Leprechauns Read online

  Old Churches

  Old churches, too, were considered dwelling places of leprechauns. In many tales concerning the sprites, the consecrated ground upon which such buildings stood did not seem to bother them. At the site of an ancient monastery in South Armagh, reportedly dedicated to an obscure saint named MacCuagh, a leprechaun was supposed to have taken up his abode.

  DARBY O’GILL

  The 1959 movie Darby O’Gill and the Little People tells the story of an Irishman and his battle with leprechauns. The movie features Sean Connery as the love interest for Darby’s daughter Katie, played by Janet Munro. The movie also features other Irish mythic creatures, such as a pooka (a hobgoblin) and a banshee.

  “You could see him only on very bright days when the sun fell a certain way across the fields,” said Minnie Murphy, a storyteller from Mullaghbawn in County Armagh. “And he would appear like a shadow, coming and going among the rays of sunlight just beyond the corner of your eye. If you looked at him directly, he was gone away among the bushes, quick as a thrush. I never saw him myself, but I was told that he was a little fellow, not any bigger than a child, and that you could never really see what he looked like. And he would call out to you sometimes, but his voice would always be like the cry of a bird away in the meadows. He spoke in an old, old language, so that you would never really understand what he was saying. And you could never really get a good look at him. But he was there, all right, even though the place was supposed to be holy ground and blessed by Saint MacCuagh himself. He hasn’t been seen nor heard for a long while now. I suppose the people stopped believing in him, and he went away.”

  In County Tipperary, near Clonmel, a leprechaun is supposed to guard a largely disused well on the site of a former church. In this respect, he took over the function of the ancient Celtic clergy, who used to protect the well as a holy place. It was supposedly a healing well, and the priest used to live close by it in a little house, collecting donations from the pilgrims who came to be cured. When the church was abandoned, the leprechaun seems to have taken over the role of the clergy. A token would be left beside the well for the little fellow before the pilgrim used the waters. If this was not done, the cure would be ineffective or might only last for a short time. Probably the leprechaun was a memory of some ancient well-spirit, dating back to pagan times.

  Leprechauns sometimes make their homes in artifacts associated with humans, as well as in ruined dwellings. For example, they might live in abandoned beehives, in the eaves of barns, in old boxes or even in discarded kettles.

  Living in the Open

  More commonly, however, they choose to live in the open, and there is a good reason for this. Being a sprite of the earth, the leprechaun possesses a magical power over natural things, and it is easy for him, with a little bit of “fairy glamour” (false imagery created through magic), to make his abode blend in with the existing landscape. Indeed, leprechauns are so skilled at creating illusions that a human might be standing only a few feet away from such a fairy dwelling and not be aware of its existence.

  Standing Stones

  As has already been mentioned in relation to the grogoch, some leprechauns choose to live in places where large standing stones provide some protection against the elements. This firmly establishes the fairy’s connection with pagan sites. The fairies may also live in the depths of clumps of thornbushes or amid the roots of isolated trees, recalling the notion of tree worship in the pre-Christian era. This is why such growths are better left undisturbed by farmers or land developers.

  THE POWER OF PRAYER

  The only release from a fairy’s spell was to turn one’s coat inside out and repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Only then would the fairy influence of the place be lifted.

  Because of these pagan associations, many leprechauns are believed to construct their dwellings near the ancient mounds, tumuli (“a mound raised over a grave”), raths, and earthen forts that were raised by long-vanished peoples. Often, such places were also deemed to be the homes of the fairy folk themselves—the Macara Shee or trooping fairies—and were to be strenuously avoided. Like the fairy palaces within the raths or forts, the leprechauns’ houses—so subtly blended into the landscape as to be undetectable—remained invisible to the naked human eye, and might only be seen if the person had had his or her eyes anointed with a special fairy potion or was carrying a special four-leafed shamrock or clover.

  Places scattered across the fields where grass refused to grow were sometimes also considered to indicate leprechauns’ houses. The building itself was believed to be invisible, but the telltale grassless patch gave away its location. However, mortals had to be careful not to inadvertently step on such areas when crossing fields or laneways, as doing so would place the traveler within the leprechaun’s power. The fairy would then lead the unfortunate mortal astray, and he or she would wander for hours in a lost or dazed condition before being released from the enchantment.

  Still other leprechauns chose dry caves or burrows for their homes. Such creatures are frequently described as being what we might call “taller” fairies—“about the height of a child of two or three”—but still much smaller than mortals.

  Isle of Lewis Chessmen

  In 1831, a laborer who was walking along the seashore near Uig, on the Isle of Lewis, noticed that some very bad weather had washed away a large sandbank, exposing the entrance to a small, low cave. Curiosity got the better of him; he poked his head into the opening and saw, to his amazement, a large beehive-shaped dwelling made out of clay, deep in the interior of the cave. Thinking there might be treasure in it, left over from the Viking occupation of the island, he smashed a section of it open.

  Suddenly, the air was filled with a kind of angry crying, like a thousand voices mixed with the low drone of bees. Terrified that he had destroyed part of a leprechaun’s or brownie’s home, the laborer dropped his implements and ran.

  When he returned home, his wife, who was made of much sterner stuff than he, made him go back and investigate further. Peering into the queer structure, he found a number of objects that he originally thought were Little People. These were in fact a full set of ninety-three chess pieces, exquisitely carved from walrus ivory. They are now on display in the British Museum as the Lewis chessmen (reproductions of them are on sale everywhere), and historians have dated them to the eleventh or twelfth century.

  Some of the Lewis Islanders, however, tell a different story. These chessmen are the work of a fairy sculptor who once dwelt on the island—a leprechaun-like figure who lived alone among the sand dunes. And who is to say that this is not the truth of it?

  Hedge Leprechauns

  The smaller types of leprechaun most often live in gullies or “sheughs,” particularly where the hedges have grown down to give protection. It is particularly difficult to investigate these places, for the leprechaun will pick the most inaccessible area of the drain in which to establish his house, and so the investigator will be torn and mauled by brambles and thorns while trying to see the leprechaun dwelling and will probably end up not seeing anything at all.

  A sure signal that a leprechaun is concealed somewhere along a gully or drain is said to be the tapping sound which he makes while working at a pair of brogues or other shoes. If a mortal coming too close to his house disturbs the leprechaun, he will abandon the shoe and scamper back into his abode. Consequently, a small number of storytellers are able to produce discarded shoes leprechauns have left behind. The most famous of these was the folklorist W.J. Fitzpatrick, who lived in the Mourne Mountains of County Down in the early part of the twentieth century. A photograph of a discarded fairy shoe that he kept in his possession was printed in the Mourne Observer in the 1950s, but since the photo was taken, the shoe has mysteriously disappeared.

  LEPRECHAUN HUNT

  In 1989 in the Irish town of Carlingford, a pub owner claims to have heard a scream from a well. Investigating, he found a tiny set of bones and some clothing he identified as belonging to a leprechaun. He put them on display, where they attracted so much attention that the town now sponsors an annual leprechaun hunt. Adults who take part in the hunt are given a small bottle of whiskey to assist them in their search for the wee folk.

  Avoid Leprechaun Hospitality

  Although leprechauns’ houses are often hard to find, sometimes mortals will stumble upon them by accident. If this should occur, the mortal must never, under any circumstances, accept hospitality from the sprite, as severe repercussions are bound to ensue. The following story comes from the Bog of Allen, in the South East Midlands, and serves as a warning of such consequences.

  “The Girl Who Stayed Too Long”

  There was a girl who one time had gone to a fair with a young man on whom she was very sweet. On the way home, they fell out—as lovers will sometimes do—and, in a fit of temper, she jumped down from the donkey cart he was driving and stormed off along the road. He, being in an equally bad temper, drove on home without her, shouting that a good walk would do her no harm and would serve to cool her passion and stay her bad tongue.

  The thing was that she had jumped from the cart in the middle of a bog, and was forced to walk along long and lonely roads without ever meeting a single person. Ah, but there’s a warning to us all there, not to be so hasty in our words and actions!

  Soon night was coming down upon her and she was nowhere near her home. There was a smurr (“a slight drizzle”) of rain on the wind as well, and, having no head covering and fearing a bit of a storm, she looked around for some sort of shelter. Away out in the bog, she saw the light of a window, and she thought that she might go there and ask for a wee bit of shelter for the night. Then she could set out for home again in the morning.

  There was only a peat road leading into the bog toward
the light, and it was badly grown about with reeds and rushes and spiky bushes. All the same, the girl forced her way on toward the light, and just as the sun was going down, she came upon a little house of sod built in the very heart of the bog, with a bit of an old haw-lantern in its window. And sitting in front of its open door on a three-legged stool was a wee man, no bigger than a two-year-old child, smoking an old dudeen in the last of the evening. Beside him on the ground lay an old fiddle and bow. He was warming himself in front of a small fire that he had lit in front of his doorway.

  He looked up at her as she came out of the dark, and she saw that his skin was tanned and weather-beaten and that his hair and beard were as black as coal. But it was his eyes, which were quick and intelligent, that took her interest.

  She Asks for Shelter

  She told him that she was a traveler who was a long way from home, and that she would be grateful if he would let her lie by his fire for the night and share his family’s meal.

  The little man looked at her queerly. “I live here alone,” says he, with a queer accent in his tone that reminded her of Old Irish. “But you are welcome to share what I have. I must tell you that I am a bit of a musician, and that on nights such as this, my neighbors, who also live in this bog, will gather here for a bit of a céilí (“dance”). But you are welcome to join in with us if you have a mind to, for there will not be much sleeping done this night.”

  Now the girl was always ready for a céilí, and she readily agreed. The little old man beckoned her into the house, and when she got into the place, she found out just how low it was. She could barely stand up in it, and there appeared to be no furniture about it at all—just a few old seats and a table. The floor had been swept quite clean, though, as if ready for some merriment.

  The man produced an old jug of poteen and the two of them went outside to enjoy the night. Gradually, other people began to come out of the twilight from different directions across the bog. Not one of them was any bigger than a child, although they all appeared to be very old, and the girl noticed that she was the only woman among them. Every one of them was a little old man.

  Her host lifted his fiddle and began a merry tune, and soon the céilí was in full swing, away in that remote and lonely place. The girl so enjoyed the music that she got up to dance, and soon she was leaping with the best of them around the fire at the doorway of the small house.

  She danced and danced until it seemed that she would never stop; as soon as she had finished dancing with one of the small men, another would step up to take his place. And every time she paused for breath, someone would come forward with a cup of poteen for her. She would gulp it down and dance some more. She danced until her feet were numb and she was exhausted—so exhausted that she collapsed in a heap, just in front of the doorway to the house of sod.

  The Next Day

  She awoke in the middle of the bog, with nobody next to nor near her. Of the house, the fire, and the noisy company, there was no sign. She lay with her head almost in a bog hole and a fearsome pain in her feet. When she looked down, she saw they were covered in blood. Indeed, she had danced so much that her feet were raw and she had almost danced her toes off. It was only then that she realized she had been dancing all night with the leprechauns of the bog, those tireless dancers who fade away on the wind as soon as the sun is up.

  Getting up, she limped back to the road and eventually made her way home. When she came near her own house, she began to notice how things had changed. On the road, near to her own gate, she met a couple of people coming down toward her. She looked at them and they at her, but neither recognized the other. And the houses were different, too—where there should have been thatch, there was now slate, and where the walls should have been whitewashed with lime, they were now dashed with pebbles. And she passed houses by the roadside that she never remembered seeing before. It was all very strange. The people working in the fields seemed different too. There were young people that she should have known but didn’t recognize, and the fields that had been boggy and rushy when she had left the previous morning were now flat and cultivated, with cattle grazing in them or crops growing there.

  At length she came to her own gateway, and right glad she was to see it, for her poor feet were in agony. She hobbled up to the door, but as she did so, a strange woman came to the door and asked her what she wanted.

  “I want to come into my own house!” said the girl rather angrily.

  The woman just looked at her in astonishment. “I don’t know who you are,” she said, with a stiff tone in her voice, “nor what you think you’re doing, but this is not your house!” She said it with such finality that the girl knew she wasn’t lying. “Now get away from my door, old woman, and be about your business.”

  The Voice from the Past

  The girl looked at her, aghast. Who was this cheeky besom (“loose woman”) who referred to her as “old woman”? The woman at the door looked old enough to be her mother!

  “This is indeed my house!” she told her. “At least, it was when I left here this morning. And who are you, anyway, to come claiming it for your own?”

  The woman gave her a look of distaste. “I have lived here with my husband these last twenty years,” she told the astonished girl. “And before me it was a family named Mulligan, who moved away to Ballina in the County Mayo. And long before that it was a family named Cosendine…”

  The girl gasped. “But that’s my name!” she told the strange woman. “I’m Kate Cosendine.”

  The woman looked at her curiously for a moment, then made the sign of the cross in the air above her head. “Lord help me!” she cried, stepping back into the cottage. “You’re Kitty Cosendine who vanished all those years ago, on her way home from the fair with Dan Sullivan. I mind my grandmother telling me about it, for it all happened when she was a child herself.”

  Kitty sat down on the edge of the doorstep, a great weariness suddenly overcoming her.

  “Look at yourself, woman!” And the woman of the house fetched a mirror so Kitty could see herself.

  What she saw looking back at her was the face of an old, old woman, dirty like a beggar-hag, with straggly gray hair and the lines of great age all across her withered skin. Gone was the young girl who had left home all those years ago—years that had passed in a single night’s dancing with the leprechauns out in the bog.

  PEAT

  In some wetland areas of Ireland, vegetation decays in a form called peat. It can be cut and put on a fire, where it burns slowly, making it a good fuel for a land with few trees.

  The woman drove Kitty away from her door, and for most of the day she wandered the roads, hearing bits of stories about herself—for the legend of Kitty Cosendine was well known in the locality. It appeared that Dan Sullivan had waited for her for many years but had eventually married another girl. His grandchildren still lived nearby. Her family had fallen on hard times and had been forced to move on, and now no trace of them remained in the countryside.

  There was nowhere for Kitty to go and no one to take her in. Her feet ached, but she had to keep walking; she had no rest at all.

  As evening drew on, she approached the church. Dragging herself up the steps, she peered in through the door. A service was in progress and the priest was in the very act of elevating the host. And as he called God’s blessing on all present, Kitty Cosendine fell away to dust with a final sigh. She had found her rest at last.

  But her story is a warning to one and all against accepting the hospitality of the leprechauns, or of any other fairy creature. Their ways are not our ways; neither is their time like ours. Those who sit by the fires of the Sídhe may find that their time has already passed without them realizing it.

  Rushy Men

  It was not always easy to recognize fairy houses, and humans were wont to stumble upon them by accident. Bogs and mosses throughout the countryside were frequently the home of leprechauns, harking back to an old meaning of the name—“rushy man.” Their huts were either of peat cut from the bog itself or of rushes and grass tied into intricate designs. In the evening, the voices of the leprechauns could be heard crying from their secret houses among the rushes, the sounds high and shrill like those of waterfowl. Cynics may very well say these are no more than the cries of birds nesting in the bogs, but the wise man is not always so dismissive. It would be folly, however, to follow such cries in order to see the leprechaun: the sounds might lead you into the most dangerous part of the swamp, and you might never find your way out again or sink into the mud without a trace. Hunting leprechauns in such terrain is a dangerous business indeed.