Guleesh

There was once a boy in County Mayo whose name was Guleesh. A little way from the gable end of his house there was a fine rath, an old ring-fort, and he often sat on the grassy bank that ran around it.

One night he stood leaning against the gable of the house, gazing up at the beautiful white moon. After he had stood like that for a couple of hours, he said to himself, “My bitter grief that I’m not gone away from this place altogether. I’d rather be anywhere in the world than here. Och, it’s well for you, white moon, turning round and round as you please, and no one can stop you. I wish I were like you.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he heard a great noise, like a crowd of people running together, talking and laughing and having fun. The sound swept past him like a whirlwind, and he heard it go into the rath. “Musha, by my soul,” said he, “you’re merry enough, and I’ll follow you.”

It was the fairy host, though he did not know it at first, and he followed them into the rath. There he heard a tremendous hubbub and hullabaloo, with every one of them shouting as loud as he could, “My horse, and bridle, and saddle! My horse, and bridle, and saddle!”

“By my hand,” said Guleesh, “that’s not bad. I’ll do the same.” And he shouted with them, “My horse, and bridle, and saddle!” At once a fine horse with a golden bridle and a silver saddle stood before him. He leaped onto it, and the moment he was on its back he saw clearly that the rath was full of horses and of little people riding them.

“Are you coming with us tonight, Guleesh?” one of them asked.

“I am, surely.”

“Then come along.” Out they all rode together like the wind, faster than the fastest hunting horse you ever saw, faster than a fox with the hounds at its tail. They overtook the cold winter wind in front of them, and the cold winter wind behind could not catch them. They did not stop until they reached the edge of the sea. Then every one of them cried, “Hie over cap! Hie over cap!” and in a moment they were up in the air, and before Guleesh could gather his wits they were down on dry land and racing on like the wind.

At last they stopped, and one of them said, “Guleesh, do you know where you are now?”

“Not a notion.”

“You’re in France, Guleesh. The daughter of the king of France is to be married tonight, the loveliest woman the sun ever shone on, and we mean to carry her off with us if we can. You must come with us so that we can put the girl up behind you on your horse when we take her away, because we are not allowed to seat her behind ourselves. But you are flesh and blood, and she can hold on to you tightly so that she won’t fall off. Are you willing, Guleesh, and will you do what we tell you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be willing? Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do it.”

They got down from their horses, one of them spoke a word Guleesh did not understand, and in an instant they were lifted up and found themselves inside the palace. A great feast was going on, and every lord and gentleman in the kingdom was there, dressed in silk and satin, gold and silver. The night was as bright as day with lamps and candles, so that Guleesh had to shut his eyes against the glare. When he opened them he thought he had never seen anything so splendid. There were a hundred tables loaded with meat and cakes and sweets, wine and ale and every drink anyone ever saw. Musicians at both ends of the hall played the sweetest music, and in the middle young women and fine young men danced and spun so fast and so lightly that it made Guleesh’s head swim to watch them.

There had not been such a feast in France for twenty years, because the old king had only one child living, his daughter, and she was to marry another king’s son that night. The feast had lasted three days, and on the third night she was to be married, and that was the night Guleesh and the sheehogues, the fairy folk, had come, hoping to carry her off.

Guleesh and his companions stood together at the top of the hall, where there was a fine altar with two bishops behind it, waiting to marry the girl when the time came. Nobody could see the sheehogues, because they had spoken a word on coming in that made them invisible.

“Tell me which of them is the king’s daughter,” said Guleesh, when he had grown a little used to the noise and the light.

“Don’t you see her over there?” said the little man beside him, pointing.

Guleesh looked, and he saw the loveliest woman, he thought, on the whole ridge of the world. The rose and the lily were fighting in her face, and you could not tell which was winning. Her arms and hands were white as lime, her mouth as red as a ripe strawberry, her foot as small and light as another person’s hand, her figure slim and graceful, and her hair fell from her head in golden curls. Her clothes were woven with gold and silver, and the jewel in her ring shone like the sun.

Guleesh was almost dazzled by her beauty, but as he looked closer he saw that she was crying, and there were traces of tears in her eyes. “It can’t be,” he said, “that she’s sad, when everyone round her is so full of fun and merriment.”

“Musha, but she is sad,” said the little man, “for she is marrying against her will, and she has no love for the man she is to marry. The king meant to give her to him three years ago, when she was only fifteen, but she said she was too young and begged him to wait. The king gave her a year’s grace, and when that year was up another, and then another, but not a week or a day more would he give her. She is eighteen tonight, and it’s time for her to marry. But indeed,” he said, twisting his mouth in an ugly way, “it’s no king’s son she’ll marry, if I can help it.”

Guleesh felt great pity for the beautiful young lady when he heard this. It broke his heart to think she must marry a man she did not like, or, worse still, be taken by a nasty sheehogue for a husband. He said nothing, but he cursed the bad luck that had him helping the people who would snatch her from her home and her father. He tried to think what he could do to save her, but he could think of nothing. “Oh, if I could only help her,” he said to himself, “I wouldn’t care whether I lived or died. But I can see nothing I can do.”

He watched as the king’s son came up and asked her for a kiss, and she turned her head away. Guleesh pitied her twice as much when he saw the young man take her soft white hand and lead her out to dance. They danced close to where Guleesh stood, and he could see plainly the tears in her eyes.

When the dancing was over, the old king and the queen came and said it was time for the wedding: the bishop was ready, and the ring must go on her finger and she must be given to her husband. The king took the young man’s hand, the queen took her daughter’s, and they walked up to the altar with the lords and great people behind them. When they were no more than four yards from it, the little sheehogue stuck out his foot in front of the girl, and she fell. Before she could get up, he threw something from his hand over her and said a couple of words, and in that instant she vanished from among them, for the words had made her invisible. The little fairy man seized her and lifted her up behind Guleesh, and neither the king nor anyone else saw them as they went out through the hall to the door.

Oh, dear Mary! There was grief and trouble then, and crying and wondering and searching and uproar, when the lady disappeared before their eyes and no one could see what had done it.

Out of the palace door they went, with no one to stop them, for nobody could see them. “My horse, my bridle and saddle!” cried every one of them, and Guleesh cried it too, and at once his horse stood ready before him.

“Now jump up, Guleesh,” said the little man, “and put the lady behind you, and let us be off. Morning is not far away.”

Guleesh lifted her onto the horse’s back and sprang up in front of her. “Rise, horse,” he said, and his horse and all the others raced away until they came to the sea. “Hie over cap!” cried every one of them, and Guleesh cried it too, and his horse rose under him, leaped into the clouds and came down in Ireland. They did not stop there but raced on to Guleesh’s house and the rath.

When they got there, Guleesh turned, caught the young girl in his arms and jumped off the horse. “I call and cross you to myself, in the name of God!” he said, and before the words were out of his mouth, the horse fell down, and it was nothing but the beam of a plough. That was what they had made the horse from, and every other horse of theirs was made the same way. Some were riding an old broom, some a broken stick and others a bohalawn or a hemlock stalk.

The fairy folk all cried out together when they heard what Guleesh said: “Oh, Guleesh, you clown, you thief, may no good come to you! Why did you play that trick on us?” Within the tale’s magic, the blessing prevented them from carrying her off. “Oh, Guleesh, isn’t that a fine turn you’ve done us, after we were so kind to you? What good is our journey to France to us now? Never mind, you clown, you’ll pay us for this another time. Believe us, you’ll be sorry.”

“He’ll get no good out of the young girl,” said the little man who had talked to him in the palace, and he went over to her and slapped her on the side of the head. “Now,” he said, “she’ll never speak again. What good will she be to you, Guleesh, when she can’t speak? It’s time for us to go. But you’ll remember us, Guleesh!” He stretched out his two hands, and before Guleesh could answer, he and all the rest had vanished into the rath, and Guleesh saw no more of them.

He turned to the young woman. “Thank God they’re gone. Wouldn’t you rather stay with me than with them?” She did not answer. “She’s still upset and grieving,” Guleesh thought, and he spoke to her gently. “I’m afraid you must spend tonight in my father’s house, lady, and if there’s anything I can do for you, tell me, and I’ll be your servant.”

The beautiful girl said nothing, but there were tears in her eyes, and her face went white and red by turns.

“Lady,” said Guleesh, “tell me what you’d like me to do. I was never one of that band of sheehogues who carried you off. I’m the son of an honest farmer, and I went with them without knowing what they were. If I can send you home to your father, I will, and I beg you to make whatever use of me you wish.”

He looked into her face and saw her lips move as if she were trying to speak, but no word came. “It can’t be that you’ve lost your voice,” said Guleesh. “Didn’t I hear you talking to the king’s son in the palace tonight? Or has that devil really taken your voice, when he laid his nasty hand on your jaw?”

The girl raised her smooth white hand and laid her finger on her tongue to show him that she had lost her voice, and tears poured from her eyes. Guleesh’s own eyes were not dry, for rough as he was on the outside, he had a soft heart and could not bear to see the young girl in such misery.

He began to think what he should do. He did not like to take her home to his father’s house, for he knew they would never believe he had been to France and brought back the king of France’s daughter, and he was afraid they might mock or insult her. While he was wondering what to do, he thought of the priest. “Glory be to God,” he said, “now I know what I’ll do. I’ll take her to the priest’s house, and he won’t refuse to keep the lady and look after her.” He told her that he did not want to take her to his father’s house, but that there was an excellent priest, a good friend of his, who would take care of her if she would stay there, and that if there was anywhere else she would rather go, he would take her there. She bowed her head to thank him and let him understand she would follow him wherever he went.

The sun was just rising when they reached the priest’s door. Guleesh knocked hard, and early as it was, the priest was up and opened the door himself. He was surprised to see Guleesh and the girl, for he was sure they had come to be married. “Guleesh, Guleesh, aren’t you the fine boy, that you can’t wait till ten or twelve o’clock, but must come to me at this hour looking to be married, you and your sweetheart? You ought to know I can’t marry you at such an hour, or at least not lawfully. But goodness me,” he cried, taking a proper look at the young girl, “in the name of God, who have you here? Who is she, and how did you get her?”

“Father,” said Guleesh, “you can marry me or anyone else when you like, but it’s not marriage I’ve come for. I’ve come to ask you, if you please, to give this young lady a lodging in your house.”

The priest stared at him as if he had ten heads, but without another question he brought them both in, shut the door, took them into the parlour and sat them down. “Now, Guleesh, tell me truly who this young lady is, and whether you’re out of your mind or only making fun of me.”

“I’m not telling a word of a lie or making fun of you,” said Guleesh. “I carried this lady off from the palace of the king of France, and she is the king of France’s daughter.” Then he told the priest the whole story, and the priest was so astonished that he kept crying out and clapping his hands. When Guleesh said he believed the girl had not wanted the marriage that was about to happen when he and the sheehogues broke it up, a red blush came into her cheek, and he was surer than ever that she would rather be as she was, badly off as that was, than be married to the man she hated.

The kind priest said he would keep her in his house as long as Guleesh wished, but he did not know what they should do with her, since they had no way of sending her home to her father. Guleesh was just as worried about that, and he could see nothing to do but wait quietly until some better chance came. So they agreed that the priest would pretend she was his brother’s daughter, come to visit from another county, and tell everyone that she could not speak, and do his best to keep people away from her. They explained the plan to the young girl, and her eyes showed how grateful she was.

Then Guleesh went home, and when his family asked where he had been, he said he had fallen asleep at the foot of a ditch and spent the night there.

The priest’s neighbours were full of wonder at the girl who had appeared so suddenly at his house, with no one knowing where she came from or what she was doing there. Some said things were not as they should be, and others that Guleesh was not the same man at all, and what a story it was that he went to the priest’s house every day and that the priest was so fond of him, which they could not make out at all. And it was true that hardly a day went by without Guleesh going to the priest’s house for a talk, and each time he hoped to find the young lady cured and able to speak. But alas, she stayed silent, with no relief or cure. She communicated with him by moving her hands and fingers, winking, opening and shutting her mouth, laughing and smiling, and a thousand other signs, and before long they understood each other very well.

Guleesh was always wondering how to send her home to her father, but there was no one to go with her, and he did not know the road himself, for he had never left his own district until the night he brought her away. The priest knew no more than he did, but when Guleesh asked him, he wrote three or four letters to the king of France and gave them to traders who went to and fro across the sea. They all went astray, and not one reached the king.

So things went on for many months, and Guleesh fell deeper in love with her every day, and both he and the priest could see that she liked him. In the end the boy grew afraid that the king might really find out where his daughter was and take her away from him, and he begged the priest to write no more and leave the matter to God.

So a year passed, until one day, the last day of the last month of autumn, Guleesh was lying alone on the grass going over in his mind everything that had happened since he crossed the sea with the sheehogues. Suddenly it came to him that it was on a November night that he had stood at the gable of the house when the whirlwind came with the fairies in it. “Today is November night,” he said to himself, “and I’ll stand in the same place I stood last year, to see if the good people come. Maybe I’ll see or hear something useful that might bring back Mary’s speech.” Mary was the name he and the priest called the king’s daughter, since neither of them knew her real name. He told the priest his plan, and the priest gave him his blessing.

So as night was falling Guleesh went to the old rath and stood with his elbow resting on an old grey stone, waiting for midnight. The moon rose slowly, like a ball of fire behind him. A white mist lay over the grassy fields and damp places, rising in the cool of the night after a hot day. The night was as calm as a lake when there is not a breath of wind to stir a ripple, and there was no sound but the humming of insects passing now and then, the sudden harsh cry of wild geese flying from lake to lake half a mile overhead, and the sharp whistle of golden and green plovers rising and settling, settling and rising, as they do on a calm night. A thousand thousand bright stars shone over his head, and a light frost turned the grass white and crisp under his feet.

He stood there one hour, two hours, three hours, and the frost grew so hard that he heard the stalks of grass crack under his feet whenever he moved. At last he was thinking the sheehogues would not come that night, and that he might as well go home, when he heard a sound far off, coming towards him, and he knew at once what it was. The sound grew: first it was like waves beating on a stony shore, then like a great waterfall, and then like a loud storm in the treetops, and then the whirlwind burst into the rath all at once, and the sheehogues were in it.

It all rushed past him so suddenly that it took his breath away, but he quickly gathered himself and listened hard to what they were saying. They had scarcely gathered in the rath when they all began shouting and screeching and chattering, and then each one called for his horse and bridle and saddle. Guleesh took heart and called for his as loudly as any of them. But before the words were well out of his mouth, one of them cried, “Ora! Guleesh, my boy, are you here with us? How are you getting on with your woman? It’s no use calling for your horse tonight. I’ll bet you won’t play a trick like that on us twice. A good trick it was you played on us last year!”

“It was,” said another. “He won’t do it twice.”

“Isn’t he a fine lad, to take home a woman who has never said so much as ‘How do you do?’ to him since this time last year!” said a third.

“Maybe he likes looking at her,” said another voice.

“And if the fool only knew that there’s an herb growing by his own door, and that if he boiled it and gave it to her, she’d be well!” said another.

“That’s true for you.”

“He’s a fool.”

“Don’t bother your head about him. We’ll be off.”

“We’ll leave the clown as he is.”

And with that they rose into the air and were gone with a great hullabaloo the way they came, leaving poor Guleesh standing where they found him, staring after them with his eyes popping out of his head.

He soon went home, thinking over all he had seen and heard, and wondering whether there really was an herb by his own door that would give the king’s daughter her voice. “It can’t be that they’d tell me if there was any good in it,” he said to himself. “But maybe the sheehogue didn’t notice what he was saying when the words slipped out. As soon as the sun is up I’ll search well for any plant growing by the house besides thistles and docks.”

He went home, and tired as he was, he did not sleep a wink until the sun rose. Then the very first thing he did was go out and search the grass around the house for any herb he did not know. He had not been searching long when he noticed a big, strange plant growing right by the gable of the house. He looked at it closely and saw seven little branches coming out of the stalk, with seven leaves on every branch, and a white sap in the leaves. “It’s a wonder I never noticed this plant,” he said. “If there’s any power in an herb at all, it ought to be in a strange one like this.”

He prepared a drink from the strange plant. He feared that the fairies might be trying to poison him or the girl, but he nevertheless tasted it and drank some. This was a dangerous guess, not a reliable way of finding out whether a plant was safe.

After that he fell asleep, and he did not wake until night, very hungry and very thirsty. He had to wait until morning, but he made up his mind that as soon as he woke he would go to the king’s daughter and give her a drink of the juice. When he got up, he went straight to the priest’s house with the drink in his hand, and he had never felt so bold and brave, so lively and light, as he did that day, and he was sure it was the drink that made him feel so well.

He found the priest and the young lady wondering why he had not come for two days. He told them all his news and said he was sure there was great power in the herb, and claimed that because he had tried it, it would not harm her. His confidence persuaded her to taste it. She drank half the cup, then fell back on her bed in a heavy sleep, and she did not wake until the following day.

Guleesh and the priest sat up all night beside her, waiting for her to wake, torn between hope and despair, between the hope of curing her and the fear of harming her. At last, when the sun was halfway across the sky, she woke. She rubbed her eyes and looked like someone who did not know where she was. She seemed astonished to see Guleesh and the priest in the room with her, and she sat up, trying to collect her thoughts. The two men waited anxiously to see whether she would speak, and after they had sat silent for a couple of minutes, the priest said, “Did you sleep well, Mary?”

And she answered, “I slept, thank you.”

The moment Guleesh heard her speak, he gave a shout of joy, ran to her, fell on his knees and said, “A thousand thanks to God, who has given you your voice! Lady of my heart, say something more to me.” The lady told him she understood that it was he who had boiled the drink and given it to her, that she thanked him with all her heart for all his kindness since the day she came to Ireland, and that he could be sure she would never forget it. Guleesh was nearly beside himself with happiness. They brought her food, and she ate heartily and was merry and cheerful, chattering with the priest all through the meal.

Guleesh then went home, lay down on his bed and fell fast asleep, for the herb’s power was not yet used up, and he slept for a further day and night. When he woke he hurried to the priest’s house and found that the young lady was in the same state, and had slept almost from the time he left. He went into her room with the priest, and they sat beside her until she woke, and her speech was as good as ever, to Guleesh’s great joy. The priest set out food, and they all ate together. From then on Guleesh came to the house every day, and the friendship between him and the king’s daughter grew, for she had no one to talk to but Guleesh and the priest, and she liked Guleesh best.

So they married each other, and a fine wedding it was. If I had been there then, I would not be here now, but a little bird told me that they had neither trouble nor care, sickness nor sorrow, mishap nor misfortune, until the hour of their death, and may the same be true for me, and for all of us!

Where this story comes from

Jacobs took “Guleesh” from Douglas Hyde’s Beside the Fire, and Hyde had it from Shamus O’Hart, a gamekeeper of Frenchpark. Jacobs says he left out a journey to Rome that did not bear on the main story, and dropped part of the hero’s name: in the original he is “Guleesh na guss dhu,” Guleesh of the black feet, because he never washed them.

Jacobs names the closest parallel as a Donegal tale, “Jamie Freel and the Young Lady,” reprinted in W. B. Yeats’s Irish Folk and Fairy Tales. A rath is an old earthen ring-fort; in this story it is the home of the fairy host, whom the teller calls sheehogues or the good people.

Read the original: Joseph Jacobs, Celtic Fairy Tales (Gutenberg #7885, Guleesh)

Best for ages 9–12 with adult discussion: forced marriage, abduction, an assault that takes away speech and prolonged separation from home. The unnamed plant and its cure are magical; tasting an unknown plant cannot establish that it is safe.

Reading the story closely

The princess communicates before her voice returns. Her refusal of a kiss, tears, gestures and shared signs all convey wishes that other people must choose whether to respect. Track those communications beside the decisions made by her father, the fairies, Guleesh and the priest. Speech restoration is one event in her story, not the moment she first has a point of view.

Guleesh first offers to send her home and helps the priest write letters, but later asks him to stop because he fears losing her. That reversal complicates his role as rescuer. Compare his wish at the beginning to travel freely with the princess’s limited choices in Ireland. The final mutual affection belongs to the tale, but gratitude for help does not create an obligation to marry, and the ending never tells us that her family receives news.

Talk about it

• How did Guleesh stop the fairies from taking the princess?
• Why did Guleesh take the princess to the priest’s house instead of his own?
• How did Guleesh find out how to give the princess her voice back?

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• Connla and the Fairy Maiden — another Irish tale of the fairy hill folk
• Dream of Owen O’Mulready — an Irish night journey that ends in a surprise
• Elidore — a boy who visits the little people’s land