Irish Folk Tales (50 page)

And my father in the bed was frightened out of his life to say a word for fear the cats would go for him.

And they all sat there mumbling and talking to each other, when in comes the king of the cats, a great big tomcat, he was. He walks right in, and he sits down in the middle of them all.

Then the cat that had been at the mash limps up to him, for he was
lame with the welt he was after getting, and you’d think he was a lawyer in court the way he spoke to the king and the others.

And my father was near dead with the fright.

And the king of the cats considered for a long while, as if he was thinking over the evidence, and then he rose up and tapping the one that got the welt as much as to say “Not guilty, come on,” he went out of the door.

And they all followed him, and when they’d all gone out, the door closed after them.

N
EVER ASK A CAT A QUESTION

Aye, it’s nature breaks through the eyes of a cat, sure enough. Someways they would put a dread on you. What company do they keep? When the moon is riding high and the wind tearing the trees, and the shadows black with cold, who is it calls them from the hearth? Tell me that? And obey they must, and obey they do.

Some do be saying that it’s a meeting they do hold, and at it choose their king; and there is reason in that.

Phil Tierney was a Cavan man who owned the farm that is now Boothman’s. He gave me a black cat—the largest buck-cat ever seen in this country. Quiet he was, but he had the dark evil in his eyes. Troth, you would think he knew all the Devil’s work in the world and was glad to sit thinking of it.

One evening and I sitting here, it was mortal cold, and the cat was curled sleeping and he on the fireflag. The wind was tearing at the thatch, and never a sound was in it if it was not the cry of the wild geese and them crossing the moon. Of a sudden he was on his feet, every hair on him standing stiff as a hackle, his back arched, his tail like a jug-handle. He stood listening. Then, with a hiss and a snarl, he was out of the door like running water. The wind died on the moment, and not one thing stirred, bar the clock—the ticks of it would deafen you, like as if you had your ear to an anvil. Then the wind blew again, and a turf-sod shifted in the fire.

The next morning, with me mother and father—may God save them!—in the cart, I was driving to Mass, for it was a Sunday. We got as far as Spooner’s below, when I seen something on the road that stopped me. The
whole place was one living mass of cats. In the middle was a great buck-cat, lying with his paws drawn up under him, and him looking straight in front as if there was not a living thing near him. Around him stood others and they never lifting an eye off of him. Some on the fence, and in the ditch lay more, but they were looking away from him. Here and there a small one sneaked from one lot to another, as if they were servants and they looking for orders.

“Go on,” says my father, “or we will be late for Mass. They are only choosing their king.” I had to drive in the ditchside to pass. The buck-cat never moved. I was glad when I passed. I was glad to turn the corner and lose the sight of them.

And we coming back from Mass the cats were still there, but they had taken to the ditches. I saw no sign of the head buck-cat.

But that night they came back. Red Jack had the drink on him. He drove his cart through them. What he saw I never heard; or what he felt and him with them blazing eyes glaring hate at him, he never told. Or what he thought, with the whole night of them screaming and they near in the cart, no man knows. But this I know, that there were four wheelbarrows and them loaded with dead cats taken off Killenarden Road that Monday after.

Red Jack slept in a loft; leastways he did sleep, but never a wink he got for weeks from that Sunday. Wherever he turned there were cats. In his bed, on his table, under the chair, they would be watching, watching. He knew they waited for him to sleep; then they would be at his throat. All through the hours of dark he could see nothing but their watching eyes.

At last Red Jack could stand it no longer. He took what he had in the toe of the stocking, and with it bought a brace of terriers. Troth, then was the ructions. It was like devils coursing demons. But at the heel of the hunt there was not a cat to be found in the country.

Aye, cats is queer. Did you ever hear tell that cats that have killed more than their share of rats get sick of them and will hunt no more? When this happens, the rats grow that strong that they
laugh
in the face of their enemies. The cats then waste and die. No cat can own a master; they must have their self-respect.

And remember this: never ask a cat a question. She might answer back. And, troth, if she did, it is seven years of cruel luck you will have brought on your shoulders. Aye, indeed.

C
ATS ARE QUEER ARTICLES

I tell you, cats are the queer articles. You never know where you are with them. They seem to be different to every other class of animals. In the old days there were some foreign peoples who worshipped them, and it is not to be greatly wondered at, when you think of the intelligence of cats.

I had a strange thing happened to myself years ago with cats. It was many, many years ago now. I had a calf to sell, and it was the time of the November fair in Macroom. I’d borrowed the loan of a crib and horse from a neighbor, and was ready to set off for the fair about one o’clock in the morning.

Well, it came to one o’clock and I got up. I opened the door, and the night was so black that you would scarcely know which foot you were putting before you. I stirred up the fire and put some sticks under the kettle to make a cup of tea, and while it was boiling I went out to tackle up the horse. There was a mist coming down, so that I was wet enough already by the time that I had that job done.

I made the tea, and while I was drinking it I thought what a foolish thing it was for me to be getting out of a warm bed and going into the cold, wet night and traveling for twenty-four miles through the night. But it had to be done, so I buttoned up a grand frieze coat I had, and off we set. The horse was as unwilling as myself for the road, and the two of us were ashamed to look each other in the face, knowing the class of fools we were. We traveled for hours and hours, and not much of the first hour had gone before I was wet through and through.

As we drew nearer to the town I could see the lights in the farms by the roadside, where the people were getting up for the fair who had not to lose a night’s sleep to get there. There was a regular procession now on the road of calves and cattle being driven into the fair, but it was still dark and the daylight was only just coming.

Well, I took my place in the fair, and no one came to me and made me an offer for a long time. I thought that things were not going too well with me. Then a few asked me, but were offering only a poor price. I saw other cattle being driven away, and men I knew told me to sell, for it was a bad fair and prices were low. So at last I did sell, for the heart had gone out of me with the loss of sleep, and the long journey and the cold and the long waiting.

I tell you that I was a miserable man, standing there with ne’er a bite
to eat and wet to the skin, and with the prospect of the long journey home again, and the poor pay I had for my suffering. When I got the money I had something to eat and made a few purchases, and then I thought that if any man ever earned a drink it was me. So I met some friends and we had a few drinks together, and then parted and went our different ways.

I let the horse go on at her own pace, with the reins hanging loose. The rain came down again, and the power of the drink soon wore off, and I wrapped myself up in my misery. With the sound and the swing of the crib and the creaking of the wheels and the darkness coming down again I fell asleep, as many a man does on the long way home from a winter’s fair.

Now and again someone passed me on the road, but I scarcely heard them at all. For miles and miles I went; now asleep, now awake, with all manner of queer notions running in my head, as does happen to a man when he is exhausted.

As I was passing the graveyard of Inchigeela a cat put his head through the railings and said to me, “Tell Balgeary that Balgury is dead.” I paid little heed to that, for my head was full of strange notions. I continued on my way. At last I reached home again, and untackled the horse and watered it and fed it, and then went into the house to change out of my wet clothes.

Herself started on me straightaway. ’Tis wonderful the energy that does be in a woman’s tongue and the blindness that can be in her eyes, for I was in no mood for talk.

“Well,” she said, “what sort of a fair was it?”

“Ah! the same as all fairs,” said I.

“Did you get a good price?”

“I did not,” said I.

“Were there many at the fair?” she asked then.

“The usual number, I suppose. Did you expect me to count them?”