Part 1

WURRA-WURRA

[Illustration: GROTTO AND IMAGE OF WURRA-WURRA

Drawn by John Innes, from his reconstruction of this very ancient Celtic Idol, as described in the Legend.]

[Illustration:

WURRA-WURRA

A LEGEND OF SAINT PATRICK AT TARA

HERE FIRST TRANSCRIBED AND COMPARED WITH THE TESTIMONY OF ANCIENT RECORDS AND MODERN HISTORICAL RESEARCH

_By_ CURTIS DUNHAM AUTHOR OF “THE GOLDEN GOBLIN,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, INCLUDING A RECONSTRUCTION OF THE VERY ANCIENT CELTIC IDOL CALLED WURRA-WURRA

_By_ JOHN INNES

NEW YORK DESMOND FITZGERALD, INC. PUBLISHERS]

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY DESMOND FITZGERALD, INC.

TO THOSE DESCENDANTS OF THE O’SHAUGHNESSY WHO PRESERVED THIS LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK AT TARA; TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER O’SHAUGHNESSY, FROM WHOM IT WAS RECEIVED ORALLY; AND TO THE ANTI-WORRY SOCIETIES OF CHRISTENDOM, THIS TRANSCRIPT IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

Grotto and Image of Wurra-Wurra _Frontispiece_

_Facing page_

Patrick casting down Cromm Cruach and the twelve smaller idols 12

Keth, Patrick’s Strong Man, describing to Finola the virtues of his handstone 20

Keth Mac Maragh in the bog, beset by the wizard spells of Lochru 38

Keth recites the Brehon Law to Dubthach Mac na Lugair and his debtor 44

Dubthach, the Royal Shanachy, driving home the price of his poems 48

Far down Glanngalt Keth sees the torches flaming about the Grotto of Wurra-Wurra 52

With his mighty handstone, defying Lochru, Keth shatters the idol Wurra-Wurra 62

Finola runs to Keth and delivers an urgent message from Patrick 64

Keth, in the shattered idol’s place, hears Finola’s great worry 76

Patrick marries and blesses Keth and Finola of the White Shoulder 78

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’Twas in the days whin the good Patrick of Armagh slept with wan eye open, owin’ to the murderous desire of a bunch of haythin magicians to hang onto their jobs at the court of King Laeghaire. There was the chief royal wizard, Lochru by name, an’ two other divil-sint Druid priests, namely Caplait an’ Lucat-Moel, who hild the graft of makin’ wise haythins of Ethne the Fair an’ Fedelm the Ruddy, the King’s two daughters an’ the twin apples of his eye; an’ between the three of thim, with the King lookin’ their way wan day an’ Patrick’s way the next, the spells of wind an’ water an’ black magic the good Patrick had to circumvint were sure a caution.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Now Patrick, bein’ a gintleman and the guest of King Laeghaire at Tara, could not turn himself loose on mimbers of the King’s own household. All the same, if he was to clane up Ireland, Druids, snakes an’ all, ’twas important to begin by convertin’ the King. So he was goin’ easy like, wan day miltin’ Laeghaire to tears with his iloquence, an’ alas! the nixt day findin’ the King bowin’ down to the great gold an’ silver idol, Cromm Cruach, which stood on the plain near Tara surrounded by twilve smaller idols of brass an’ tin. ’Twas a case of Cromm Cruach against Patrick an’ the Four Gospils with the odds even.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Wan thing was plain, Cromm Cruach the big idol, an’ all the little idols must go. So wan day, in the prisence of King Laeghaire an’ all his household an’ a great multitude of the people, Patrick raised his staff before Cromm Cruach, an’ in the twinklin’ of an eye the big idol an’ all the little idols sank into the plain up to their necks. ’Twas a miracle the like of which had niver been seen in Ireland. An’ King Laeghaire, seein’ that all the spells of his Druid magicians could not raise up Cromm Cruach again, nor even the smallest of the little idols, became a Christian on the spot.

Observin’ the same, old Lochru the wizard fell to ragin’ an’ tearin’ out his long whiskers by handfuls. Caplait an’ Lucat-Moel were frothin’ at the mouth because of their fat jobs gone a-glimmerin’. ’Twas a great day for the good Patrick, barrin’ the prisint failure of the multitude to follow the example of the King.

[Illustration: _Patrick casting down Cromm Cruach and the twelve smaller idols_]

[Illustration]

Instead of fallin’ on their knees to receive the blissin’ of Patrick as he stood there with Sechnall his bishop, Erc his judge, an’ Presbiter Bescna his chaplain, all in their church vestmints, the people turned their faces to the West as wan man, beat upon their brists an’ cried out: “O, Wurra-Wurra!” In their mixture of ancient Irish an’ Gaelic (which was the common speech in those days), three times they cried: “O, Wurra-Wurra!” before they would let Patrick bliss an’ disperse thim.

Now there was in Patrick’s train Keth Mac Maragh, his strong man, the same that carried him on his back through the bogs an’ was his champion whin it came to fightin’ barbarians who would not accept the Gospil with whole heads. Keth was moreover a bit of a shanachy, or story-teller, in his way, with a head full of the old tales an’ histories set down in the Book of the Dun Cow, which made him the frind of ivery small boy wheriver Patrick carried on the good work. So whin he heard the multitude cry out: “O, Wurra-Wurra!” at the downfall of Cromm Cruach, Keth was disturbed in his mind. Niver before had he heard those words of lamentation uttered by a multitude all in spontaneous accord. Yet in the mouths of sorrowin’ girls forsaken by their lovers, an’ old women at a wake or grievin’ over sheep with the foot-rot, they were words as familiar in Patrick’s time as they are to this day.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

But the thing that most disturbed the mind of Keth Mac Maragh was the sight of Finola of the White Shoulder, wan of Patrick’s three embroideresses—which means a Christian mimber of Patrick’s own household—turnin’ her pretty face to the West with the multitude an’ joinin’ in the cry of “Wurra-Wurra!” ’Twas sure a haythin act, an’ as Keth had been for a long time swate on this same Finola, findin’ her white shoulder a plisant place to rist his head on, he wint speedily an’ taxed her with it.

But Finola only hung her pretty head an’ was silent.

[Illustration]

“Finola,” says Keth, “ye ought to be ashamed of yoursilf, you a mimber of the good Patrick’s household an’ a ’broiderer of the sacred vestmints.”

Niver a word answered Finola, but only hung her head the lower.

Then said Keth Mac Maragh with a keen look at the girl:

“Finola, ’tis yoursilf has told the truth though not a word has passed your lips. Cromm Cruach, which our good Patrick has overthrown, was not the only great false god in Ireland.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

Now the girl appeared startled, but her head still drooped an’ she answered neither yes nor no. With a smile half hid by the hair on his lip, Keth spoke sternly to her:

“Finola, I have it from your own lips that you came to Patrick at Tara from your people over in the West country. ’Tis over in the West stands another great idol, an’ the name of it is Wurra-Wurra.”

At these words Finola began trimbling violently, though she spoke no word, an’ her head still drooped. Keth Mac Maragh showed the girl no mercy.

“’Tis in my mind, Finola,” he said, “to make a journey over into the West country, an’ find this heathen god, Wurra-Wurra, an’ cast him down even as Patrick cast down Cromm Cruach.”

Now the girl lifted her head and spoke up quickly: “But you are not in orders, Keth, an’ have no Bishop’s staff to raise against this idol—if so there be one.”

“’Tis true I have no Bishop’s staff,” said he, “nor do I nade wan. I have me handstone. I have me handstone, the same that did for Macc Cairthinn, mind ye, Finola. An’ ’tis in me mind that the handstone that spilled the brains of the King’s strong man is enough to bash the countenance of a haythin idol.”

And he took the stone out of his shield to gaze on its fine shape and feel the weight of it. “’Twas a smaller wan,” he said, “a mere stone from the brook with no virtue whativer, that David sunk into the forehead of Goliath.”

“Is it the same,” whispered Finola with awe in her eyes, “that gave ye the triumph over Macc Cairthinn?”

[Illustration: _Keth, Patrick’s Strong Man, describing to Finola the virtues of his handstone_]

[Illustration]

“’Tis a better wan,” spoke up Keth Mac Maragh proudly. “’Tis of fresh-slaked lime mixed with those same brains of the King’s strong man that I spilled with the old wan—mixed with Macc Cairthinn’s own brains an’ dried in the sun till it has the hardness of flint an’ the toughness of oak. Besides—mark this, Finola—’tis a true handstone with all the virtues of me own Red Branch Knighthood. An’ who can throw it fairer or swifter than Keth Mac Maragh?”

At these words Finola turned strangely pale. Prisently she threw her arms about the neck of Keth an’ besought him not to journey off into that wild West country.

[Illustration]

“Keth, darlin’,” said she, “’tis the country of the Badb an’ all the Dedannan furies, where the terrible Banshees are only the least of the bad fairies. They will have your body an’ your soul.” An’ then she whispered:

[Illustration]

“Stay with Finola. She nades ye, an’—an’ soon she’ll nade ye sore!”

Now Keth was touched with the tears of Finola, but he was an obstinate man an’ his mind was made up to have it for his own great triumph and credit with Patrick, the castin’ down of Wurra-Wurra. ’Twas true also that he had become a trifle weary of the white arms of Finola forever draggin’ about his neck. So he threw them off gintly, lavin’ her there on the ground half dead with grievin’, an’ wint straight to Patrick for lave to go on a journey on business of his own.

[Illustration]

The good Patrick, bein’ easy in his mind an’ cheerful now that Cromm Cruach was done for, gave Keth his lave an’ a blissin’; an’ lest Finola’s arms should drag at his neck again, he did not delay, but took his shield an’ his handstone an’ was off on his long legs for the West country.

[Illustration]

Indade, ’twas well he did not loiter, for the old wizard Lochru had already got wind of his interprise an’ was brewin’ his most divilish spells against him. Caplait was in the same business. ’Twas a close call for Keth Mac Maragh, for between thim these two howlin’ old wizards bossed all the bad fairies an’ demons an’ reptiles in Ireland.

All this, mind ye, was before Patrick had got ready to attind to the snakes. The land was full of thim. As for fairies, good an’ bad, at the time whin the good Patrick landed at Wicklow they were thicker than the people—which is worth raymimberin’, for there were tin times as many Irishmin in Ireland then than iver has been since. In those days ’twas a case of Ireland for the Irish, with the rist of the world lookin’ on in envy an’ covetousness, but takin’ care to kape their hands off to save their heads.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

There was no nade for Keth to carry meat or drink—which was another fine thing about Ireland in those days. At ivery crossroads was an inn maintained at the public expinse, for the intertainmint of travellers without money an’ without price, an’ the pot always a-bilin’ day an’ night. ’Twas the shanachies an’ poets who travelled about thicker than thieves, singin’ their songs an’ tellin’ their tales at the courts of the kings, that were the cause of all this hospitality, for these gentry put on even more airs in those days than they do now, havin’ free graft iverywhere, so eager were the people to hear all the news an’ the romances.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

’Tis already towld how Keth was a bit of a shanachy himsilf, an’ well versed in all the wizardry of Patrick’s Druid inemies. ’Twas a full grown man’s job, by this token, that old Lochru took on himsilf in layin’ his plans to save Wurra-Wurra from the vi’lint hands of Patrick’s strong man. An’ ’twill iver be to the credit of Lochru’s divilish subtlety that he so near finished for poor Keth by transformin’ himsilf into a false shanachy an’ tacklin’ the lad on his soft side.

[Illustration]

Through County Armagh an’ well into Fermanagh Keth Mac Maragh passed safely, livin’ free on the fat of the land an’ kapin’ an eye opin for signs of the old idol Wurra-Wurra. ’Tis true that wance Lochru tried to beguile him with a venomous banshee in the guise of a beautiful maiden all smiles an improper alluremints; but Finola’s white shoulder was still so fresh in his mind that he only laughed an’ bid her the time of day an’ passed on his way.

[Illustration]

Wance, too, Lochru sint a swarm of sheevras—which are the most impish of all the bad fairies—with orders to choke Keth to death on salmon bones as he ate his avenin’ meal; but ’twas all in vain, for Keth was wise an’ kept his fingers crossed.

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[Illustration]

Havin’ seen the failure of these poor experimints, Lochru changed his face out of all raysimblance to himsilf, an’ took a small Irish harp an’ wint an’ sat on a hillside among the shamrocks close beside the broad road along which he knew Keth was soon to pass. This was his preparation for the grand schame that was to hocus-pocus the idol-hunting strong man for good an’ all.

Prisintly, as Keth Mac Maragh hove in sight, all tired and dusty from a hard day of travel, Lochru, in his guise of an old an’ decrepit shanachy, twanged the strings of his harp an’ began to sing of past glories whin he was royal shanachy at Tara with four an’ twinty pupils all sheddin’ lustre on his performance. But whin Keth came abrist of him on the road he lifted his voice in a sort of refrain, the substince of which caused Patrick’s strong man to prick up his ears an’ pinch himsilf to be sure he was indade awake. For this was the unexpicted purport of Lochru’s refrain:

“Hail the dawn of Erin’s Golden Age, Redeemed from Druids’ evil signs and spells. Rejoice at ancient idols overthrown And demons banished to their flames below. Cromm Cruach’s head doth bow to Patrick’s power; Great Laeghaire takes the Gospel to his heart; No more shall idols lure the simple mind— E’en Wurra-Wurra’s fatal hour has struck. Hail Erin’s Golden Age, Hail Patrick and the Blissed Word!”

[Illustration]

An’ no sooner had the schamin’ Lochru in his disguise exprissed these fine Christian sintimints than Keth fell for him. Yis, Keth Mac Maragh fell for him complately—swallowin’ bait, hook, line an’ all.

Old Lochru, pretindin’ not to observe the prisince of the lad, was about to reel off a few more yards of his song, but Keth fell on his neck, sayin’:

“Hiven’s blessin’s rist on ye, old man; for ’tis indade true, as ye’ve said, that Wurra-Wurra’s fatal hour has struck. Tell me where to look for the owld idol that I may bash his face with me handstone.”

“Do me eyes desayve me?” said the false shanachy, returnin’ Keth’s embrace. “No; sure ’tis the good Patrick’s strong man that stands before me—Keth Mac Maragh, who, wan day, will be a bishop.”

“’Tis the same,” said Keth, swellin’ with pride at the wizard’s prophecy—for that was Keth’s great saycrit ambition, to become a bishop. An’ now Lochru had him hard an’ fast. No suspicion of the false shanachy could have been beaten into his head with an axe.

“But the time passes,” said Keth; “show me the road to Wurra-Wurra, that I may speedily earn me bishop’s staff.”

Lochru was playin’ with the lad as a cat plays with a mouse. “Have ye no fear of the druid wizards?” he said. “Can ye circumvint the spells of Lochru? Are ye after thinkin’ that Lucat-Moel an’ Caplait will let ye come at Wurra-Wurra to do the idol harm?”

[Illustration]

“Divil take the wizards an’ all their spells,” answered Keth. “Sure, ’tis Keth Mac Maragh, champion strong man an’ as good a scholar as the bist of thim, that has all their spells at his finger-ends. So set me on the road to Wurra-Wurra.”

“Be it so,” said Lochru. “I persayve that ye’re already a bishop, savin’ the ordination. ’Tis well. Give heed to me words, for ’tis growin’ dark an’ ye must travil the night through to escape the sure destruction which Lochru has prepared for ye.

[Illustration]

“Priss on your prisint way, lad, till ye’ve rached the top of the third wooded ridge. There ye’ll see below ye in the moonlight the glimmerin’ surface of a great bog, an’ on the farther side of the same an owld round tower to the right, an’ Concobar Mac Nessa’s ruined castle to the lift. Go straight down to the edge of the bog an’ suddenly ye’ll see that a fine, hard road leads across it. Cross the bog without fear. ’Tis a short cut to Wurra-Wurra over beyond the round tower, an’ ’twill lave ye safe from Lochru an’ all his demon immissaries. Have ye me directions fixed clear in your mind, lad?”

[Illustration]

“Yis,” said Keth. “An’ may the blissin’s of Patrick an’ all the saints rest on your white head, vinerable owld man, for, thanks to you, Wurra-Wurra is already as good as done for.”

The nixt minute Keth’s legs were leadin’ him straight into the trap so cunningly set for him, an’ old Lochru, raysumin’ his own face an’ form, was chucklin’ into his long whiskers.

* * * * *

Now whin Keth came to the top of the third ridge an’ looked down upon the great bog, ’twas the darkest hour of the night, whin the bad fairies are up to their worst divilmint, an’ the dangerous elves an’ demons attind to the summons of their masters, the Druid wizards. From the top of the ridge there was no sign of any road across the bog; but Keth, full of foolish faith in the words of the false shanachy, stopped only to draw a full breath, an’ was off down the slope at his top speed.

An’ sure enough, as he neared the bog’s edge, he saw before him a straight, hard road gleamin’ in the moonlight an’ stretchin’ clear an’ fair to the hill-slope on the farther side. With a shout of triumph, Keth laped forward an’ ran swiftly out upon the road over the bog. An’ thin, all at wance, there was no more road, an’ he found himsilf flounderin’ up to his arm-pits in the quaking mud of the stickiest bog in Ireland.

An’ while he floundered he heard a peal of faymiliar, divilish laughter from the bog’s edge. There stood old Lochru, holdin’ his sides an’ waggin’ his head—an’ thin, in a flash, Keth saw it all, how he had been hocus-pocussed by a false shanachy who was none other than Lochru himsilf.

’Twas useless to waste breath lamintin’, or hurlin’ hard names at Lochru; Keth saw that he had nade of it all to extricate himsilf from the bog—which he would have done right speedily but for the trump card the old wizard played thin an’ there.

All at wance Keth found himsilf surrounded by a swarm of meisi—which are the most dreadful phantoms that inhabit the World of Darkness—summoned by the incantations of Lochru. The sight of thim froze Keth’s blood in his veins. For a time, so full of terror they filled him, he could nayther speak nor move. Manewhile, ivery minute the bog sucked him down deeper.

[Illustration: _Keth Mac Maragh in the bog, beset by the wizard spells of Lochru_]

Sure it would have been all over with Keth Mac Maragh if, suddenly, there had not appeared before him a vision of Patrick, fearless in his great faith, casting down Cromm Cruach in the very prisince of King Laeghaire an’ the most powerful of the Druid wizards. The vision gave him strength to raise his voice to the glory of God an’ defiance of the divil, so that he no longer quaked with paralizin’ fear of the phantoms, an’ was near strugglin’ out of the bog.

Thin it was that Lochru summoned Banba, queen of the Dedannan furies, an’ with her diabolical aid caused Keth to be set upon by sheevras, leprechauns an’ all manner of demoniac reptiles. All the bog about him was covered with thim, an’ all the air murmured and shrieked with the flapping of demon wings. Pookas came and sat upon his shoulders to priss him down into the mire, while the dread Badb, in the guise of a loathsome hag with the wings of a great bat, shut the air from his nostrils and clawed at his throat.

Yet always, at what seemed the fatal momint, the voice of Keth, raised in praise of God an’ bowld defiance of the divil, so weakened the demoniac powers that old Lochru, raging in vain, saw the dawn approaching an’ his triumph unaccomplished.

Indade, the triumph was Keth’s, for, by the blissin’ of heaven, he hild out. In fear of the blastin’ rays of the sun, all at wance his demon inemies disappeared with shrieks of baffled vengeance, an’ old Lochru with thim. An’ soon Keth, still praisin’ God an’ defyin’ the divil, was out of the bog an’ dryin’ himsilf in the sun.

* * * * *

Whin he was dry an’ somewhat risted an’ raycuperated after the long agonies of that night, he retraced his steps to the road where Lochru had beguiled him. Wan day an’ a night he spint at an inn for food an’ slape, while the maids claned the bog slime from his raimint, an’ thin proceeded on his way into the West.

Not until he was out of Fermanagh an’ well into Roscommon did he come upon any clue to the whereabouts of Wurra-Wurra. ’Twas truly strange that the right direction should come from another shanachy—but a rale wan this time, none other than the great Dubthach Mac na Lugair, royal poet at the court of the King of Connaught.

Keth came upon Dubthach as the renowned shanachy was fastin’ on a false poet who owed him a debt for makin’ up some rhymes which the false poet recited about the country as his own divine afflatus. This fakir was a failure at bog-drainin’ named Fergus, an’ havin’ neglected to pay for the rhymes he couldn’t make up for himself he was shut up in his house while Dubthach sat before his door, neither of thim eatin’ nor drinkin’, as the custom was, till the matter was settled. Dubthach was so pale an’ lean from four days an’ nights of fastin’ that his tunic was all in wrinkles about his shoulders. Fergus’ plight was worse yet, for as he sat by his open window with his head in his hand he seemed only half alive. Still ivery time Dubthach braced up an’ called on him to pay the debt he came back with a sharp answer.

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“’Tis four geese an’ a sheep ye owe me,” said Dubthach, as Keth came up.

“Ye’re a liar. ’Tis three geese an’ a pig,” said Fergus.

“The law is with me, I’ll starve the heart out of ye,” said Dubthach.

“Yer rhymes were no good, they stuck in me throat,” said Fergus. “But I’ll pay ye the three geese an’ the pig—or see yer bones litterin’ me doorstep.”