There was a widow, and she had only one daughter. Her husband died when the child was young; so the mother had to travel long cold roads in search of alms to provide for her daughter. She saved pennies and half-pence and farthings until the child was a young girl, hoping to have something put by for her when she would marry—if she lived.
By the time that she had a small dowry put together, the daughter had grown to be a beautiful girl—kind, gentle, honest, and sensible. All the young men in the place were trying to be friendly with her, but it wasn’t every young man would suit the old widow. She wanted a husband for her daughter who would own a good farm of land and be firmly established, as she had a good dowry. One night the widow spoke to her daughter.
“Isn’t it time for you, daughter,” said she, “to be thinking of settling down? I am old and spent now, and my days are in. I would like to see you married in your own little house before I leave this world.”
“Do you think so, Mother?” said the daughter. “Have you any husband in mind for me?”
“I have a certain man in my mind,” said the widow. “I know him and his people well. He has a good farm, and he’s well off. We had better make a match for you to marry him.”
“Very well, Mother. I’m satisfied with whatever you say.”
The match was made, and when Shrove came, they were married. There was no fear but the husband had got a good wife. She was able to sew, to knit to do the housework, and even to work on the land, for she had been working for farmers since she grew up. The widow had gone to live in the house with her daughter and the husband. So the years went by until the husband came home one evening. His wife knew by his rough manner that he was displeased about something. She went over to him.
“What’s wrong with you, Seamus?” she asked. “You are seldom as grumpy as you are today. Something is troubling you.”
“There is,” said the husband. “’Tis hard enough for me to support you and look after you not to have your mother as a load on my back.”
“May God help us!” said his wife. “My mother won’t be a burden on anybody for long. Her life is nearly over, and you shouldn’t upset her now.”
“She won’t stay on here,” said the husband.
“My mother had it hard when she was young,” said Máire, the daughter; “and now, when she deserves some little comfort at the end of her days, she’s to be thrown out of here to travel the same long white roads with nobody to take care of her if she is to be separated from me. But I have one request to make,” said Máire.
“What is that?” asked her husband.
“You must give me time to make a dress and a coat for my mother to wear before she leaves the house.”
“Very well,” said the husband, “but don’t be long with it.”
“You must promise to give me my own time for it,” said Máire. “I’ll start at it, and she may be taken off by death before ’tis ready.”
He consented to allow the widow to remain in the house until the garments were ready. Máire went off and got seven pounds of wool. She took them home and started to comb and tease and roll the wool before spinning it into thread. She spent a year turning each pound into thread-seven years in all, trying to delay the work. One day her husband came in; his face was red with anger.
“Is it trying to make a fool of me you are, Máire? “ he said.
“No, indeed,” she replied. “I have secured these seven years for my mother, and now I have her clothes ready for her. Seven years ago today I made the bargain with you. Now I have the garments ready, and my mother will bid you goodbye.” Máire washed and got ready the old woman and put on the dress and coat. She then placed a small cloak about her.
“You are ready to be cast forth now, Mother,” said Máire, “but you won’t go alone. Whichever road you take, I will take the same road. You have cared for me since my youth and you trudged the long roads for me. I will now go the long roads with you until death takes you from me.”
She threw on her cloak, took her mother by the hand, and left without saying goodbye to her husband. They traveled along, spending a night in some house like any poor people would. The old widow was always given the best of any food Máire got. At last they were far from home among strangers. Late one evening, Máire saw a fine looking house some distance from the road.
When they reached it, she said, “Mother, we are tired from the road. Come with me to this house, and I may get some work there for your sake. I won’t ask for any wages—just a room and food for two of us. We can be helping each other.”
“You’re tired out and tormented from me, daughter,” said the old woman.
“Indeed, I’m not,” replied Máire. “You cared for me far longer than I have done for you.” She took her poor mother’s withered little hand and led her toward the house. When they reached the door, Máire saluted the people of the house gently, and they did the same.
“Would you be willing to give a night’s lodging to myself and my old mother?” she asked the woman of the house.
“Yes, with my heart’s welcome. Come in,” said the woman. They went toward the fire and seated themselves in one of the small corners. Then they shyly ate the food that was given to them. Next morning Máire spoke to the woman of the house.
“I’m a young, strong woman,” said she, “and I’ll be able to do any housework you give me. I won’t ask you for any payment—only a little room for my mother and some food for her. I will look after her if she gets sick, and if she dies, I will be with her to lay her in the coffin.”
“There’s plenty work here for you, good woman, and you are welcome to it,” said the woman of the house. “I badly need someone like you.”
So the bargain was made. Máire fixed her mother up in a small room at the back of the house, and each morning as soon as she got up and said her prayers, she went to her mother’s room.
“How are you after the night, Mother?” she would ask.
“I’m well, daughter, if you are,” the old woman would reply.
“I’m well too, Mother,” said Máire.
She would then go off to her work until the time came to give her mother some food. A couple of months went by like that, and the people of the house became very fond of MSire. She was handy and expert at her work and knowledgeable about the house. Then one evening, as she was returning from the well with a pitcher of water, she thought that she caught sight of a fine, young, handsome _strapaire_ of a man standing by the fence in front of her. She had never seen him since she had come to the house, and she was surprised.
“You’re a stranger here,” said the young man to her.
“I am, sir,” she replied; “and you’re a stranger to me too. I haven’t seen you around here since I came.”
“I haven’t been here since you came,” said the young man. “But I have come to you now to see would you be good enough to do something for me. If you don’t tell anyone about me for a year and a day, I will be restored to life and health again. I was the only child my parents had, and I was taken from them by death while still young. I have been suffering and suffering, as I was not a Christian. If you don’t tell anyone about me for a year and a day, things may be better for me.”
“I will keep your secret even to my death,” said Máire, “and I’ll do all in my power for you.”
“Now,” said the young man, “when you are getting ready for bed tonight, you must tell the woman of the house, as you call her—she’s my mother—you must tell her that you will have to leave because you are not satisfied with the little bedroom you have. The bedroom which I had before I died has been closed ever since; my mother wouldn’t allow it to be opened or let anyone into it. Tell her that you and your mother will leave if you’re not given the room which is locked as a bedroom.”
“I’ll do that,” said Máire.
“Goodbye now. I’ll see you again,” said the young man. He vanished from her view, as if the ground had swallowed him, and she didn’t know was it east or west he went. The woman of the house was wondering what was delaying her. When Máire went in, she said that she was tired of the little bedroom she had. It was too small and uncomfortable and gloomy. She asked for the room that was idle.
“It is going to waste as it is,” said Máire; “and I would like to have it. It will be good for my health and more comfortable than the small room I have now.”
“Young woman, it is great daring and courage you have to ask such a thing,” said the woman of the house. “That’s the room in which my only son died; it was his bedroom. His bed is still there and all his belongings, and the key hasn’t been turned in the lock since the day he was carried out of it. ’Tis you have the presumption to ask for it now.”
“I’ll be leaving so,” said Máire.
The woman of the house thought better after a while, and she calmed down.
“’Tis hard to turn down a good servant girl for anything,” said she. “The room has been idle long enough, and ’twill have to be opened sometime. I may as well let you have it.”
She found the key, wherever is was, and opened the door. The room had a cold damp smell, as neither door nor window had been opened for a long time.
“It wants to be aired and tidied up,” said she to Máire. “You can look after that yourself.”
“I’m very thankful to you, mistress, for doing this for me,” said Máire.
She was the girl who was well able to brush and clean and scrub it. The bed was already there, and she left everything as it was. She aired the bedclothes under the sun, and when bedtime came, she got into bed. But if she did, she wasn’t long there when about midnight, she thought she heard the door opening easily, and someone came in. She rose up on her elbow and saw the same strapaire of a man, who had been talking to her outside at the fence that evening. He saluted her, and she replied. He pulled a chair to the bedside, and they started to talk in a quiet, friendly, sensible way for an hour or more. Then he left her. She felt lonely then, for she thought that she had never seen a young man like him before. Still, she was a married woman, and she did not wish to have anything to do with another man, as her own husband was still living. She was foolish, for he hadn’t been very good to her, indeed.
The days and weeks and months went by at full gallop. After six months or so, the mistress noticed that Máire had changed, that something was wrong with her. It seemed to her as if she were bearing a child. Still, she said nothing, but she had a suspicion that if it were so, her own husband was to blame. So they began to quarrel and weren’t very friendly, for she had a grudge against him. The mistress was full of envy and jealousy of Máire, thinking that she had something to do with her husband. Nobody else noticed anything strange about Máire. Each morning, she would go to her mother to wash her and make her comfortable, before she did any work about the house. Her mother had not to depend on anyone else.
That was good and it wasn’t bad. Máire worked away as usual, pretending nothing and carrying her child in her womb. However, one morning everybody else in the house was up out of bed, and there was no sign of Máire. The woman of the house was in an evil mood, talkative and scolding Máire for not getting up and saying that there must be something wrong with her.
“Go up,” said she to another servant girl who was in the house, “and see what’s wrong with that hussy. There must be something wrong that she’s not getting up today.”
When the girl went to the room door, she couldn’t open it. It was locked as usual. She looked in through the keyhole, and what did she see but a fine, handsome, nice, young man sitting on a chair by the bedside, and Máire sitting up in the bed with a baby to her breast, as if she were feeding it. Back down ran the girl with terror in her two eyes.
“Oh, mistress, mistress!” she cried. “Such a thing. She is sitting up in bed with a baby at her breast, and there’s a strapaire of a gentleman sitting on a chair at the bedside, and they’re talking. Come along and put your eye to the keyhole, and you’ll see them for yourself.”
The woman of the house went up and looked through the keyhole.
“Oh! My child! My child!” she cried, for she recognized the young man as her own son.
She drew back without saying another word.
A few days later when Máire was able to get up and unlock the door, the servant girl went to her and said, “The mistress wants you to let her use the room for a couple of days and nights. There’s something hidden in this house, and we hear that a search will be made for it. If it is found in the house, we will all be arrested. Would you please let her hide it in a corner of your room for a few days? She’ll be very thankful to you.”
“Very well,” said Máire.
What did the old lady do but disguise herself in straw that was covered over with a cloak, tied about with straw ropes, and carried into Máire’s room. There she was set up in the corner like a statue until the danger would be over. She made no sound of any kind. She could see Máire getting into bed with the baby. When midnight came, she could see through a hole she had made in the straw the young man coming in through the door. He sat down on the chair beside the bed and started to talk to Máire. The poor mother lost patience, and no wonder. Nature was too strong for her. She tore off the cloak and the straw, jumped out on the floor, ran to her son, embraced, and kissed him.
“Oh, shame, shame, shame, Mother!” he cried. “That’s a hateful thing you have done to me. Had you waited until I had been coming here for a year and a day, I would have been as well as I had ever been. But now, I must go back to suffer in hell for seven years more.”
“You won’t go, son,” cried the mother. “I have a hold on you.”
“I don’t think you can keep me, Mother,” said the son.
“Well, I’ll try,” said his mother.
Next morning she got ready, but ’twas useless for her to try to deal with the demons of hell. She set out on the road, following the son’s directions, but she hadn’t gone far when she was pulled about and scratched by the demons of hell. She hadn’t a hair on her head or a bit of her skin sound when she reached home again.
“See how you are now, Mother!” said her son. “I knew well that you wouldn’t succeed.”
“She was never much good at anything,” said her husband. “I’ll try my own hand at it.”
“You won’t succeed either, Father,” said the son.
“I’ll try, anyway,” said he.
So off he went, but short as the mother had gone, the father went even less far. He had to turn home again.
“I knew well, Father, that neither of ye could do it,” said the son.
“I’d go to hell in your stead, except for my mother and my child,” said Máire.
“If anybody could do it, it is you, Máire,” said the young man.
“I wouldn’t be slow to go,” said Máire, “but ye would have to mind my mother.”
“My hand and word to you that your mother will be well cared for as long as she lives,” said the man of the house. “And if she dies before you come back, she will be well looked after, as regards wake, funeral, and burial. We’ll follow her orders. And your child too will get good care.”
Máire rose and put on her clothes with a special belt that she had about her waist.
She kissed the child tenderly and then went to where her mother was. “Goodbye, and my blessing on you now, Mother,” said she. “I’m going on a long journey, and we may never see each other alive in this world again. But the man of the house has promised that you will be well cared for and given Christian burial if you die.”
“May my blessing and the blessing of God be with you, daughter,” said the mother. “I must put up with it.”
She bade a special farewell to the young man, and as she was leaving, he took a ring off his finger. “Now,” said he, “as you are setting out on this task, here is a ring for you. Put it on your finger. And when you reach where you are going, if ever hunger comes upon you, all you have to do is to look at this ring. There is all the food and drink you need in it. But you mustn’t touch any food or drink you get in that place.”
“Very well,” said Máire.
She said goodbye to them all and set out on her journey. As she came near the gates of hell, the pains and troubles of the souls within began to grow less, it seemed to them. Their sufferings were not so great once she arrived, and they all had great love and respect for her, and no wonder. She worked away at whatever she was given to do. (All we can do is tell the story as we heard it.) When mealtime came, Lucifer brought her a dish of food and set it in front of her.
“That’s your food now, and eat it!”
“That’s good,” said Máire. “’Tis time.”
No sooner had Lucifer left than Máire placed the dish of food in front of Caesar, a big brute of a dog, that was tied by a chain at the side of the room. It didn’t take him long to devour the dish and the food. Máire turned aside and got all the natural food and drink she needed from the magic ring. Things went on like that until the seven years were up. It seemed only like seven days to Máire, for she had plenty of company and lots to look at. God between us and all harm! May God never allow us or those who are listening to us into hell! On the last day of the seven years, Lucifer came to her.
“Well, my dear girl,” said he. “Your seven years are up today.”
“They are,” said Máire. “And now I want my pay.”
“Your food and your pay will be put against each other,” said Lucifer.
“I have taken none of your food from the day I came here until today,” said Máire. “Caesar over there can bear witness to that.”
“Nobody lives without food,” said Lucifer.
“Caesar will tell that he ate all the food I was given during the seven years,” said Máire.
Caesar spoke, “The girl is telling the truth,” said he. “She didn’t eat a bite of any food that was brought to her for the past seven years. I ate it. She should get her pay.”
“Well, what pay do you want?” asked Lucifer.
“All I want,” said Máire, “is the heaviest load I can carry out of hell of the souls that are in greatest torment here.”
“You’ll have to get them,” said Lucifer.
She began to collect the souls and to gather them to her, while they cried out “Take me with you! Take me with you!” They screamed as they struggled to get near her—each hoping to be rescued, God help us! She kept on until you couldn’t touch any part of her body with a pin from the sole of her foot to the crown of her head, so many souls were clinging to her. Her load was a heavy one when at last she turned her back on the place below. Glad she was, I’m thinking.
When she had gone some distance, she met a man striding swiftly toward hell. She recognized him when he came near her. He was her own husband, the man who had banished herself and her mother.
“Where are you going, good man?” asked Máire.
“To the place where I deserve to go,” he replied.
“I’m sorry for you,” said she. “’Tis an old saying that we must return good for evil. See can you hold on to any part of me, and I’ll try to save you.”
She helped him up in some way and carried him along with her by the help of God. She traveled on and after awhile she met a man on the road. The gentleman spoke to her and she replied.
“That’s a heavy load you have, poor woman,” said he.
“’Tis that,” said Máire.
“Would you sell it to me?”
“I would, if I thought the buyer worthy of it,” said Máire. “Who are you?”
“I am Saint Michael,” said he.
“I won’t sell it to you,” said she. “Well though you may deserve it, I have bought it far more dearly myself.”
She left him there and continued on her way. She met a second gentleman, who spoke to her and asked her what load she was carrying and would she sell it to him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Saint Matthew,” he replied. “I would like you to sell the load to me.”
“Indeed, I won’t!” said she. “Much as you deserve it, I have bought it far more dearly myself. I have earned it for seven years, and if I sell it, it will be to some buyer who is more deserving than you.”
He left her, and she kept on her way with her heavy load, poor woman. She met a third man, and they saluted each other.
“That’s a heavy load you’re carrying, poor woman,” said he.
“It is, sir,” said she, “but I’ll try to keep going.”
“Would you sell it to me?” he asked. “I would,” said she, “for I’m getting tired of it, if I thought the buyer worthy of it. Who are you that’s wanting to buy it?”
“I am the King of Sunday,” said he.
“Ah, you are the right buyer,” said she. “Dearly though I have bought them, you have bought them still more dearly. I give them to you as a gift.” “You have done well,” said he.
Each of the poor little souls flew off from her in the form of a snow-white dove.
“You have done well, and you are on the right road,” said he. “Your mother was buried yesterday. She made her confession and was anointed and got a Christian burial, after having been well cared for while you were away. Now,” said he, “the father of your child will be getting married tomorrow night. He is taking another to be his wife, for he never thought you would return from the place you went to.”
“I’d like to go to his house,” said Máire.
“You’ll be in time, if you start off now,” said he.
I’d say he gave her his blessing, and it helped her. It was he who had been helping her from the start.
She walked on and on until she neared the house where she had left her mother. She met an old beggar man near it and she spoke to him.
“Where are you making for, old man?” she asked. “The evening is getting late.”
“I’m going to a wedding house, young woman,” said he. “The young man there is getting married tonight, and there’s no show but the feasting that will be there.”
“I suppose so,” said she. “The pair of us had better go there together. If I get anything good at the bottom of the kitchen, you’ll get your share of it. You might be better off in my company than by yourself. Let’s go together, and we’ll have a good night. Nobody will notice us.”
“Very well,” said he.
They set off toward the farmer’s house. (I may as well call it that!) There were people there from the east and beggars from the west, and such commotion you never heard. It was the rule at that time that the young pair didn’t get married until the end of the night, when the daylight was coming, be it priest or minister that was there. (I suppose there were Catholics and Protestants there at that time.) The house was full of people. There was drinking and fun and dancing, of course, with no thought at all for the woman who had gone to hell.
Máire and the old man went in and sat down shyly at the bottom of the house on a seat that had been placed there for the poor people. She glanced around her, saying nothing and taking in everything. What wrung her heart most of all was to see her son, now a hardy garsun seven years old, whom she had left behind. It would make anybody’s heart rejoice to see him, he was so pleasing in appearance. He kept moving about among the crowd like any child of his age until finally he reached where the old man and Máire were and stood gazing at them.
“What looking have you, dear child, at this old man and myself beyond all the rest in the house?” asked Máire. “But now since you have taken notice of us, go up to where your father is and tell him there’s a poor woman and an old man sitting at the bottom of the house, and that the woman would like to have something to drink. She’s very thirsty.”
The boy went off in great excitement to whatever part of the house his father was in.
“Daddy,” said he when he found him, “there are two poor people in the bottom of the kitchen, and the poor woman asked you to send a drink to herself and the old man. They are dead from the thirst, and they haven’t had a bite or sup all the evening, although they have come a long way.”
“No poor person will be hungry or thirsty in my house,” said his father, getting to his feet.
He took a drinking vessel and filled it with whatever kind of drink was going round the house.
“Take that to the poor woman who asked for it, my boy,” said he.
“I will gladly,” said the boy.
Off he went with the vessel and never stopped till he reached the poor woman who had spoken to him.
“Here you are, little boy!” said Máire.
“I am,” said he.
She took the vessel and drank two or three mouthfuls from it. Then she turned to her companion, the old man.
“Drink the rest of this, good man,” said she, “but leave the dregs for me. You are short of breath and in need of a good drink, but a little will do me. Drink it up now, for you may not get any more tonight.”
The old man took the vessel from her and threw most of what was in it back his throat, leaving about a glassful behind. He handed the vessel back to her, and she thanked him. She then pretended to drink the rest, but she took only a small sip. Unseen by anybody, she slipped the ring from her finger and dropped it into the vessel.
“Now, my child,” said she to the boy, “take this vessel back to your father and don’t give it into anybody else’s hand. When you give it to him, say that he is to drink the health of the poor woman in memory of this night seven years and seven nights ago.
The boy took the drinking vessel to his father.
“There’s still a drink in this, Daddy,” said he, “and the traveling woman wants you to drink her health in memory of this night seven years and seven nights ago.”
The father started and thoughts raced through his mind. When he came to himself, he put the vessel to his lips to drink, but if he did, the ring fell into his mouth. He caught it and looked at it. ’Tis then he was really disturbed.
“So that’s how it is,” said he. “Come along, my boy,” said he to his son. “Take me to where the poor women are, and show me the woman to whom you gave the drink.”
The boy walked very proudly in front of his father till he stood in front of the poor woman.
“That’s she, Daddy; that’s the woman I gave the vessel to.”
“That’s she, all right,” said his father. “She was the woman that day and for the past seven years; the woman who bought me and saved me, at the risk of her health, from pain and torments. Here she is now at the bottom of the house, while another is in her stead at the top. But it won’t be so. Get up!” said he, taking her by the shoulder. “Wrong has been done, but it is not too late to set it right.”
He took her up to her room, where the clothes which she had left behind still were as she had left them.
“Put on these clothes now,” said he. “Your dress is ragged and torn, and no wonder, but I won’t have you that way.”
When she had dressed and combed and tidied herself, he led her from the room and stood in the center of the floor.
“Friends!” said he. “High and low though you be. All is well now. You have your share,” said he to the father of the girl he had been going to marry. “You and your daughter have not lost your honor, and she will get a husband any day. I have my own wife now. She belongs to me, and I to her, for what I am worth. I will pay the cost of the wedding here tonight, and nobody can complain. We will spend the rest of the night happily. I have my wife.”
That satisfied everybody. If they were surprised and amazed, ’tis little wonder. That a woman who had spent seven years in hell should come back from the other world to join her husband!
They were married and lived a long, comfortable, happy life together until the son whom she had borne before she went to hell was reared. God blessed them and him, and he grew to be one of the strongest and most graceful men in the district at the time.