Irish Fairy Tales - James Stephens (to read list .txt) 📗

They came to Fergus Fionnliath’s stronghold, and Uct Dealv demanded admittance.

“Leave that dog outside,” said the servant.

“I will not do so,” said the pretended messenger.

“You can come in without the dog, or you can stay out with the dog,” said the surly guardian.

“By my hand,” cried Uct Dealv, “I will come in with this dog, or your master shall answer for it to Fionn.”

At the name of Fionn the servant almost fell out of his standing. He flew to acquaint his master, and Fergus himself came to the great door of the stronghold.

“By my faith,” he cried in amazement, “it is a dog.”

“A dog it is,” growled the glum servant.

“Go you away,” said Fergus to Uct Dealv, “and when you have killed the dog come back to me and I will give you a present.”

“Life and health, my good master, from Fionn, the son of Uail, the son of Baiscne,” said she to Fergus.

“Life and health back to Fionn,” he replied. “Come into the house and give your message, but leave the dog outside, for I don’t like dogs.”

“The dog comes in,” the messenger replied.

“How is that?” cried Fergus angrily.

“Fionn sends you this hound to take care of until he comes for her,” said the messenger.

“I wonder at that,” Fergus growled, “for Fionn knows well that there is not a man in the world has less of a liking for dogs than I have.”

“However that may be, master, I have given Fionn’s message, and here at my heel is the dog. Do you take her or refuse her?”

“If I could refuse anything to Fionn it would be a dog,” said Fergus, “but I could not refuse anything to Fionn, so give me the hound.”

Uct Dealv put the chain in his hand.

“Ah, bad dog!” said she.

And then she went away well satisfied with her revenge, and returned to her own people in the Shí.

On the following day Fergus called his servant.

“Has that dog stopped shivering yet?” he asked.

“It has not, sir,” said the servant.

“Bring the beast here,” said his master, “for whoever else is dissatisfied Fionn must be satisfied.”

The dog was brought, and he examined it with a jaundiced and bitter eye.

“It has the shivers indeed,” he said.

“The shivers it has,” said the servant.

“How do you cure the shivers?” his master demanded, for he thought that if the animal’s legs dropped off Fionn would not be satisfied.

“There is a way,” said the servant doubtfully.

“If there is a way, tell it to me,” cried his master angrily.

“If you were to take the beast up in your arms and hug it and kiss it, the shivers would stop,” said the man.

“Do you mean⁠—?” his master thundered, and he stretched his hand for a club.

“I heard that,” said the servant humbly.

“Take that dog up,” Fergus commanded, “and hug it and kiss it, and if I find a single shiver left in the beast I’ll break your head.”

The man bent to the hound, but it snapped a piece out of his hand, and nearly bit his nose off as well.

“That dog doesn’t like me,” said the man.

“Nor do I,” roared Fergus; “get out of my sight.”

The man went away and Fergus was left alone with the hound, but the poor creature was so terrified that it began to tremble ten times worse than before.

“Its legs will drop off,” said Fergus. “Fionn will blame me,” he cried in despair.

He walked to the hound.

“If you snap at my nose, or if you put as much as the start of a tooth into the beginning of a finger!” he growled.

He picked up the dog, but it did not snap, it only trembled. He held it gingerly for a few moments.

“If it has to be hugged,” he said, “I’ll hug it. I’d do more than that for Fionn.”

He tucked and tightened the animal into his breast, and marched moodily up and down the room. The dog’s nose lay along his breast under his chin, and as he gave it dutiful hugs, one hug to every five paces, the dog put out its tongue and licked him timidly under the chin.

“Stop,” roared Fergus, “stop that forever,” and he grew very red in the face, and stared truculently down along his nose. A soft brown eye looked up at him and the shy tongue touched again on his chin.

“If it has to be kissed,” said Fergus gloomily, “I’ll kiss it; I’d do more than that for Fionn,” he groaned.

He bent his head, shut his eyes, and brought the dog’s jaw against his lips. And at that the dog gave little wriggles in his arms, and little barks, and little licks, so that he could scarcely hold her. He put the hound down at last.

“There is not a single shiver left in her,” he said.

And that was true.

Everywhere he walked the dog followed him, giving little prances and little pats against him, and keeping her eyes fixed on his with such eagerness and intelligence that he marvelled.

“That dog likes me,” he murmured in amazement.

“By my hand,” he cried next day, “I like that dog.”

The day after that he was calling her “My One Treasure, My Little Branch.” And within a week he could not bear her to be out of his sight for an instant.

He was tormented by the idea that some evil person might throw a stone at the hound, so he assembled his servants and retainers and addressed them.

He told them that the hound was the Queen of Creatures, the Pulse of his Heart, and the Apple of his Eye, and he warned them that the person who as much as looked sideways on her, or knocked one shiver out of her, would answer for the deed with pains and indignities. He recited a list of calamities which would befall such a miscreant, and these woes began with flaying and ended with dismemberment, and had inside bits of such complicated and ingenious torment that the blood of the men who heard it ran chill