When O’Brien looked up and saw the Master of the Fairies he staggered like a man that had been sthruck a powerful blow. Thin he caught up the girl in his arms and ran with her down the gravelled path and over the stile.
At that minute the sorest misfortune that can happen to one of the Good People came to pass. As the lad left the churchyard every cock in the parish crowed, and, tare and ’ounds! there on a tombstone, caught by the cockcrow, stood the poor, frightened little King! His goold crown was far back on his head, and his green cloak was twisted behind his back. All the power for spells and charms was gone from him until the next sunset.
“I’m runed entirely, Darby!” he says. “Trow your shawl about me, Maureen alannah, and carry me in your arms, purtending I’m an infant. What’ll I do at all at all?” says he, weakly.
Taking him at his word, Maureen wrapped the King in her shawl, and carrying him in her arms to the cart, laid him in the sthraw at the bottom, where he curled up, still and frightened, till they were on their way home.
Omadhaun, a foolish fellow.
II
The Couple Without Childher
Five miles down the road from Kilmartin churchyard, and thin two miles across, lived Barney Casey with Judy, his wife—known far and wide as the Couple without Childher.
Some foolish people whuspered that this lack of family was a punishment for an ould saycret crime. But that saying was nonsense, for an honester couple the sun didn’t shine on. It was only a pinance sint from Heaven as any other pinance is sint; ’twas—like poverty, sickness, or as being born a Connaught man—just to keep them humble-hearted.
But, oh, it was the sore pinance!
Many an envious look they gave their neighbour, Tom Mulligan, the one-legged ballad-maker, who lived half a mile up the road, for, twelve purty, red-haired innocents sported and fought before Tom’s door. The couple took to going through the fields to avoid passing the house, for the sight of the childher gave them the heartache.
By-and-by the two began conniving how on-beknownst they might buy a child, or beg or even steal one—they were that lonesome-hearted.
Howsumever, the plan at last they settled on was for Judy to slip away to a far part—Mayo, I think—where she would go through the alms-houses till she found a gossoon that suited her. And they had the cute plan laid by which it was to pass before the neighbours as their own—a Casey of the Caseys. “Lave it to me, Barney darling,” said Judy, with tears in her eyes, “and if the neighbours wondher where I am, tell them I’ve gone to spind a few months with my ould mother,” says she.
Well, Judy stole off sly enough, and ’twas well intil the cowld weather when Barney got word that she had found a parfect angel, that it was the picture of himself, and that she would be home in a few days.
With a mind like thistledown he ran to Father Scanlan to arrange for the christening. On his way to the priest’s house he inwited the first woman he met, Ann Mulligan, the ballad-maker’s wife, to be godmother; he picked bashful Ted Murphy, the bachelor, to be godfather; and on his way home he was that excited and elayted that he also inwited big Mrs. Brophy, the proud woman, to be the boy’s godmother, forgetting altogether there was sich a parson in the world as Ann Mulligan. The next day the neighbours made ready a great bonfire to celebrayte the dispositious occasion.
But ochone! Midnight before the day of the christening poor Judy came home with empty arms and a breaking heart. The little lad had died suddenly and was buried. Maybe the Good People had taken him—’twas hard to tell which.
Tare and ages, there was the throuble! For two hours the couple sat in their desolate kitchen houlding hands and crying and bawling together till Barney could stand it no longer. Snatching his caubeen, he fled from the coming disgrace and eggsposure out into the fields, where he wandhered aimless till after dawn, stamping his feet at times and wagging his head, or shaking his fist at the stars.
At that same unlucky hour who should be joulting in their cart along the high road, two miles across, on their way home from Kilmartin churchyard, but our three hayroes, Maureen, the King, and Darby O’Gill!
Their ould white horse bobbed up and down through the sticky morning fog, Darby and Maureen shivering on the front sate. The Ruler of the Fairies, Maureen’s shawl folded about him, was lying cuddled below in the sthraw. When they saw anyone coming, the fairy-chief would climb into Maureen’s lap, and she’d hould him as though he were a baby.
Small blame to him to be sour and sullen!
“Here I am,” he says to himself, “his Majesty, Brian Connors, King of all the Good People in Ireland, the Master of the Night Time, and having been King for more than five thousand years, with more power after sunset than the Emperor of Greeze or the Grand Turkey of barbayrious parts—here am I,” he says, “disguised as a baby, wrapped in a woman’s shawl, and depending for my safety on two simple counthry people—” Then he groaned aloud, “Bad luck to the day I first saw the omadhaun!”
Those were the first words he spoke. But it wasn’t in the little man to stay long ill-natured. At the first shebeen house that they found open Maureen bought for him a bottle of spirits, and this cheered him greatly. The first dhrink warmed him, the second softened him, the third put a chune to the ind of his tongue, and by the time they raiched Tom Grogan’s public-house, which was straight two miles across from Barney Casey’s, the liquor set him singing like a
