Tales of the Tinker No.5. The Tale of The Poet's Prophecy.

By Tuesday the weather had turned cold again, with the prevailing wind now coming from the north-east. The surveying of the strand was now completed and O' Donovan and his colleague had moved on to the corner of Market Street, which ran east to west, from the Lackagh Bridge down to the corner of Neill Street, opposite the post office and the strand itself, and was two hundred and twenty nine yards in length, from end to end. O'Docherty's Butchers stood at one end of Market street and at the other, Edmund MacCarthy's Ironmongery shop. There was also a small bakers shop run by the Keating sisters and a ship's chandlers which had a bright yellow painted facade and a large white anchor outside the front door. 

Mrs. O'Toole was entering O'Docherty's at the same moment Mrs. MacGinley was leaving and the two stopped briefly on the doorstep to exchange greetings and news of the recent events of the day, which mainly concerned the cold weather that had caused them both to put on their new woollen coats.

O'Donovan wished he had worn another layer and thought about returning to Donegal in the hope of seeing the girl in the shoe shop, racking his brain for reasons he could give for why he was returning there. Hadn't she given him that beautifully warm smile as she helped him get the stiff boots on, unlacing them for him and helping him with the shoe-horn? Perhaps she smiled that way at all of the customers and he was mistaken. He was sure he had caught a certain 'look' in her sparkling blue eyes when he had thanked her for her help and turned to leave.  Perhaps she was courting some other lucky fellow and he had merely imagined the warmth in her smile, and the journey back to Donegal would be for no reason. But he knew he would have to go back. He would risk the embarrassment to see her again and came up with the lamest of excuses as to his reason for returning; he would tell her he needed a new pair of laces as the ones that came with the boots had snapped. As soon as he'd thought of it he rejected it as a foolish excuse. After some minutes of hard thought he finally decided on telling her he needed dubbing, to soften the hard leather and make the boots more comfortable. Then he could casually ask her if she was busy that evening, and when she told him she was not he would invite her to the pictures. That was the plan he hatched for the weekend and he was happy with it, despite the nagging doubt that she might think it odd they didn't have dubbing in Dunfanaghy.

O'Donoghue's was heaving when O'Donovan entered that afternoon, and the chief was already there in his usual place, the extra pint of porter set up again on the table with an empty chair set opposite him. O'Donovan approached and the old Chief gestured for him to sit with a barely perceptible nod of the head.  The following is all that O'Donovan could remember of the story the Chief told that evening, despite going immediately back to his room afterwards to write it down:

Now conceming Maolmhuire, son of Murchadh Og, son of Murchadh Mear, and his descendants after him here: it was this Maolmhuire who, with Aonghus 'na Tuaighe' (of the Axe) O'Domhnaill, inflicted the defeat of Aghawoney on Niall Garbh O' Domhnaill. In that battle O' Conwell was slain, and his family has remained in obscurity ever since. And it was this Maolmhuire who, having come to Niall Garbh, son of Aodh, son of Domhnall Og O' Domhnaill, out of the attack on the house of Finros, obtained the two ballys of Moross because of a promise to bury him thereafter. And it was this Maolmhuire who took from the O' Tirchirts Ray and Glenalla as an eric for Toirrdhealbhach of Béal Atha Daire, because no eric had been obtained for him up to that time. 

At one time this Maolmhuire was in Fanad, and he set out on a certain day to hunt. A number of poets were sent to him with their compositions, and he sat down to hear them on the bank of a certain lake in Fanad. They commenced to chant and recite for him, and then demanded their fee. MacSweeney asked what kind of fee they wished for, and they replied that they would accept no payment except of gold, and no drink except of wine, and no light except of wax. MacSweeney answered that, if they came with him to his house, they would receive whatever he would be able to procure them. But they said they would not go, and that, unless they there obtained what they had demanded, they would subject him to satire. And he replied that he had not in that place what they demanded. 

"We see with you here," said they, "a gold ring; give it to us, and we shall not lay blame on you for whatever else you have not." Now this gold ring was an heir-loom with successive generations of the MacSweeneys, and it had in it a precious stone, which whosoever possessed was never beaten in battle or in combat. And Maolmhuire stretched forth his hand to them that they might take off the ring. They took his hand, but they were unable to remove the ring. Then they said that if he thought that they could, that he would not have offered it to them. And he himself said he would take off the ring from his hand, but he was unable to do that, and was much ashamed for that reason. Whereupon he produced a sharp, blue-bladed knife which he had, and, striking his finger, cut it off and threw it, together with the ring, into the bosom of the chief of the poets. But as soon as the finger was accepted from Maolmhuire, his people set about slayng the poets. It was then that the chief poet made this verse:

 

O Maolmhuire MacSweeney, 

be my company on thy protection, 

whether they be pleasing or not, 

provide them, protect and save them.

 

"That is a fair present, MacSweeney," said he, "for no favour was ever granted of which that will not be the equal; and I will bestow on you something in retum therefor. For, since I know not the time thou shalt die, I will let you know the place of thy death." 

"Where is that ?" said Maolmhuire. 

"In Leithghleann." said he.

"In what place is that Leithghleann?" said Maolmhuire. 

"Avoid," said the poet, "every Leithghleann in Ireland, for I will not specify to you one rather than another." Then the chief poet asked "Are these coming from the west of your people?" And Maolmhuire looked around to see those whom the poet mentioned. He saw no one, and neither did he see the poets when he turned back. And they say it is into the lake which was before them they went. But Maolmhuire afterwards found both his finger and the ring upon his hand just as at first they had been. And Loch na Ghar, ever since that, has been the name of the lake in confirmation of this story. 

It was the household of this Maolmhuire who used to lay eight scores of swords having hilts ornamented with gold and silver on the altar of the church of Cluain Dabhuadhóg (Clondavaddog) every Sunday. Once, when he was near the end of his life, on Easter Sunday precisely, as he was coming from Mass at Cluain Dabhuadhóg, the learned say that in twelve scores of dog-skins books and musical instruments were carried behind him. And he rested on the hither side of Ballymagahy, and asked of all there what was the name of the place where he was. One answered that it was called Leithghleann. Maolmhuire then knew that his career had come to an end, according to the prophecy which the poets just spoken of had made to him, namely, that he would die in Leithghleann. And he said that he had avoided every place in Ireland named Leithghleann until that time, and that he had never known before that there was a Leithghleann in his own bally. He then took leave of his wife, the daughter of O' Docherty, and of his son Toirrdhealbhach Caoch, to whom he gave order to remunerate the poets well, and as to his death to maintain secrecy with them until they would have left the place. 

And when the poets were paid and they had taken their departure on Easter Tuesday from a great eminence over the place they heard the loud cries of those who were keening MacSweeney. Whereupon some of their bards came back to the house to leam the cause, and only then they heard that on Easter Sunday he had died. The poets, when they leamed this, wondered greatly at the endurance of the household in not manifesting grief for MacSweeney, and they said they did not gather from defect in attendance on them or in their remuneration that he had ceased to be among them. They confessed that no deed had ever been done greater than the keeping of that secret, and then went away, having said much in praise of them. Of Maolmhuire, son of Murchadh Og, son of Murchadh Mear, so far.