BELTRANO
The Horned Witches by Geoffrey Palmer and Noel Lloyd
There was once an old woman who lived with her only daughter in a cottage at the foot of a mountain in County Tipperary.
Pegeen, the daughter, was soon to be married to Patrick Ennis form the other side of the mountain. He was a well-to-do farmer, so the old woman wanted Pegeen to have a trousseau that would be the envy of all the neighbors, and would show that the folk on their side of the mountain were as good as those on the other.
Night after night, after Pegeen had gone to bed, she sat by the dying fire, stitching away at bridal gown, veil, tablecloths, towels, sheets, and napkins, until her head ached and her eyes were sore.
When the wedding was only a week away and there was still much to be done, the old woman grew anxious for fear things would not be ready on the day. She stayed up later than ever, hardly able to see her needle and thread, so faint was the glimmer from the last few embers on the hearth. "I wish there was somebody to help me," she thought. "I could not bear the disgrace if everything is not ready."
Suddenly there was a knock at the cottage door, and a voice called, "Open, open!"
"Who can that be at this early hour?" the old woman asked herself, and felt nervous as she called in a quavering voice, "Who is there?"
"I am the Witch of the One Horn," was the answer.
Thinking she had not heard aright and that one of the neighbors needed help, the old woman hobbled to the door and opened it. Standing on the threshold, tall and lean in the moonlight, and wrapped in a long black cloak, was a woman she had never seen before.
"What do you want of me?" Pegeen's mother began, but the stranger pushed past her and strode into the room. She went straight to a chair by the fire, took up a needle and thread, and began to hem a tablecloth with hasty, jerky movements. Not a word did she speak, and it was not until the old woman had returned to her own seat and taken up her needle that she noticed, growing out of the stranger's forehead, a short, curved horn.
"The Witch of the One Horn," she thought, and a stab of fear went through her. "Has she come to help me, or has she another purpose?" And her fingers shook.
The witch finished the tablecloth in a miraculously short time and took up another piece of material. She spoke for the first time, as if to herself. "Where are the women? They are very late."
Immediately there was another knock at the door, and a voice called, "Open, open!"
The old woman glanced timidly at her companion, wondering whether or not to answer the call, but the witch was bent over her work, so she opened the door.
Standing on the threshold was another woman, even taller and leaner than the first, and covered from head to foot in black. She took no notice of the old woman, but went straight into the room and took a seat next to her sister witch. She picked up a needle and thread and began to hem a sheet. She did not speak, and when the old woman had reached her own seat she noticed that the newcomer had two horns growing out of her forehead.
In the silence that followed, the old woman thought the beating of her heart must be as loud as the ticking of a grandfather clock, but the Witch of the One Horn and the Witch of the Two Horns continued to stitch away, their needles stabbing like lightning at the fine linen.
Suddenly the second witch said, "Where are the other women? There is still much work to do." She was answered by a knock on the door and the same peremptory call.
And so the knocks went on, and each time Pegeen's mother, not daring to ignore the knocks, answered the door, another witch strode in and took a seat. Each witch had one more horn than the one before, and when the last one had entered and taken up her sewing the old woman counted twelve short, curved horns growing from her forehead.
The old woman did not know what to do. She saw the pile of tablecloths, sheets, and towels grow, but even the knowledge that everything would be ready for the wedding did not comfort her. The flickering light played on the ugly faces and spare forms of her twelve visitors, and the horns on their foreheads glowed with a strange, luminous light. "Will they go when they have finished their tasks?" she wondered. "Should I offer them some refreshment? Surely they will go away when morning comes . . ."
Her sewing grew slower, the stitches longer and more uneven. She saw to her dismay that she had made a crooked hem on Pegeen's new petticoat. It would all have to be ripped out and done again. She sighed and reached for her scissors.
At that moment the twelve witches began to sing a wordless tune that was full of an eerie, haunting horror, making the old woman's skin to prickle and her hair to rise. "What next?" she thought. "What evil thing is about to happen?"
She tried to get up, to call out, but found she could do neither. She was bound to her chair, enclosed in a spell that the song had woven. A thin, swirling mist crept into the room and made everything hazy. Through the mist the witches seemed to dissolve, then become solid again, fading and growing until the old woman's head swam.
The Witch of the One Horn swayed toward her in the strange gloom. Her eyes, glowing like rubies, glared into the old woman's. "Old woman," she crooned, "rise and make us a cake. We have worked hard and long, and we are hungry."
"Make us a cake. We are hungry," came a whisper from the others.
As if in a dream, the old woman got up. She groped her way to the shelf where she kept her pots and pans, and tried to lift down a mixing bowl. But it seemed to be stuck to the shelf and she could not move it. She tried to get another, then another, but none of them would come away. She let her hands fall helplessly to her sides and turned to the witches. "Will they kill me for disobeying?" she thought dully.
The Witch of the Twelve Horns got up and advanced toward her. From her eyes flashed a fire as green as emeralds. "Old woman," she hissed, "take a sieve to the well and bring water in it to mix with the flour to make the cake."
"Take a sieve to the well," the others sighed.
There was as sieve hanging from a nail near the door. Blindly the old woman reached out for it, took it down, and somehow found herself outside the cottage and dragging herself to the well at the bottom of the garden.
There the nightmare continued. Every time she drew water into the sieve, it poured through the holes and splashed on the ground. "I will never do it," the old woman panted. "I will never get the cake made, and they will kill me." She threw down the sieve, sat by the well, and wept bitterly.
A low, clear voice pierced her misery. It floated up from the depths of the well and fell on her ears like a cool balm. "Take some yellow clay and some moss," it said, "and bind them together. Then put it round the sieve and the sieve will hold water."
Still in a trance, the old woman stumbled to her feet and saw that on one side of the well was a patch of wet clay and on the other side a bed of soft moss. She gathered a handful of each, mixed them together, and plastered the sieve with the sticky mixture. Then she drew some water and was overjoyed to find that this time it did not dribble away. "Thank yo," she whispered to the well.
Then the voice came again, bubbling up as sweet and cool as a mountain spring. "Do what I say and all will be well. When you get to the door, stand on the threshold and cry out in a loud voice, 'The mountain is on fire and the sky is blood-red!' Do this three times, then stand to one side.
Carefully holding the sieve so that the water did not spill, the old woman returned to her cottage. She put the sieve on the ground, opened the door, and, her voice cracking with anxious hope, called out, "The mountain is on fire and the sky is blood-red!"
She waited. Nothing happened, but the silence in the room quivered into life. She called again, and waited. The silence stirred as though a multitude of little things were on the move. When she had called out the words for the third time, she moved away from the open door.
From inside the cottage came a terrible cry, as if beasts had been made angry by desperate wounds. Out rushed the twelve witches, and the air shivered and splintered with their wild lamentations and piercing shrieks. They rose form the ground like giant bats, their black cloaks flapping, and they soared up into the night sky, twisting and turning in their frantic desire to get back to their home on the mountain before it was devoured by fire.
The old woman watched them getting smaller and smaller, until they became black dots and finally disappeared. As soon as they had gone, the dawn broke and birds began to sing.
The old woman's heart was full of thankfulness. Before going inside, she turned back to the well. "Thank you, oh thank you, spirit of the well," she murmured. "You have saved me from the terrible horned women."
The spirit of the well spoke again, warningly. "The witches will come back when they find that the mountain is not on fire. If they enter your house a second time, you and your daughter will never be seen alive again. You must prepare your home against their enchantment. Listen, this is what you must do. . . ."
The old woman nodded as she listened to the soft, bubbling words. Then she went back to the cottage, her eyes bright with resolve, her step firm with courage.
She took water from the sieve and sprinkled it over the doorstep. When she got inside she saw a cake, dark reddish-brown and unappetizing to look at, on the table. "They didn't even wait for me to come back with the water," she said to herself. "They were greedy as well as wicked. But thanks to the spirit of the well I know what is in that cake."
She broke it into pieces, kept one in her hand and threw the others into the hearth, where they sizzled for a moment, then shriveled up into hard black lumps. She went up the twisting stairs to the tiny room where her daughter slept, and bent over the still form in the narrow bed.
Pegeen's hair spread over the pillow like a fan of black lace. Her face was as white as the pillow she lay on; her lips were bloodless. One blue-veined hand rested on the counterpane. The old woman smoothed the girl's brow. "I would have thought you dead," she whispered, "if the spirit had not told me how the witches took your blood to mix with flour for their cake. Here is your life back again, dear daughter." And she touched the girl's lips with the piece of cake.
Pegeen stirred and sighed. The color flowed back into her cheeks, the red into her lips. When the old woman saw that she was sleeping normally, she gave a sigh of happiness and tiptoed out of the room.
Downstairs, she closed the door and made it secure with a great crossbeam fastened between the jambs. Then, sitting by the hearth, she took up her sewing and waited.
A sound like a hurricane battering against the stout walls of the cottage told her that the twelve witches had returned. There was such a banging and a shouting, such a bawling and a screaming, that she thought the walls would cave in. The door shuddered under the onslaught, the windows rattled, the very foundations trembled.
"Open, open!" the witches screeched. "Vengeance, vengeance!" they howled.
The old woman waited behind the barred door, her hands clasped, her breathing tremulous, her body shrinking into the shadows.
Then a single voice rose above the hubbub. "Open, open, well water!"
The water that had been sprinkled on the doorstep made a murmuring answer. "I cannot open--I am scattered on the step and on the ground, and I cannot open for you."
A second voice jarred the air. "Open, open, wood and beam!"
The door, straining against the crossbeam, grunted, "I cannot open--a beam is fixed between my jambs, and I cannot open for you."
Then all twelve voices rose in a menacing roar. "Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!"
From the hearth came a sighing reply. "I cannot open--I am broken and burned, and my blood is back in the sleeping girl. I cannot open for you."
The noise dissolved into a long drawn-out moan, and the witches started to wring their hands and curse the spirit of the well that had wrecked their plans and saved the lives of the old woman and her daughter. But when they realized that nothing they could do would have any effect on the magic stronger than theirs, they flew away in a rage.
So the valley was left in peace, and the wedding preparations were able to go forward without fear of interruption. Pegeen married her Patrick, and all the guests were amazed at the great quantity of exquisitely sewn dresses and linen on display. "How did you manage to do so much in such a short time?" they asked.
But the old woman only smiled and said, "Oh, I had a little help toward the end. . . ."1
1If you are interested in reading a more authentic ethnographic version of this Irish tale, I have included it below. It appears in John O’Donovan, The Tribes and Territories of Ancient Ossory, Comprising the . . . Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, Transactions of the Kilkenny Archaeological Society, volume 1 (1849-51). (Dublin: John O’Daly, 1853), 342-344.
Some four or five hundred years ago, a rich woman, residing between Portnascully and Polroan, in the barony of Iverk, received a strange visit from a number of mysterious women, who came from Sliabh-na-m-ban. This woman being very industrious, and having a great deal of woollen [sic] cloth to manufacture, sat up late at night, and her numerous family used to be in bed long before her. One night, whilst busily engaged cleaning and breaking wool, a voice was heard outside the door calling ‘Open the door.’ She asked, ‘Who is there?’ The reply was, ‘I am the witch of the one horn.’ The mistress thought it was one of the neighbours who was jesting with her, but upon opening the door she beheld an extraordinary looking female, wearing a horn on her forehead, and having cards in her hands, with which she immediately began to card the wool, which was in the house, as fast as the wind. After a time this strange visitor exclaimed to the mistress, who looked on in amazement, ‘I think the women are very long delaying.’ Immediately another voice was heard, saying, ‘Open the door again.’ Upon its being asked, as before, who was there, the answer was, ‘I am the witch of the two horns.’ Another female then entered, having two horns on her head, and carrying in her hands a wheel, with which she began to spin the wool according as it was carded by the other into rolls. The mistress of the house sat motionless, and in great surprise at what was going on; then she endeavoured to awaken the family, but they were in a deadly sleep and could not be roused. Immediately after another and another voice was heard outside calling for admission, till no fewer than twelve strange females had assembled there, each wearing an additional horn on her head, so that the last announced herself as “the witch of the twelve horns,” and each brought some different implement for the manufacture of woollen [sic] cloth, which all were soon busily engaged in plying. After some time one of the witches called to the mistress, saying, ‘Get up, old woman, and make us a cake.’ She arose for the purpose, and in her fright took a riddle to fetch water from the neighbouring well. Upon arriving at the well, and finding her mistake, she did not know how to act, as she feared to go back without the water, when she heard a voice telling her to cover the bottom of the riddle with yellow-clay and moss, so as that it would hold water. The voice also told her that on returning to the house, she should stand at the left corner and cry out three times, ‘Sliabh-na-m-ban-fionn and the mountain above it are on fire,’ giving her also instruction as to how she should act subsequently to keep out her unwelcome visitors. She cried out the words which she had been told, and immediately the flames were seen from the mountain. The witches set up the most melancholy cries, calling out, ‘My husband and my children burned! My husband and my children burned!’ and flying out of the house as fast as they could. The mistress then, in obedience to the instructions received from the voice at the well, cast out the water which had been used in washing the feet of the family before they retired to rest, got the stick used for raking the fire, and applied it to its proper purpose, and having hastily made and baked the cake, called by the witches -----, she broke it in small pieces, and put a bit in the mouth of each member of the family as they lay in a sleep from which nothing else could awake them, as the ----- was mixed with blood from each of them. She next placed the thread which had been spun, under the lid of the large -----, or chest, half inside and half hanging out, locking the cover; and finally, she placed the ----- -----, or beam for fastening the door, across the jambs; and having accomplished this with all possible haste, she sat down in expectation of the result. Presently the troop of witches returned, and one of them called to have the door opened. The mistress replied, ‘Indeed I will not open to-night.’ The witch then exclaimed, ‘Open, feet-water.’ The answer was ‘It would be hard for me, I am scattered under your feet in the sink.’ The witch next cried, ‘Open securing stick.’ The reply of the bolt was, ‘It would be hard for me, I am firm in the jambs.’ ‘Raking stick, open,’ cried the witches. ‘It would be hard for me, my nose is firm in the fire,’ answered the raking stick. The last application from without was, ‘Open the door, loaf of bread,’ and the response was, ‘It would be hard for me, I am broken, bruised, and mixed in the mouths of every one in the house.’ Finding it thus impossible to gain an entrance, for the purpose of depriving the inhabitants of life and property (for all were lying dead till the enchanted bread restored them), the witches gave three shrieks, and took their departure of Sliabh-na-m-ban, with this imprecation, ‘May your tutor meet his reward.’
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