The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (simple ebook reader txt) 📖
- Author: James Stephens
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“It’s my little daughter, Caitilin, sir,” said Meehawl.
“I’m attending to her,” the Philosopher replied.
“I thank you kindly,” returned Meehawl.
The Philosopher continued “Most of the races of the world have at one time or another been visited by this deity, whose title is the ‘Great God Pan,’ but there is no record of his ever having journeyed to Ireland, and, certainly within historic times, he has not set foot on these shores. He lived for a great number of years in Egypt, Persia, and Greece, and although his empire is supposed to be world-wide, this universal sway has always been, and always will be, contested; but nevertheless, however sharply his empire may be curtailed, he will never be without a kingdom wherein his exercise of sovereign rights will be gladly and passionately acclaimed.”
“Is he one of the old gods, sir?” said Meehawl.
“He is,” replied the Philosopher, “and his coming intends no good to this country. Have you any idea why he should have captured your daughter?”
“Not an idea in the world.”
“Is your daughter beautiful?”
“I couldn’t tell you, because I never thought of looking at her that way. But she is a good milker, and as strong as a man. She can lift a bag of meal under her arm easier than I can; but she’s a timid creature for all that.”
“Whatever the reason is I am certain that he has the girl, and I am inclined to think that he was directed to her by the Leprecauns of the Gort. You know they are at feud with you ever since their bird was killed?”
“I am not likely to forget it, and they racking me day and night with torments.”
“You may be sure,” said the Philosopher, “that if he’s anywhere at all it’s at Gort na Cloca Mora he is, for, being a stranger, he wouldn’t know where to go unless he was directed, and they know every hole and corner of this countryside since ancient times. I’d go up myself and have a talk with him, but it wouldn’t be a bit of good, and it wouldn’t be any use your going either. He has power over all grown people so that they either go and get drunk or else they fall in love with every person they meet, and commit assaults and things I wouldn’t like to be telling you about. The only folk who can go near him at all are little children, because he has no power over them until they grow to the sensual age, and then he exercises lordship over them as over every one else. I’ll send my two children with a message to him to say that he isn’t doing the decent thing, and that if he doesn’t let the girl alone and go back to his own country we’ll send for Angus Og.”
“He’d make short work of him, I’m thinking.”
“He might surely; but he may take the girl for himself all the same.”
“Well, I’d sooner he had her than the other one, for he’s one of ourselves anyhow, and the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t know.”
“Angus Og is a god,” said the Philosopher severely.
“I know that, sir,” replied Meehawl; “it’s only a way of talking I have. But how will your honour get at Angus? for I heard say that he hadn’t been seen for a hundred years, except one night only when he talked to a man for half an hour on Kilmasheogue.”
“I’ll find him, sure enough,” replied the Philosopher.
“I’ll warrant you will,” replied Meehawl heartily as he stood up. “Long life and good health to your honour,” said he as he turned away.
The Philosopher lit his pipe.
“We live as long as we are let,” said he, “and we get the health we deserve. Your salutation embodies a reflection on death which is not philosophic. We must acquiesce in all logical progressions. The merging of opposites is completion. Life runs to death as to its goal, and we should go towards that next stage of experience either carelessly as to what must be, or with a good, honest curiosity as to what may be.”
“There’s not much fun in being dead, sir,” said Meehawl.
“How do you know?” said the Philosopher.
“I know well enough,” replied Meehawl.
CHAPTER VIII
WHEN the children leaped into the hole at the foot of the tree they found themselves sliding down a dark, narrow slant which dropped them softly enough into a little room. This room was hollowed out immediately under the tree, and great care had been taken not to disturb any of the roots which ran here and there through the chamber in the strangest criss-cross, twisted fashion. To get across such a place one had to walk round, and jump over, and duck under perpetually. Some of the roots had formed themselves very conveniently into low seats and narrow, uneven tables, and at the bottom all the roots ran into the floor and away again in the direction required by their business. After the clear air outside this place was very dark to the children’s eyes, so that they could not see anything for a few minutes, but after a little time their eyes became accustomed to the semiobscurity and they were able to see quite well. The first things they became aware of were six small men who were seated on low roots. They were all dressed in tight green clothes and little leathern aprons, and they wore tall green hats which wobbled when they moved. They were all busily engaged making shoes. One was drawing out wax ends on his knee, another was softening pieces of leather in a bucket of water, another was polishing the instep of a shoe with a piece of curved bone, another was paring down a heel with a short broad-bladed knife, and another was hammering wooden pegs into a sole. He had all the pegs in his mouth, which gave him a widefaced, jolly expression, and according as a peg was wanted he blew it into his hand and hit it twice with his hammer, and then he blew another peg, and he always blew the peg with the right end uppermost, and never had to hit it more than twice. He was a person well worth watching.
The children had slid down so unexpectedly that they almost forgot their good manners, but as soon as Seumas Beg discovered that he was really in a room he removed his cap and stood up.
“God be with all here,” said he.
The Leprecaun who had brought them lifted Brigid from the floor to which amazement still constrained her.
“Sit down on that little root, child of my heart,” said he, “and you can knit stockings for us.”
“Yes, sir,” said Brigid meekly.
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