Fermanagh Folk Tales

15

WEE MEG BARNILEG
AND THE FAIRIES

I was amazed the first time I visited Rochester, New York, to hear Sharon Saluzzo tell this story, which she said came from County Fermanagh. I had never heard it and, at the time, neither had any other storyteller in Ireland, as far as I was aware. This is an example of a tale that crossed the Atlantic, disappeared in Ireland and finally returned home. Sharon told me that Ruth Sawyer, the author of The Way of the Storyteller, first published by Penguin Books in 1976, had a nursemaid, called Johanna, who had emigrated from Ireland and brought her stories with her.

A long time ago a rich farmer and his wife lived beside Lough Erne. They were a kindly, good-hearted pair who had one daughter, a wee terror called Meg. She was spoilt rotten. Whatever she wanted she got. Her parents doted on her. As far as they were concerned she could do no wrong. Wherever they went they took Meg. She accompanied them to fairs, weddings, wakes and festivals and she was guaranteed to behave badly everywhere. The neighbours hated to see them coming because she was a destructive child who would smash your best china and she had a tongue fit for clipping hedges. When she went visiting she'd stand in the middle of the floor and look around, then turn to her mother and make comments such as, 'Do you see they've still got them old torn lace curtains at the window? Thon chair still has a broken leg and look at that! The dirt from the floor's been brushed into the corner under yon brush. Thon's a disgrace.'

She was even worse at a wake, passing remarks such as, 'Listen til auld Aggie coughing her head off. Another clean shirt'll do her. I'll bet hers is the next wake we'll be enjoying. She's got consumption, so she has.'

And when she wasn't encouraging people into the grave she'd say things like, 'Didn't Barney Gallagher say before he died that Barney Maguire was the meanest man in the whole of Ireland? I remember father telling mother he'd rather strike a bargain with the auld devil himself than with him. Do ye remember saying, yon Father?'

When Meg wasn't pestering the neighbours she was pestering animals. She took delight in pulling the cat's tail and whiskers, beating dogs with sticks, pulling feathers out of hens and chickens and the wings off flies. She was a terror and she had her poor mother worn to the bone.

Her mother was a fussy woman, who took pride in her tidy house and well-dressed family. She spent her days cleaning up after Meg, who trailed mud into the house and went through clothes like a dose of salts. She had a special talent for becoming covered in dirt and tearing dresses. Every night her poor mother sat mending and sewing by candlelight.

Meg often refused to eat what was set in front of her.

'I can't stomach that rubbish!' she'd shout before throwing perfectly good food on the floor.

Her mother's soft voice was often heard wheedling, 'Meg, darling, tell me what you'd like to eat. You've got to keep your strength up. Please put that bowl down before you break it and stop annoying the dog. Now, come on, be a good girl and your da'll take you to the shop and buy you some sweeties.'

In other words, Meg's mother, without meaning to, encouraged her to behave badly.

The neighbours said, 'It's a disgrace what thon wean puts her mother through and her such a nice, gentle woman.'

One day Meg's mother decided to take Meg next door to the neighbouring farm to borrow a bowl of sugar. When the farmer's wife saw her coming she let out a cry that could be heard over the whole of Ireland.

'Lorny bless us! Here comes Meg. Quick, hide the new butter crock in the loft, put the best platter under the bed. Tie the pig in the byre, hide the hens' eggs in the churn and pray to the Holy Virgin we survive with nothing broken.'

Meg came into the house and looked around.

'Mother,' she said, 'do you see auld granny sitting in the corner there? She looks greyer than ever. I'll bet she's not long for this world. She'll soon be pushing up the daisies. Just look at thon boil she has on her eyelid! Have you ever seen anything so ugly? And do you see they've still got that old faded rug on her knee. They mustn't be doing too well or they'd get her a nice new one.'

Meg ran round the kitchen like a wild thing. A hen walked in through the open door. She kicked it and followed as it squawked and rushed back outside.

Old Jack, the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh lay asleep in the street. Meg kicked him awake. Jack groaned, stood up and wagged his tail. Meg pulled his whiskers. Then she began to tease him by holding a bar of chocolate out and jerking it away as he went to eat it. Eventually Jack accidentally bit her and she went off like a siren before running back into the house screaming.

'Old Jack bit me! Old Jack bit me! He should be shot, so he should. He's a dangerous dog.'

She climbed on to her mother's knee and sobbed.

'There! There!' comforted her mother. 'Let me kiss you better. My poor wee darling! Did that nasty dog hurt you? You're right. He should be shot for biting my wee sweetheart.'

The farmer was attracted by the commotion and came into the kitchen.

'That child should be shot, not Jack,' he said firmly. 'Jack's the gentlest dog in the whole of Fermanagh, if not in the whole of Ireland. That child's a cruel wee hussy. If Jack bit her she deserved it.'

Meg peeped through her fingers. The farmer looked angry. He scowled at her. Would he really shoot her, she wondered. She felt uneasy and sat quietly on her mother's knee, then, when nobody was looking, she slithered down and sneaked out through the open door.

'That nasty old farmer'll never catch me!' she chortled as she struggled through a hole in the hedge and into the field. She ran and ran, aiming to get as far away from the house as possible. Eventually, after running through several fields, she saw men making hay. She watched for a few minutes before going to hide behind a haystack. She found their food in a pail covered with a dish in the shade there. She felt hungry and devoured everything she fancied. She threw the rest of the food on the ground before stopping and thinking, 'Maybe the men'll be angry when they see I've eaten their lunch. Perhaps they'll help the farmer catch and shoot me. Maybe I'd better hide.'

She went into another field, found another haystack and sat down behind it. The sun was very warm and Meg had had a lot of exercise. The drowsy sound of bees humming as they collected honey made her feel sleepy. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber.

The men finished their work and went home to milk their cows, the sun set, bats flitted against the moon. Meg woke up with a start. She heard tinkling voices and felt confused. Who was there? Where was she? What had happened to her? She peeped in the direction of the voices and saw a troop of fairies dressed in green jackets and red hats, dragging small rakes.

A small voice complained, 'That terrible child's a blithering nuisance, scattering hay like this. We'll never get the place ready in time to have a decent dance before dawn.'

'Somebody should teach her some manners,' another said.

'Yes, and to be more thoughtful. I hate the way she wastes food and have you seen how she destroys clothes? She has her poor mother worn to the bone, what with cleaning and washing and ironing and mending. It's a crying shame.'

'Fairies dance and fairies sing.'

'I hope we catch her some night and have a chance to knock some sense in til her. Ye'll see! Tiochaidh ár lá! (Our time will come!) We'll teach her a lesson!'

Any other child would have been frightened to hear such a conversation, but not Meg. She was confident and used to having her own way and getting into the middle of everything.

'What can those silly wee fairy men do?' she thought. 'They're old and feeble. I'm bigger and stronger than they are. I'll teach them a lesson. I'll knock them down like ninepins before I go home.' With that she jumped out from behind the haystack.

'Come on!' she shouted. 'Who's going to teach me a lesson? You and what army?'

She ran around, knocking the melt out of the fairies and laughing her head off.

The night grew very silent. The wee men didn't say a word. They just looked solemnly and quietly at Meg. Then one shouted, 'Make the fairy ring! Make the fairy ring! Fairies dance and fairies sing!'

The wee men quickly formed a ring round Meg and began to dance. Their tiny feet wove complicated patterns on the green, green grass. Meg felt confused. The fairies moved so quickly they became a blur and she couldn't see one to catch. They raised their small voices in song. It was a lovely tune but somehow threatening.

Ring, ring in a fairy ring,

Fairies dance and fairies sing.

Round, round on soft green ground -

Never a sound, never a sound.

Sway, sway as the grasses sway,

Down by the lough at the dawn of day.

Circle about as we leap and spring

Fairy men in a fairy ring.

Light on your toe, light on your heel,

One by one in a merry, merry reel.

Fingers touching, fingers so -

Round and round and round we go!

When the song was finished the wee men clapped their hands, kicked their heels and spun round like a hundred green spinning tops. Then they shouted, 'Move hand or foot if ye can, wee Meg...