The Devil Fairy

Jacinta D’Arcy McElligott

‘The Devil Fairy’ is inspired by, and dedicated to, all those who have faithfully recorded, preserved and translated the legacy of Irish folklore, stories and legends handed down from generation to generation through the centuries.

“Is that the last of the stories you have for me tonight Máire?” 

”An é sin an ceann deireanach de na scéalta atá agat dom anocht Máire? Sean asked again gently, this time reaching across to the small stool between them and turning off the recorder. The reel came to a halt with a soft click. 

It was late, the light dimming behind the wind-and-rain-lashed windows on either side of the cottage door. But it was cosy by the fire, the turf crackled and glowed, hot and intense in the open grate. The earthy scent filled his nostrils, the firelight glinting and flickering across the flagstones, highlighting the white of the willow-patterned teapot on the dresser. 

Seán sat back and waited. Máire was the last he would interview today. It had taken him time to find her, his windscreen wipers furiously battling the wind and rain as his Mini Morris had rattled and squeaked up the rocky boreen to this little cottage, high and remote on the cliffs of Sleigh in Western Gaeltacht of Donegal. 

“There is one more, but I dare not tell it,” she whispered. Seán reached back to turn on the recorder— 

“ No,” Máire said, staying his arm with a bony grip, her voice tight, her blue eyes sharp as she held his gaze. “This one must die with me, or with you,” she whispered. “That’s if you want to hear it. My father, God rest his soul, told me this story when I was just a little wain. I have the scars to prove it. I have not told this story to anyone, not even my poor husband, my son, or my grandson. Perhaps if I tell it to you it will lose its grip on me.”

Máire’s voice was so low and tight now that Seán had to lean in to hear her. Their heads were almost touching as Máire whispered, “This one is ancient. I hear it in my head in old Gaelic. I mean it, Seán O OhEochaid. If you hear this story you can’t go home tonight. You can sleep in my grandson’s bed. But you must  not leave the house. You must not open that door.”

Seán nodded. He looked down where Máire’s hand still grasped his arm. He could feel the tremor in her fingers quickening his pulse, tensing his muscles, and he felt a cold sweat in the back of his neck. “I’ll hear your story Máire. I’ll stay with you,” he said, shifting his chair closer, the two of them nestled in the glow from the fire. 

“It was a night like this,” Máire said. “I was no more than nine or ten, my father sat where you are sitting, in that very chair. I was crossed-legged in front of the fire, just there.” Máire nodded to a space on the flagstones between them.

“My mother was knitting, and she tried to hush him. ‘Don’t tell her that one,’ she said. You’ll only frighten her and she will be up all night. But I persuaded him anyway. He leaned back in that chair. He seemed older somehow with the telling, grave, frightened even. ‘You know, little Máire,’ he said, ‘there are many stories about the fairy folk. As a rule they are a garrulous group, they have their ways. They can be cantankerous, souring the milk and such, even if you cross them unwittingly. They tend to hold grudges and even among the fairies, like human folk, there are those that are pure evil’.”

Máire  turned her head. Seán could see the tight wrinkles around her eyes as she peered intently at him and whispered, “Na Diabhal Sioga – Devil fairies, my father called them. Seán, these fairies are evil and rotten to the core. Once they’ve got their sights on you, God help you, for they never let up. They live long lives, longer than generation after generation of human folk.”

Máire paused here, taking the poker and turning the embers in the fire, throwing sods of turf on from a basket by her chair, the sparks flaring and scattering up the chimney. The door creaked with each gust of wind and the rain beat against the pitch black windows.

“My father told me that when he was a boy, his father told him of such a demon. My great-grandfather was one for the drink, and coming home along that long lonely boreen one night, he saw the light of a fire and a great commotion going on in the lee of the hill. He hesitated, for even in his inebriated state he recognized the dell as one where the fairy folk were wont to hang out. But he snuck over the wall and made his way over, hoping to hear some fiddling, dancing and have a tale to tell. But when he crept close, keeping low behind a scrub of a tree, he was shocked to see a hideous creature, about four feet tall, flailing about with a carcass of a sheep, scattering sticks, stones, ashes and sparks from a fire. There were no other fairies about, they must have fled or were hidden. The creature was in an almighty temper.’

Máire raised her hands and looked to the ceiling. “My father raised his arms like two great wings until his shadow was high and menacing under the thatch. My mother remonstrated with him, but he went on. ‘Its features,’ he said, ‘were human-like, but the mouth wide and long like a wolf, the teeth yellow and pointed. It was covered in grey thick skin, mottled across the shoulders, and the back of its arms were covered with tawny hair. Its chest was huge like a gorilla’s. Its arms were long, the fingers on his hairy hands elongated and ending in talons.’” 

Máire’s eyes travelled across as if watching her father’s shadow  creep and sweep across the room again. “My father said my grandfather scrambled  away over hillock and rocks until suddenly he heard an almighty screech above him and felt the weight of the creature’s talons piercing his shoulders, lifting him bodily so that his feet were flailing in the air, his shoulders in agony.” Máire’s body swayed as she said, “The creature whipped him back and forth beneath him, finally flying him up the boreen and dropping him like a sack of potatoes at this very door.” 

Máire paused, and she took a deep breath,  she seemed to pull herself inward as she whispered, “Later that night, as I lay awake, thinking, I couldn’t get the story out of my head. The wind had died down, and there was the first signs of light on the horizon as I pulled on my boots and crept out of the house, still in my nightdress, my coat slung over my shoulders. I ran down the road. I had not gone far when I heard a sort of leather flapping, a cackle, a screech and felt the sharp pierce of talons. I screamed. I screamed and cried. I sobbed in agony as the creature turned, swirling me back and forth beneath him, then flung me bodily unto the thatch of this house. My father and mother, white-faced and grey, brought me down terrified and distraught. The wounds festered and took a month to heal.” 

Máire reached back and allowed her shawl to slip off her shoulder. She teased aside her black widow’s dress so Seán could see the two deep grey puckered scars on her thin bony shoulder.  He reached across and held Máire’s hands in his own and they sat in silence, staring into the fire. Seán’s head was still reeling with the implications of what Máire told him as he stood up pulling the jacket from the back of his chair. 

“I’ll just get my things from my car,” he said.

Máire looked up suddenly. ‘Oh no! Don’t open the door, what did I tell you?’

But Seán was already out the door and Máire’s cry was lost to his anguished scream as the piercing talons sank deep into his shoulders and he was wrenched and pulled skyward, dangling, flailing, beast and body streaming down the boreen in the darkness and wind-lashed rain.

photo Wikimedia Commons