Andrew Coffey

My grandfather, Andrew Coffey, was known throughout the whole barony as a quiet, decent man. And if the whole barony knew him, he knew the whole barony too, every inch of it, hill and valley, bog and meadow, field and thicket.

So imagine his surprise one evening when he found himself in a part of the estate he did not recognise at all. He and his good horse kept bumping into trees and stumbling into bog-holes that had no right to be there. On top of that, the rain lashed down wherever there was a gap in the trees, and the cold March wind tore through the branches. He was glad indeed to see a light in the distance, and when he came closer he found a cabin, though he could not for the life of him think how it came to be there.

Still, he tied up his horse and walked in. A brushwood fire was blazing on the hearth, very welcome after the storm, and beside it stood a chair, snug and solid, that seemed to say, “Come and sit in me.” There was not another soul in the room. So he sat down and began to feel a little warmer and more cheerful after his soaking, though all the while he was wondering and wondering.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

Good heavens, who was calling him, with nobody in sight? He searched inside and out, but he could not find a living creature with two legs or four, for even his horse had vanished.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! Tell me a story!”

It was louder this time, and nearer. And what a thing to ask! It was bad enough not to be left in peace by the fire to dry off, without being pestered for a story.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! Tell me a story, or it will be the worse for you!”

My poor grandfather was so dumbfounded that he could only stand and stare.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! I told you it would be the worse for you!”

And with that, out of a cupboard Andrew Coffey had not even noticed, burst a man. The man was in a towering rage, but that was not the worst of it. He carried as fine a blackthorn stick as you could want for cracking a man’s head, but that was not the worst of it either. The moment my grandfather set eyes on him, he knew him for Patrick Rooney, and everyone knew Patrick had gone overboard one night while fishing, many years ago.

Andrew Coffey did not wait a moment. He took to his heels and ran out of the house as fast as he could. He ran and ran, hardly looking where he went, until he ran smack into a big tree, and there he sat down to rest.

He had barely sat down when he heard voices. “He’s heavy, the rascal.” “Steady now, we’ll rest when we get under that big tree.” That seemed to be the very tree he was sitting under, so he grabbed a handy branch, swung himself up and hid among the leaves. Better to see than be seen, he thought.

The rain had stopped and the wind had dropped. The night was blacker than ever, but Andrew Coffey could make out four men carrying a long box between them. They set it down under the tree and opened it, and who should they lift out but Patrick Rooney. He did not say a word, and he looked as pale as old snow.

One man gathered brushwood, another took out his flint and tinder, and soon a big fire was roaring, so that my grandfather could see Patrick clearly. If he had kept still before, he kept stiller now. The men set up four poles with a pole across them over the fire, just like a roasting spit, and on that pole they hung Patrick Rooney.

“He’ll do well enough,” said one. “But who will mind him while we’re away? Who will tend the fire and see he doesn’t burn?”

Then Patrick opened his mouth. “Andrew Coffey,” he said.

“Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey! Andrew Coffey!”

“I’m much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Andrew Coffey, “but really, I know nothing about this business.”

“You’d better come down, Andrew Coffey,” said Patrick. That was the second time he had spoken, and Andrew Coffey decided he would come down.

The four men went off, and he was left alone with Patrick. He sat and kept the fire even and the spit turning, and all the while Patrick stared at him. Poor Andrew Coffey could not make head or tail of it. He looked at Patrick and at the fire and thought about the little house in the wood until his head was in a whirl.

“Ah, but you’re burning me!” snapped Patrick.

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said my grandfather. “But might I ask you a question?”

“If you want a crooked answer,” said Patrick. “Turn away, or it will be the worse for you.”

But my grandfather could not get it out of his head. Hadn’t everybody, near and far, said Patrick had fallen overboard? There was plenty to think about, and he thought about it.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY! YOU’RE BURNING ME!”

My grandfather was very sorry and promised it would not happen a second time. “You’d better not let it,” said Patrick, with a wink of his eye and a flash of his teeth that sent a shiver down Andrew Coffey’s back.

Well, it was strange to be in a thick wood he had never laid eyes on, turning Patrick Rooney on a spit. You can hardly blame my grandfather for thinking and thinking and forgetting the fire.

“ANDREW COFFEY, ANDREW COFFEY, I’LL BE THE DEATH OF YOU!”

And what did my grandfather see but Patrick unhooking himself from the spit, his eyes glaring and his teeth gleaming. My grandfather did not stop for a second. Out he ran into the dark wood. It seemed to him that every stone was there to trip him, every branch to whip his face, every bramble to scratch his skin. Wherever the trees opened, the rain pelted down and the cold March wind howled.

He was glad to see a light, and a minute later he was kneeling by a hearth, dazed, soaked and muddy. The brushwood blazed and crackled, and soon he started to feel warm and dry and easier in his mind.

“ANDREW COFFEY! ANDREW COFFEY!”

It is hard for a man to jump after all my grandfather had been through, but jump he did. He looked around, and he was in the very cabin where all this trouble started.

“Andrew Coffey, Andrew Coffey, tell me a story.”

“Is it a story you want?” said my grandfather, bold as brass, for he was tired of being frightened. “Well, if you can explain the rights of this one, I’ll thank you.” And he related every single thing that had happened to him that night, from first to last.

It was a long tale, and maybe Andrew Coffey was tired, for he must have dozed off. When he woke, he was lying on the hillside under the open sky, with his horse grazing beside him.

Where this tale comes from

Jacobs’s notes say “Andrew Coffey” was taken down by Alfred Nutt from the late D. W. Logie. He compares it with Douglas Hyde’s “Teig O’Kane and the Corpse” and Patrick Kennedy’s “Cauth Morrisy,” which he calls practically the same story.

Jacobs explained that no collection of Celtic folk tales would be representative without a gruesome specimen, and this is his. A barony is an old division of land in Ireland, and a blackthorn is a stout walking stick cut from the blackthorn bush.

Read the original: Joseph Jacobs, Celtic Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg ebook 7885)

Reading guidance: older readers. Includes a drowned man’s ghost, a corpse suspended over a fire, threats of murder and repeated pursuit. The comedy does not remove the disturbing imagery; choose listeners who are comfortable with horror.

Reading the story closely

The repeated demand for a story creates the story that eventually answers it. At first Andrew has nothing to say; by the time he returns to the same cabin, terror has given him a full account. The grandson’s confident opening also makes the familiar landscape turning strange especially unsettling: someone who knows every inch of the place is suddenly lost.

Draw the route as a loop, marking the cabin, tree and return to the cabin. Put the repeated calls beside it and note how Andrew’s response changes from silence to narration. At the final hillside awakening, which details support a dream reading, and which details does the storyteller leave unresolved?

Questions to ask

• Why was Andrew Coffey so frightened when he recognised Patrick Rooney?
• What job did the four men leave Andrew Coffey to do?
• Do you think Andrew Coffey dreamed it all? Why or why not?

Related stories

• Guleesh — another Irish night adventure among strange folk
• The Ghost-Brahman — a Bengali ghost story with a puzzling visitor
• A Legend of Knockmany — a comic Irish tale from the same book