidir sé seachtainí, an fear a bhí ar chloich an bhaic, bhi sé i mBaile Uí Fiacháin ag aonach beithíoch. Bhí beithíoch le díol aige. Agus go díreach thuas i lár shráid an mhargaidh, shiúil an fear seo chuige agus chroith sé láimh leis.

‘Bhuel, ní aithním thú’ a dúirt fear Gheannraí ‘agus tá tú ag croitheadh láimhe liom.’

‘Bhuel, aithnímse thusa,’ a dúirt fear Bhaile Uí Fhiacháin. ‘Bhí tú i do shuí sa gclúid thíos i nGeanntraí an oíche a fuair do bhean bás. Mise an fear saolta a bhí leis na daoine uaisle na gcnoc an oíche sin. Agus dá mbeadh vástchóta mhuinchilleach an fhir’ a dúirt fear Bhaile Uí Fhiacháin ‘caite transa ar chosa na mná an oíche sin, bheadh an bhean sin beo ó shin, a duirt sé. ‘Ach thug an tslua sí leofa í.’

Shin é anois an méid a mhoithigh mise. Sin scéala fíor.

The Woman Who Was Taken Away

Long ago there was a woman having a hard time giving birth over in Graunny and she was very poorly. There were no doctors then except the kin women (midwives), you know? There was a midwife in there. This was a witch (old woman) who was a dab hand at the work. But it wasn’t doing any good for them.

But the husband was sitting there, sitting on the corner stone and the woman in the bed was dying. Nothing could be done for her.

She died and about a month later or maybe six weeks, the man who had been sitting on the corner stone was at a fair in Newport. He had an animal for sale. And right up there in the middle of the market street, this man walked up to him and shook his hand.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the man from Graunny ‘and you are shaking my hand.’

‘Well I know you’ said the man from Newport.  ‘You were sitting in the corner down there in Graunny the night your wife died.’ I was the human man that the noble people of the hills had with them that night. And if the husband’s sleeved waistcoat,’ said the man from Newport, ‘had been thrown over the wife’s legs that night that woman would still be alive’ said he. ‘But the swarm of fairies took her with them.’

That’s all I heard. That’s a true story.

Leagan eile de Falling Slowly anseo

50. #2 Aingle na dTrí Sciathán

Cré, Cró is Cearta

Nuair a bhí mé san mbaile seachtain ó shin thug mé cuairt ar reilig do pháistí nach raibh baistithe agus do dhaoine a fuair bás ón Cholera. Tá an reilig bheag ann le fada an lá taobh leis an chanáil ríoga in aice le droichead Cill Phádraig taobh amuigh den Muileann gCearr. Sa bhaile sin a tógadh mé. Sa reilig sin atá m’uncail, dearthaireacha m’athair agus níl focal fúthu scríobhtha ann. Tá sé deacair go leor an áit seo a fheiceáil ón gcosán ach tá an-stair ag baint leis.

Bhí áthas orm a fheiceáil an uair seo go raibh cuí ar an reilig. Níl a fhios agam an bhfuil áthas orm faoin gcros ach caithfidh mé cuimriú go raibh a leithéid ann roimh am Naomh Pádraig. Tá rósanna ag fás ann anois agus faoi dheireadh tá cuimhneamh ar chlann amháin ann ar leac bheag.

Tá na leanaí atá curtha anseo agus a mhuintear a mhaireann sa chó dorcha le fada an lá. Is trua sin. Tá sé ceart is cóir aithint a thabhairt do na mairbh. Mo mhíle bhuíochas do na daoine a chuir an chéad leac suas mar ba mhaith liom an rud céann a dhéanamh anois do mo dhaoine ach níl sé éasca. Tá an meon aigne céanna againn in Éirinn agus atá acu sa Spáinn. ‘Sé ‘Veulve Ud. mañana’ nó ‘an méar fhada’ a chuireann gach rud siar anseo i gcónaí gcónaí.

An chéad leac sa reilig. Do formhór na daoine ann níl ann ach clocha gan ainmneach nach féidir a fheiceáil faoin bhféar.

Tá súil le Dia agam go mbeidh mé in ann ainmneacha m’uncail a fheiceáil ansin nuair a fhillim an chéad uair eile.  Is fada an turas atá agam ó California go Muileann gCearr. D’fhág mé an reilig agus shiúl mé ar ais ar bhruach an canáil ag stopadh le caint le capaill ar an mbealach. An chéad lá brea a bhí againn. Bhí an t-ádh liom.

Sa chré atá siad, mo mhuintear, ní sa chró. Is tá draíocht agus síocháin san áit seo. Níor mhaith liom go ndéanfaí dearmad ar áiteachaí mar seo go deo ná ar na daoine a mhair ar an saol seo fadó, fiú ar feadh seal an-bheag ar fad.

Ag smaoineamh ar mo thuras shuigh mé síos sa bhaile is léigh mé an dara scéal ó Scéalta Chois Cladaigh.

Aingle na dTrí Sciathán

Mhoithigh mé go minic go bhfeicthí iad, go mbíodh said ina gcineál aingle. Na haingle a thugtaí orthu. Agus níl ‘fhios agam ab shin í an fhírinne nó nach í ach bhí sé ráite go bhfeicthí iad ar mhodh ar bith. Agus mhoithigh mé fear amháin ag insin’ scéal faoi. Seanfhear a bhí ann.

D’éirigh sé ar maidin, deireadh oíche. Ní raibh aon am an uair sin le fail, uaireadóir ar bith ar ndóiche. Ní raibh cineál am ar bith ann ach an ghrian agus an ghealach. Ach d’éirigh sé deireadh oíche agus cé ar bith sórt uisce brogach a bhí fágtha ag bean an tí i mbuicéad in íochtar an cisteanach thíos, rug sé ar an mbuicéad uisce bhroghach sin agus d’oscail sé an doras agus chaith sé amach ar an gcnoc é.

Agus ar áit na bonn nuair a chaith sé amach an t-uisce ins an doras, d’éirigh an tslua meáin pháistí agus thosaigh said ag gártháil. Chonaic sé ag imeacht iad mar a bheadh cnap míoltóta ón teach agus níl ann go ndearna sé aníos é go dtí an leaba san áit a raibh a bhean ina codladh. Agus d’inis sé an scéal di.

‘Céard ‘tá ort?’ a dúirt sí.

‘Á bhuel,’ a dúirt sé, ‘tá rud cluinste anocht agam nár mhoithigh mé ariamh.’

‘Céard a mhoithigh tú?’ a dúirt sí.

‘Chaith mé amach an t-uisce broghach a bhí fágtha thíos sa gcanna agat ó oíche,’ a dúirt sé ‘amach ar an gcnoc agus d’éirigh an tslua meáin pháistí amach ón doras.’

‘Á muise,’ a dúirt sí, ‘a amadáin, nach ndéarfá’ a dúirt sí ‘go bhfuil tú sách fada ar an tsaol anois! Nach láidir nár inis do sheanathair nó do sheanmháthair an obair seo duit fada ó shin nuair a bhí tú ag fás suas! Nach bhfuil fhios agat’ a dúirt sí ‘nár cheart duit uisce broghach a chaitheamh amach? Sin iad na páistí a fhaghanns bás gan bhaisteadh atá ag imeacht anois ag feitheamh ar fhuascailt. Sin iad na haingle a dtugann said aingle na dtrí sciathán orthu.’

‘Cén sórt aingle iad sin?’ a dúirt sé.

‘Bhuel, sin iad na páistí’ a dúirt sí ‘a fhaghanns bás gan bhaisteadh.’

‘Agus cén sórt aingle’ a dúirt sé ‘aingle an dá sciathán?’

‘Sin iad na haingle cearta’ a dúirt sí ‘a bhíonns baistithe agus a fhaghanns bás a théanns thríd thaobh na lámha nach mbíonn aon pheaca orthu agus a chuirtear go deas cliste ins an teampall. Sin iad aingle an dá sciathán. Ach iad seo a fhaghanns bás agus a théanns ins an gCró Dorcha, tá trí sciathán orthu agus tá said ag imeacht ag feitheamh ar fhuascailt i gcónaí ‘gcónaí. Agus ná dean sin’ a dúirt sí ‘arís, a fhear chéile, fhad is a bhéas tú ar urlár an tí seo.’

Mhoithigh mé an scéal sin go minic.

I often heard that they would be seen as a type of angels.  Angels is what they were called. But I don’t know if that’s true or not though it’s said they were seen anyway. And I heard one man, an old man, tellin’ a story about it.

He got up in the morning at the end of the night. The thing was that there were no time back then or any kind of clock. There wasn’t any way of telling time except the sun and the moon. He got up very early in the morning and whatever sort of dirty water the woman of the house had left in a bucket down at the back of the kitchen, he grabbed that bucket of dirty water and opened the door and threw in out on the hill.

And right at the foot of the hill when he threw the water out the door up rose a host of ‘mid children’ (children between worlds) and they started laughing. He saw they leave just like a swarm of midges from the house and he just about made it back to bed to where his wife was asleep.  And he told her the story.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said.

‘Well’ he said ‘I heard something tonight I never heard before.’

‘What did you hear?’ she said.

‘I threw out the dirty water that you left in can last night’ he said ‘on the hill outside and the crowd of mid children rose up outside the door.

‘Oh, you fool’ she said ‘wouldn’t you think you are long enough on this world now!  It’s a strong miss that  your grandfather or grandmother never explained this job to you long ago when you were growing up! Don’t you know’ she said ‘that it’s not right to throw out dirty water?’ Those are the children that die without having been baptized that are waiting to be released.  Those are the angels that people call the angels of the three wings.’

‘What sort of angels are they?’ he said.

‘Well, those are the children that die unbaptised’ she said.

‘And what are the two-winged angels?’ he said.

‘Those are the real angels,’ she said ‘the ones who die after baptism, pass through by hands free of sin and are put nice and neatly in their graves. Those are the two-winged angels. But the ones that die and go to the dark outhouse (Limbo), they have three wings on them and they are waiting for release for ever and ever. And never do that again, husband, as long as you may have your foot in my house.’

I often heard that story.

Amhrán álainn ó Leonard Cohen ag míniú an scéal go simplí: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAzKhhzZU0I&feature=related

49. #1 An tSlua Sí

 Mheall Balor Suas Mé

Bhí mé in Éirinn le déanaí sa chúigiú cúige. D’éirigh mé maidin amháin ann is thug mé faoi deara go raibh meall i m’ascaill. Ag an dochtúir liom go sciopaidh le fáil amach nach raibh mé ag fáil bháis fós agus nach raibh aon dochar ann. Salann, uisce and brú air is bheinn ceart go leor arís a dúradh liom. Baineadh geit asam mar sin féin. Ní ait an rud é mar sin gur chaith mé an lá ar fad ag dul ó reilig go reilig is ag dreapadh cnoic spioradálta.

Tar éis dul ag caint le m’athair nach raibh fonn cainte air ar chor ar bith thug mé cuairt ar Bhaile Fhobhair (Fore, Co na hIarmhí). Tá cáil air mar mhainistir is bhí baint aige leis an bplá i 655. Chuaigh mé ann ag guí ar son mo shláinte.  ‘Siad na déithe págánaigh a ghaloigh orm.

D’fhéach mé ar leagan amach na háite ar mhapa a bhí ann. Ar thaobh mo lámha clé bhí an séipéal agus an mhainistir sa ghleann thíos fúm. Ar dheis bhí cnoc mór is cloch mór milteach ar a bharr is bhí fonn orm dul suas an lá sin in áit dul síos. ‘Carrick Balor’ a bhí air de réir an mapa is mar sin suas liom.

Ag an mbarr bhí mé tuirseach ach lánsásta i gcomhluadar na beithigh ar bharr an chnoic ag breathnú anuas ar an radharc álainn. Ní raibh capall ann ná bagairt ná brú ar bith agus lig mé dom’ chorp sos a thógáil ann. Mhothaigh mé teas is solas ag dul trím.

Roimh dul abhaile dom, thug mé faoi deara go raibh crann in aice leis an gcarrchlós is é maisithe le píosaí éadaí. Stróic mé cuid de mo sheaicéad agus cheangail mé é ar chraobh is d’imigh mé liom.

Cheannaigh mé iasc is sceallóga  ó fhear ó Nepal sa chipper i mBaile Fhobhair is bhí cómhrá taitneamhach againn. Bail ó Dhia ar a obair. Ar ais sa teach dom, thosaigh mé ag léamh faoin tSlua Sí ón leabhar Scéalta Chois Cladaigh. An-turas, an lá sin!

Rinne mé dearmad a rá: nuair a chuaigh mé ar ais go Daid, d’iarr sé orm cár imigh mé is d’inis mé dó go ndeachaigh mé go barr cnoc Bhaloir. Ní DHEACHAIGH! ar sé le súile mhóra is ionadh agus uafás ina ghlór. Chuaigh, ar mé, agus bhí sé álainn ar fad. Níor lig sé air go raibh codladh air ansin agus bhí comhrá breá fada againn. Deachuimhne.

Alt spéisiúil faoi Fore anseo: http://aheronsview.blogspot.com/2010/04/seven-wonders-of-fore.html

Scéal ó Sheán Ó hEinrí

den leabhar Scéalta Chois Cladaigh

An gearrán mór le cruithe óir,

Agus a shúil ar dhath na gréine;

Thóig sé a cheann agus tharraing sé srann,

Agus de bhoc, bhí sé scuabtha léithi.

Céard is ciall dá sin?

An tSlua sí! An tSlua sí!

The big gelding with his golden shoes,

And his eyes the color of the sun;

He raised his head and gave a snort,

And in a flash he was swept away with her.

What does that mean?

The Fairy Host! The Fairy Host! (The Swarm of Fairies! The Swarm of Fairies!)