Questa storia s'ispira alle antiche leggende relative ai folletti irlandesi, in particolare il leprechaun e il clurichaun, narrate da William Butler Yeats nelle sue "Fiabe Irlandesi."
LA MALEDIZIONE DEL CLURICHAUN
La fredda pioggia di Novembre tamburellava sopra
la brughiera, attorno al maniero dei MacCarthy.
Era notte fonda, l’orologio di Sligo aveva
rintoccato la mezzanotte già da un pezzo, eppure, all’interno dell’antica e
austera dimora di pietra, le luci erano ancora accese ed un andirivieni di
persone correva da una sala all’altra, con le torce infuocate ad illuminare la
via.
Il baldanzoso Eric MacCarthy si avvicinò, con
passo deciso, ad una delle sue guardie e le rivolse il più severo degli
sguardi.
"Allora, lo avete trovato?” esclamò, con arroganza.
“Mio signore,” rispose la guardia, “tutti gli
uomini e le ancelle lo stanno cercando nel palazzo, controllano ogni angolo,
guardano sotto ad ogni mobile, ma...”
“Ma non avete ancora cavato un ragno dal
buco? Questo mi stai dicendo?”
“Lo troveremo, mio signore. Può starne
certo...”
“Oh, ne sono assolutamente certo, oppure avrò
le vostre teste appese nel mio cortile, non appena si leverà il sole...”
Eric MacCarthy si avvolse nell’ampio mantello
di velluto blu e scese con rapidità i gradini della scalinata che portavano al
salone dei ricevimenti.
Una giovane serva stava piangendo, seduta sopra
un divanetto, pareva in preda ad un attacco di panico. Eric MacCarthy pensò, in
un primo istante, di redarguirla a dovere ma decise di lasciar correre. Aveva
altre faccende, molto più urgenti di cui occuparsi.
“Teig...” gridò, e la sua voce si moltiplicò
tra gli archi e le volte dei numerosi corridoi del castello. “Teig...”
Il pesante portone di legno del maniero si
aprì lentamente e accompagnò all’interno del palazzo il vento gelido
dell’autunno. Dall’oscurità della notte, sbucò la testolina rugosa e ondeggiata
di radi capelli grigi di un vecchio ingobbito, coperto dalla testa ai piedi da
una tunica verde scuro.
“Mio signore...” sussurrò il vecchio, “sono
tornato appena in tempo per rispondere alla sua chiamata...”
“Sono almeno dieci minuti che ti sto
chiamando, vecchio rimbambito. Ho atteso con ansia il tuo ritorno. Vedi questo
trambusto attorno a me? Senti questa canzone nell’aria che, per l’ennesima
notte, turba il mio riposo? Tutti i miei uomini si stanno dando da fare per
scoprire chi canta nel mio castello, da dove provengono gli strani rumori che
terrorizzano i miei bambini e le mie serve... ma nessuno ha ancora trovato
l’intruso... Tu quali notizie porti dal villaggio, insulso moribondo?”
“La gente di Sligo mormora che la tua dimora
sia infestata dagli spiriti maligni, mio signore… Hanno paura ad avvicinarsi ai
possedimenti dei MacCarthy.”
“La gente di Sligo è folle, allora. Non ci
sono spiriti, in questo castello, né demoni. C’è un ladro che si nasconde fra
le ombre, canta la notte per provocarmi, fa rumore per schernirmi…”
“Le tue parole suonano assolutamente vere,
mio signore, ma gli abitanti del villaggio non vogliono sentire ragioni. Sono
terrorizzati. Ho paura che, entro pochi giorni, i braccianti si rifiuteranno di
lavorare la terra, le serve si rifiuteranno di servire… Sarà la rovina per
questa gloriosa dimora…”
“Quei pezzenti… Come convincerli che non c’è
nulla di soprannaturale in questo castello?”
“A tal proposito, mio signore… Ho parlato con
alcuni anziani, nell’abbazia di Sligo. Mi hanno raccontato che è appena giunto
un pellegrino, nel villaggio, un vecchio alto e solenne, con il volto indurito
come le montagne e gli occhi che leggono la tua anima. Si mormora che sia un
mago, uno stregone, e che conosca i più reconditi segreti della magia nera.”
“Credi che questo mago possa controllare se
il castello è davvero infestato dai fantasmi?”
“Credo che questo mago potrebbe, addirittura,
liberare il castello da qualsiasi presenza maligna.”
Eric MacCarthy si sfregò con le dita il mento
ossuto e coperto da ispida barba nera.
“Porta da me questo stregone, domani al
tramonto. Voglio parlare con lui e capire se è davvero in grado di
padroneggiare la magia o se mente. E, qualora fosse soltanto un cialtrone,
voglio avere io stesso il piacere di affondare la mia spada nel suo petto.”
***
Il giorno seguente, il cocchiere di una nera
carrozza aiutò un vecchio dai lunghi capelli argentati, legati in trecce, a
scendere dalla cassetta e lo accompagnò ai piedi della scalinata di pietra del
castello dei MacCarthy.
I sandali del vecchio si appiccicavano al
terreno fangoso per le recenti piogge, un bastone affusolato lo aiutava nella
sua faticosa e lenta camminata.
Il portone di legno e di bronzo si spalancò
prima che il vecchio potesse terminare di salire le scale. Eric MacCarthy gli
si parò dinanzi, con indosso una giubba leggera, rossa e blu, che recava lo stemma
della sua casata, un leone rampante d’argento.
“Mi dicono che sei uno stregone, vecchio,”
esordì. “E’ questa la verità?”
“Sono solo un umile studioso, che conosce le
arti mistiche.”
Le dita raggrinzite del vecchio si strinsero
attorno al suo bastone.
“Detto così, non sembri un granché,
nonostante tutti quei gioielli sfarzosi con cui hai ornato le tue braccia e la
tua barba. Il mio servitore, Teig, ti ha spiegato che cosa mi angustia?”
“Mi ha raccontato di una strana ballata, di
cui ignori la provenienza, che turba il tuo sonno, durante ogni notte. Mi ha
raccontato di incessanti rumori, che risvegliano le sale del tuo castello. E mi
ha raccontato, infine, che nessuno dei tuoi uomini è mai riuscito a capire chi
o che cosa ha invaso la tua dimora.”
“Corretto. E tu puoi essere in grado di fare
qualcosa, al riguardo?”
“Dipende…”
“Dipende… da che cosa, vecchio?”
“Da quanto otterrò in cambio del mio aiuto.”
“Credevo che aiutassi le persone… Se sei solo
un lurido mercante…”
“Non farti ingannare dal mio abito nero. Non
sono un prete… Che cosa otterrò in cambio?”
“Riempirò d’oro per te quel sacco di grano
che vedi in quell’angolo. Mi sembra un buon prezzo per sentirti mormorare
quattro incantesimi.”
“Affare fatto, ma non mi sentirai mormorare
nulla. Ci sono altri modi per scacciare un clurichaun.”
“Un clurichaun? Di che cosa stai parlando?”
“Il tuo castello è davvero infestato, ma non
dagli spettri… da un clurichaun.”
“Che cosa diavolo è un clurichaun, mago?”
“Non ne hai idea? Abiti su queste terre da
quando sei nato, domini con il pugno di ferro sui tuoi possedimenti, ma ti sei
allontanato dalla tua gente. Ognuno dei tuoi braccianti, ognuna delle tue serve
sa bene che cosa sia un clurichaun.”
“Vecchio, stai mettendo a dura prova la mia
pazienza…”
“Un clurichaun è un folletto delle brughiere
irlandesi, uno spirito notturno che si diletta a cavalcare piccoli animali,
topi, farfalle, gatti, per spostarsi da un luogo all’altro, in corse sfrenate.
Quando raggiunge un maniero, un castello o la
dimora di un nobile, penetra attraverso le fessure più minuscole e si
stabilisce nelle cantine. Qui, durante la notte, canta e suona le ballate del
suo popolo fatato, si perde in interminabili danze, battendo le mani e i piedi,
e gozzoviglia svuotando le damigiane e gli otri di vino dei signori. Spesso,
invita altre creature del Piccolo Popolo, fate, folletti e lepricani, a
festeggiare con lui per tutta la notte. E’ fastidioso, ma non particolarmente
pericoloso.”
“Quando lo troverai, vecchio, lo consegnerai
a me. Voglio avere la gioia ed il privilegio di schiacciarlo tra le mie mani,
fino a che la vita non abbandonerà il suo piccolo corpo.”
“E’ una sterile vendetta che ti sconsiglio
vivamente di attuare. Il clurichaun può diventare estremamente pericoloso, se
viene attaccato o provocato. Alcuni
clurichaun hanno sgozzato intere famiglie nobiliari, versato fiumi di sangue,
perché sono stati molestati dai legittimi proprietari delle dimore da loro
infestate.
Sono abilissimi nell’uso delle daghe e ho
assistito personalmente, senza purtroppo avere il tempo di impedirlo,
all’uccisione di un povero neonato, figlio primogenito del signore di Kilkenny.
Suo padre aveva aizzato tutte le sue guardie per uccidere un clurichaun che
aveva infestato il suo castello, e il folletto si è particolarmente risentito.
Balzando a cavallo di una mosca, il
clurichaun sfrecciò dritto fino alla stanza del bambino, che riposava nella sua
culla. Io e suo padre ci precipitammo all’interno, ma arrivammo in tempo solo
per vedere un taglio profondo aprirsi nella gola del piccolo, tranciata da un
minuscolo pugnale, retto da un’ancor più minuscola mano.”
Il volto imperturbabile e rigido di Eric
MacCarthy impallidì e s’impregnò di sudore e paura.
“Ed, inoltre,” proseguì il vecchio, “il
clurichaun conosce terribili incantesimi che sussurra al vento, in grado di
elargire a chi li sente la morte immediata o la follia.
L’unica nostra speranza è coglierlo di
sorpresa. Mi lascerai entrare da solo nelle tue cantine e chiuderai la porta
alle mie spalle. La aprirai soltanto quando mi sentirai gridare. Io cercherò di
sorprendere il clurichaun con un incantesimo che solo io e pochi altri stregoni
conosciamo… e, dopo averlo stordito e indebolito, lo ucciderò.”
“Va bene, va bene…” mormorò Eric MacCarthy.
“Agirò questa notte stessa.”
“Va bene, per ora accomodati nel mio salone.
Farò portare qualcosa da mangiare e da bere, e potrai lavarti, se lo desideri.”
Il vecchio entrò nel palazzo ed Eric
MacCarthy richiuse il portone massiccio.
“Mago,” gridò il nobile, dopo aver acceso una
torcia per illuminare il corridoio, “se non riuscirai ad uccidere il folletto…
ti farò tagliare la testa, nell’istante stesso in cui fallirai.”
“Non fallirò,” bisbigliò il vecchio.
***
Con la falce della luna ben visibile nel
cielo scuro, a mietere il vapore violaceo delle nubi, con la preghiera del gufo
come sottofondo e la danza luminosa delle falene come coreografia, il vecchio
stregone scese lentamente i gradini di una scala polverosa che, avvolgendosi a
chiocciola attorno ad un pilastro di pietra, conduceva alle cantine del
castello.
Piegò il capo per non urtarlo contro il
soffitto e, al contempo, per poter controllare ogni suo singolo passo,
nell’avvolgente penombra del sotterraneo.
Eric MacCarthy lo seguiva a breve distanza.
Giunti dinanzi ad una minuscola porta di
legno, il signore del castello estrasse uno sferragliante mazzo di chiavi e ne
girò una, la più lunga, nella serratura arrugginita.
Il vecchio entrò nella spettrale cantina di
pietre, una stanza enorme, stipata di botti, otri e fiaschi di vino.
“I miei uomini hanno battuto questa stanza da
palmo a palmo, in cerca di un intruso,” esclamo Eric MacCarthy, con voce
tonante. “Non hanno trovato niente e nessuno.”
“Abbassa la voce, folle,” bisbigliò il
vecchio. “Vuoi forse togliermi il vantaggio della sorpresa? Se il clurichaun
dovesse accorgersi di essere cacciato, potrebbe diventare aggressivo… e
inarrestabile. Non hai forse dei figli anche tu?”
“Ne ho due,” rispose il signore.
“Li vuoi vedere morti?”
Eric MacCarthy s’irrigidì e arretrò di
qualche passo.
“Allora esci da qui, chiudi la porta a chiave
e lasciami fare il mio lavoro da solo.”
Il signore di Sligo fece quello che il
vecchio gli aveva ordinato. Rimase, però, a breve distanza dalla cantina,
torcendosi le mani e aspettando qualche notizia da quello strano stregone.
Teig, il suo ingobbito servitore, lo
raggiunse dopo alcuni minuti, per sperare, insieme al suo padrone, che quella
notte avrebbe segnato la fine del misterioso canto e dei rumori che, tutte le
sere, costantemente, turbavano gli animi delle persone nel castello.
La porta della cantina si aprì, con un
sinistro cigolio. Il vecchio stregone uscì con le mani coperte di sangue e la
veste verde imbrattata di macchie scarlatte.
“Il clurichaun è morto,” sibilò, con voce
grave.
Eric MacCarthy ed il suo gibbuto servitore si
guardarono l’un l’altro. Non c’era gioia sui loro volti, né soddisfazione.
Soltanto sgomento e paura.
Il vecchio mago passò davanti a loro, senza
degnarli di uno sguardo o di altre parole.
“Mi aspetto di trovare in breve tempo la mia
borsa d’oro, accanto ad un cavallo per il viaggio,” mormorò, volgendo appena il
capo.
“Signore, non… non volete fermarvi al
castello qualche giorno… per riprendere le forze?” balbettò Eric MacCarthy.
“No, ho altri luoghi da visitare… ed altre
faccende da sbrigare,” rispose il mago. “Noto un cambiamento nel tuo
atteggiamento, Eric MacCarthy… una riverenza ed un rispetto che non hai mai
usato per nessun altro…”
Il vecchio stregone volse le spalle agli
altri due e salì le scale verso il primo piano del castello, con passo lento e
solenne.
***
I primi raggi del sole all’orizzonte
dipinsero un cielo sereno, di un tenue celeste, striato da nuvole bianche e
rosa. La brezza fresca di un’alba di Novembre sferzò i capelli lunghi e
intrecciati del vecchio mago, che cavalcava pigramente in mezzo all’erba alta.
Un gallo cedrone gli attraversò rapidamente
il sentiero.
“Non potevamo fermarci un altro giorno?”
mormorò una vocina alle sue spalle.
“No, affatto. Tu avresti continuato a
cantare, a bere vino e a mangiare cosciotti d’agnello e avresti mandato a monte
l’intera farsa,” rispose il mago.
Un omino alto quanto il pollice di un bambino
sbucò dai folti capelli dello stregone e gli si sedette sulla spalla destra.
Indossava un abito elegante, verde smeraldo, un panciotto azzurro spuntava da
sotto la giacca ed un bizzarro cappello a tre punte copriva la sua zazzera
rossa.
“Quel MacCarthy aveva il vino migliore di
tutta l’Irlanda…”
“Ne hai bevuto a sufficienza, per oltre due
mesi…E, poi, adesso ci sposteremo verso la contea di Kildare. C’è un ricco
proprietario terriero a Newbridge, che possiede i vigneti più rigogliosi della
zona…Potrai infestare le sue cantine…”
“Certo, certo… ma devi per forza descrivermi
come un mostro sanguinario che uccide donne e bambini? Non mi fa molto
piacere…”
“Come sei permaloso, Littlewhistle… Avevo
bisogno di colorare un po’ il racconto, altrimenti Eric MacCarthy non si
sarebbe mai fidato di me…”
“E tutto quel sangue finto di cui ti cospargi
dopo avermi… ucciso… Non è un po’ di cattivo gusto?”
“Stai scherzando? Hai visto la faccia di
MacCarthy? Era bianco di paura… temeva che lo trasformassi in una salamandra…e,
probabilmente, l’avrei fatto se non mi avesse pagato…”
“Quanto oro ti ha dato?”
“Molto, amico mio… moltissimo… A sufficienza
affinché io possa rilassarmi e godermi la vita a Newbridge, mentre tu
gozzovigli in un’altra cantina… Alla fine, questo lavoro è estremamente
redditizio per entrambi…”
“Cosa ti avevo detto? Incontrare un
clurichaun è la più grande fortuna che ti sia mai capitata nella vita…”
This story is inspired by ancient legends about Irish elfs and goblins, in particular leprechauns and clurichauns, as told by William Butler Years in his "Irish Fairytales."
THE CLURICHAUN'S CURSE
The hard, cold
November rain poured down all over the moor, round the MacCarthy’s manor.
It was late night, Sligo’s bell tower tolled midnight long since, and yet, inside the ancient and grave dwelling of stones, lights were still glowing, and a bustle of people was running from a hall to another, with flaming torches to show them the way.
Pretentious Eric MacCarthy moved toward one of his guards, with a stride, aiming his most severe gaze.
“So, did you find him?” he asked, proudly.
“My lord,” the sentry answered, “all your men and maids are searching for him in the palace, checking for him in every corner, looking under every piece of furniture, but…”
“But did you get nowhere fast? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“We’ll find him, my lord. You can be sure of that…”
“Oh, I’m entirely sure of that, otherwise I’ll see your heads hung in my yard, as soon as the sun will rise.”
Eric MacCarthy winded up his large velvet blue cloak and, quickly, run down the staircase leading to the main hall.
A young maid was crying, sat on a small sofa, she seemed to have a conniption. Eric MacCarthy thought for a while to reproach her, then he decided to let it go. He had many more compelling affairs to think about.
“Teig...” he shouted, and his voice echoed across the arches and the vaults of the castle’s corridors. “Teig..”
The heavy, wooden front gate of the manor slowly opened up, and let the cold autumn breeze inundate the castle. The small, wrinkled head of an old hunchbacked man, painted with sparse, silvery hair, appeared from the darkness of the night. He was wearing a dark green vest, that covered him from his head to his feet.
“My lord,” the old man whispered, “I got back just in time to answer to your call…”
“I’m calling you since ten minutes, at least, you old cretin. I waited with apprehension for your comeback. Can’t you see all this hustle around me? Don’t you hear this song in the air, disturbing my sleep, for another night? All my guards are hastening to identify who is singin’ in my castle, where are the strange rumors which are terrorising my kids and my servants coming from… but nobody’s found the intruder, yet… Which news are you reporting for me, from the village, you useless tramp?”
“People down in Sligo murmur your manor is haunted by evil spirits, my lord… They’re scared to approach MacCarthys’ property.”
“So, people down in Sligo are completely out of their minds. There are neither ghosts in this castle, nor evil demons. There’s a thief hiding in shadows, he sings all night long just to provoke me, he make some noise just to mock at me…”
“Your words sound absolutely right, my lord, but the inhabitants of the village don’t want to listen to your wisdom. They are terrified. I’m afraid that, within a few days, the hired hands will refuse to take care of the fields and the servants will refuse to serve… That’ll be the ruin for this glorious manor…”
“Those peasants… How can I persuade them there’s no supernatural things in this castle?”
“For this reason, my lord… I spoke with some old men, in Sligo’s abbey. They told me a pilgrim is just arrived in town, an ancient, tall and solemn man, with his face hardened like a rock and eyes that could read inside your soul. They murmur he’s a wizard, a sorcerer, and that he knows the deepest secret of black magic.”
“Do you think this wizard can inspect if this castle is truly haunted by ghosts?”
“I think this wizard can even free this castle from every kind of evil presence.”
Eric MacCarthy rub his pinched chin, covered with a black, bristly beard, with his fingertips.
“Bring this wizard to me, tomorrow, at dusk. I want to talk with him and understand if he really can dominate black magic or if it’s just a fraud. And, in case he’s just a buffoon, mine will be the pleasure to plunge my sword in his chest.”
It was late night, Sligo’s bell tower tolled midnight long since, and yet, inside the ancient and grave dwelling of stones, lights were still glowing, and a bustle of people was running from a hall to another, with flaming torches to show them the way.
Pretentious Eric MacCarthy moved toward one of his guards, with a stride, aiming his most severe gaze.
“So, did you find him?” he asked, proudly.
“My lord,” the sentry answered, “all your men and maids are searching for him in the palace, checking for him in every corner, looking under every piece of furniture, but…”
“But did you get nowhere fast? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“We’ll find him, my lord. You can be sure of that…”
“Oh, I’m entirely sure of that, otherwise I’ll see your heads hung in my yard, as soon as the sun will rise.”
Eric MacCarthy winded up his large velvet blue cloak and, quickly, run down the staircase leading to the main hall.
A young maid was crying, sat on a small sofa, she seemed to have a conniption. Eric MacCarthy thought for a while to reproach her, then he decided to let it go. He had many more compelling affairs to think about.
“Teig...” he shouted, and his voice echoed across the arches and the vaults of the castle’s corridors. “Teig..”
The heavy, wooden front gate of the manor slowly opened up, and let the cold autumn breeze inundate the castle. The small, wrinkled head of an old hunchbacked man, painted with sparse, silvery hair, appeared from the darkness of the night. He was wearing a dark green vest, that covered him from his head to his feet.
“My lord,” the old man whispered, “I got back just in time to answer to your call…”
“I’m calling you since ten minutes, at least, you old cretin. I waited with apprehension for your comeback. Can’t you see all this hustle around me? Don’t you hear this song in the air, disturbing my sleep, for another night? All my guards are hastening to identify who is singin’ in my castle, where are the strange rumors which are terrorising my kids and my servants coming from… but nobody’s found the intruder, yet… Which news are you reporting for me, from the village, you useless tramp?”
“People down in Sligo murmur your manor is haunted by evil spirits, my lord… They’re scared to approach MacCarthys’ property.”
“So, people down in Sligo are completely out of their minds. There are neither ghosts in this castle, nor evil demons. There’s a thief hiding in shadows, he sings all night long just to provoke me, he make some noise just to mock at me…”
“Your words sound absolutely right, my lord, but the inhabitants of the village don’t want to listen to your wisdom. They are terrified. I’m afraid that, within a few days, the hired hands will refuse to take care of the fields and the servants will refuse to serve… That’ll be the ruin for this glorious manor…”
“Those peasants… How can I persuade them there’s no supernatural things in this castle?”
“For this reason, my lord… I spoke with some old men, in Sligo’s abbey. They told me a pilgrim is just arrived in town, an ancient, tall and solemn man, with his face hardened like a rock and eyes that could read inside your soul. They murmur he’s a wizard, a sorcerer, and that he knows the deepest secret of black magic.”
“Do you think this wizard can inspect if this castle is truly haunted by ghosts?”
“I think this wizard can even free this castle from every kind of evil presence.”
Eric MacCarthy rub his pinched chin, covered with a black, bristly beard, with his fingertips.
“Bring this wizard to me, tomorrow, at dusk. I want to talk with him and understand if he really can dominate black magic or if it’s just a fraud. And, in case he’s just a buffoon, mine will be the pleasure to plunge my sword in his chest.”
***
The following
day, the coachman of a black carriage helped an old man, with long, silvery
hair tied up in braids, dismounting from the coach box and lead him at the feet
of the stairway of stone of the MacCarthy’s castle.
The old man’s sandals got stuck in the muddy soil, made wet by the recent rainfalls, a tapered walking stick helped him in his slowly, hard march.
The wooden, bronze gate opened wide before the old man could end climbing up the stairs. Eric MacCarthy appeared before his eyes, wearing a light coat, red and blue, showing proudly the emblem of his lineage, a rampant silver lion.
“People told me you’re a wizard, old man,” he said. “Is that the truth?”
“I’m just a humble academic, who knows the mystic arts.”
The wrinkled fingers of the old man pressed his stick.
“Looking at you, you don’t seem to be anything special, despite all those pompous jewels adorning your arms and your beard. Did my servant here, Teig, explain what’s tormenting me?”
“He told me about a strange ballad, of whom you still ignore where it comes from, which disturbs your rest, every night. He told me about a constant noise, that wake up every hall in your castle. And, at last, he told me that none of your soldiers was ever able to understand who or what entered your manor.”
“That’s right. And are you able to do something about it?”
“It depends...”
“On what does it depend?”
“On how much I will earn in return from my assistance.”
“I thought you helped people... You’re just a sleazy merchant...”
“Don’t be misled by my black vest. I’m not a priest... What will I get in return from my help?”
“I will fill up with gold that sack you see in that corner, all for you. It seems to me this is a good price just to hear you whisper a couple of spells.”
“It’s a deal, but you won’t hear me whisper anything. There are many other ways to chase away a clurichaun.”
“A clurichaun? What are you talking about?”
“Your castle is truly infested, but not by ghosts... by a clurichaun.”
“What the hell is a clurichaun, you wizard?”
“You don’t have any idea, about it? You lived this land since you were born, you rule with your iron fist on your properties, but got separated from your people. Each of your farmer, each of your servant knows very well what a clurichaun is.”
“You, old man, you’re puttin’ my patience through the wringer...”
“A claurichaun is an Irish elf of the moors, a nocturnal spirit who enjoys ridin’ small animals, mice, butterflies, cats, to move from a place to another, in uncontrolled races.
When he reaches a manor, a castle or the palace of a noble man, he gets inside through the smallest fissures and he settles in the cellars. In this place, during the night, he plays and sings the ballads of his fairy people, he loses his mind dancing endless boogies, clapping his hands and stamping his feet, and he guzzles, emptying the demijohns and the wine bag of the lords. He often invites some other creatures of the Little People, fairies, elves and leprechauns, to celebrate with him all night long. It’s annoying, but not particularly dangerous.”
“When you’ll find him, you old man, you’ll bring him to me. I want to feel the delight and have the privilege to squeeze him in my hands, until life will abandon his small body.”
“This is just a fruitless vengeance I suggest you not to actualize. The clurichaun could become extremely dangerous, if he’s attacked or provoked. Some clurichauns slaughtered entire noble families, shed rivers of blood, just because they were bothered by the legal owners of the manors they had infested.
They’re extremely skilled in using daggers and I was personally present, unfortunately without time to prevent it, to see the murder of a poor newborn, the eldest son of the lord of Kilkenny. His father aroused all his guards to kill that clurichaun, which infested his castle, and the elf got particularly upset. Jumping on the back of a fly, the clurichaun darted right till the small child’s room, the child was sleeping in his cradle. His father and me run inside, but we had just the time to see a deep cut slowly opening on the small child’s throat, shorn by a minuscule dagger, held by an even more minuscule hand.”
The hard, unflappable face of Eric MacCarthy slowly got pale and soaked by sweat and fear.
“Furthermore,” the old man said, “the clurichaun knows frightful spells, that he whispers in the wind, capable to lavish instant death or madness to the ones who hear them.
Our only hope is to catch him by surprise. You’ll let me go inside your cellars, completely alone, and you’ll close the door behind me. You’ll open the door again just when you’ll hear me screaming. I’ll try to catch the clurichaun by surprise with a spell, only known by me and a few wizards else... and, when he will be stunned and weakened, I will kill him.”
“All right, all right...” Eric MacCarthy murmured.
“I will operate this same night.”
“All right, now take a seat in my hall. I will order to bring you something to eat and drink, and then you can wash yourself, if you will.”
The old man entered the palace and Eric MacCarthy closed the heavy gate.
“You wizard,” the noble shouted, after having lit a torch to light up the hallway, “if you won’t be able to kill that elf… then I will give the order to cut your head, at the same time you’ll fail.”
“I will not fail,” the wizard whispered.
The old man’s sandals got stuck in the muddy soil, made wet by the recent rainfalls, a tapered walking stick helped him in his slowly, hard march.
The wooden, bronze gate opened wide before the old man could end climbing up the stairs. Eric MacCarthy appeared before his eyes, wearing a light coat, red and blue, showing proudly the emblem of his lineage, a rampant silver lion.
“People told me you’re a wizard, old man,” he said. “Is that the truth?”
“I’m just a humble academic, who knows the mystic arts.”
The wrinkled fingers of the old man pressed his stick.
“Looking at you, you don’t seem to be anything special, despite all those pompous jewels adorning your arms and your beard. Did my servant here, Teig, explain what’s tormenting me?”
“He told me about a strange ballad, of whom you still ignore where it comes from, which disturbs your rest, every night. He told me about a constant noise, that wake up every hall in your castle. And, at last, he told me that none of your soldiers was ever able to understand who or what entered your manor.”
“That’s right. And are you able to do something about it?”
“It depends...”
“On what does it depend?”
“On how much I will earn in return from my assistance.”
“I thought you helped people... You’re just a sleazy merchant...”
“Don’t be misled by my black vest. I’m not a priest... What will I get in return from my help?”
“I will fill up with gold that sack you see in that corner, all for you. It seems to me this is a good price just to hear you whisper a couple of spells.”
“It’s a deal, but you won’t hear me whisper anything. There are many other ways to chase away a clurichaun.”
“A clurichaun? What are you talking about?”
“Your castle is truly infested, but not by ghosts... by a clurichaun.”
“What the hell is a clurichaun, you wizard?”
“You don’t have any idea, about it? You lived this land since you were born, you rule with your iron fist on your properties, but got separated from your people. Each of your farmer, each of your servant knows very well what a clurichaun is.”
“You, old man, you’re puttin’ my patience through the wringer...”
“A claurichaun is an Irish elf of the moors, a nocturnal spirit who enjoys ridin’ small animals, mice, butterflies, cats, to move from a place to another, in uncontrolled races.
When he reaches a manor, a castle or the palace of a noble man, he gets inside through the smallest fissures and he settles in the cellars. In this place, during the night, he plays and sings the ballads of his fairy people, he loses his mind dancing endless boogies, clapping his hands and stamping his feet, and he guzzles, emptying the demijohns and the wine bag of the lords. He often invites some other creatures of the Little People, fairies, elves and leprechauns, to celebrate with him all night long. It’s annoying, but not particularly dangerous.”
“When you’ll find him, you old man, you’ll bring him to me. I want to feel the delight and have the privilege to squeeze him in my hands, until life will abandon his small body.”
“This is just a fruitless vengeance I suggest you not to actualize. The clurichaun could become extremely dangerous, if he’s attacked or provoked. Some clurichauns slaughtered entire noble families, shed rivers of blood, just because they were bothered by the legal owners of the manors they had infested.
They’re extremely skilled in using daggers and I was personally present, unfortunately without time to prevent it, to see the murder of a poor newborn, the eldest son of the lord of Kilkenny. His father aroused all his guards to kill that clurichaun, which infested his castle, and the elf got particularly upset. Jumping on the back of a fly, the clurichaun darted right till the small child’s room, the child was sleeping in his cradle. His father and me run inside, but we had just the time to see a deep cut slowly opening on the small child’s throat, shorn by a minuscule dagger, held by an even more minuscule hand.”
The hard, unflappable face of Eric MacCarthy slowly got pale and soaked by sweat and fear.
“Furthermore,” the old man said, “the clurichaun knows frightful spells, that he whispers in the wind, capable to lavish instant death or madness to the ones who hear them.
Our only hope is to catch him by surprise. You’ll let me go inside your cellars, completely alone, and you’ll close the door behind me. You’ll open the door again just when you’ll hear me screaming. I’ll try to catch the clurichaun by surprise with a spell, only known by me and a few wizards else... and, when he will be stunned and weakened, I will kill him.”
“All right, all right...” Eric MacCarthy murmured.
“I will operate this same night.”
“All right, now take a seat in my hall. I will order to bring you something to eat and drink, and then you can wash yourself, if you will.”
The old man entered the palace and Eric MacCarthy closed the heavy gate.
“You wizard,” the noble shouted, after having lit a torch to light up the hallway, “if you won’t be able to kill that elf… then I will give the order to cut your head, at the same time you’ll fail.”
“I will not fail,” the wizard whispered.
***
When the sickle
of the moon was up in the dark sky, to reap the purple vapour of clouds, with
the prayer of the owl as background music and the bright dance of moths as
choreography, the old wizard slowly descended the steps of a dusty stair that,
wrapping around a stone column, led to the cellars of the castle.
He bent his head not to butt against the ceiling and, at the same time, to check every single step, in the embracing darkness of the basement.
Eric MacCarthy followed him in short distance.
When he was arrived in front of a small wooden door, the castle lord took out a clanging bunch of keys and turned one of them, the longest one, into the rusted lock.
The old man entered the ghostly cellar made by stones, a huge room, full with barrels, wine bags and flasks.
“My soldiers checked every corner of this room, searching an intruder,” Eric MacCarthy said with a booming voice. “They didn’t find anybody or anything.”
“Lower your voice, you fool,” the old wizard whispered. “Do you want to take away the advantage of surprise from me, maybe? If the clurichaun realizes he’s hunted, he could become a lot aggressive… and unstoppable. Don’t you have some children, too?”
“I’ve got two kids,” the lord answered.
“Do you want to see’em dead?”
Eric MacCarthy immediately froze and took a few steps back.
“So get out of this room, lock the door behind you and let me do my job, alone.”
The lord of Sligo did exactly what the old wizard ordered him. Anyway, he stood shortly next to the cellar, writhing his hands and waiting for some news coming from that strange sorcerer.
Teig, his hunchbacked servant, reached him after a few minutes, to hope with his master that the mysterious chant and noises, disturbing the rest of the castle inhabitants, would have ceased, that night.
The cellar door opened wide, with a sinister squeaking. The old sorcerer came out with his hands covered in blood and his green vest soiled by scarlet stains.
“The clurichaun is dead,” he whispered, with a grave voice.
Eric MacCarthy and his hunchbacked servant looked at each other. There was no joy on their face, nor satisfaction. Just confusion and fear.
The old wizard passed in front of them, without givin’ them a single look or any other word.
“I expect to find in a short time my bag of gold, next to a horse for my journey,” he murmured, barely turning his head.
“Sir, don’t you... don’t you want to stay here at the castle, for a few days... to regain your strength?” Eric MacCarthy mumbled.
“No, I’m going to visit some other places... and I’ve got some other affairs to deal with,” the wizard said. “I can notice a peculiar change in your attitude, Eric MacCarthy... reverence and respect you’ve never used for anybody else..”
The old sorcerer turned his back to the other two men and climb up the stairs to the main floor of the castle, with slow, solemn steps.
He bent his head not to butt against the ceiling and, at the same time, to check every single step, in the embracing darkness of the basement.
Eric MacCarthy followed him in short distance.
When he was arrived in front of a small wooden door, the castle lord took out a clanging bunch of keys and turned one of them, the longest one, into the rusted lock.
The old man entered the ghostly cellar made by stones, a huge room, full with barrels, wine bags and flasks.
“My soldiers checked every corner of this room, searching an intruder,” Eric MacCarthy said with a booming voice. “They didn’t find anybody or anything.”
“Lower your voice, you fool,” the old wizard whispered. “Do you want to take away the advantage of surprise from me, maybe? If the clurichaun realizes he’s hunted, he could become a lot aggressive… and unstoppable. Don’t you have some children, too?”
“I’ve got two kids,” the lord answered.
“Do you want to see’em dead?”
Eric MacCarthy immediately froze and took a few steps back.
“So get out of this room, lock the door behind you and let me do my job, alone.”
The lord of Sligo did exactly what the old wizard ordered him. Anyway, he stood shortly next to the cellar, writhing his hands and waiting for some news coming from that strange sorcerer.
Teig, his hunchbacked servant, reached him after a few minutes, to hope with his master that the mysterious chant and noises, disturbing the rest of the castle inhabitants, would have ceased, that night.
The cellar door opened wide, with a sinister squeaking. The old sorcerer came out with his hands covered in blood and his green vest soiled by scarlet stains.
“The clurichaun is dead,” he whispered, with a grave voice.
Eric MacCarthy and his hunchbacked servant looked at each other. There was no joy on their face, nor satisfaction. Just confusion and fear.
The old wizard passed in front of them, without givin’ them a single look or any other word.
“I expect to find in a short time my bag of gold, next to a horse for my journey,” he murmured, barely turning his head.
“Sir, don’t you... don’t you want to stay here at the castle, for a few days... to regain your strength?” Eric MacCarthy mumbled.
“No, I’m going to visit some other places... and I’ve got some other affairs to deal with,” the wizard said. “I can notice a peculiar change in your attitude, Eric MacCarthy... reverence and respect you’ve never used for anybody else..”
The old sorcerer turned his back to the other two men and climb up the stairs to the main floor of the castle, with slow, solemn steps.
***
The first rays
of sun, over the horizon, painted a fair sky, pale blue, striped by white and
pink clouds. The fresh breeze of a November dawn moved the long and braided
hair of the old wizard, who was sluggishly riding in the middle of the tall
grass.
A sharp-tailed grouse rapidly crossed his path.
“Couldn’t we stay there for another day?” a voice behind his back murmured.
“No, we couldn’t at all. You would have kept singin’, drinkin’ wine, eatin’ lamb shanks and you’d have ruined the entire farce,” the sorcerer answered.
A small man, one thumb high, sprang out from the wizard’s thick hair and sat on his right shoulder. He wore an elegant emerald-green dress, an azure waistcoat showed out from his suit and a bizarre three-pointed hat covered his red hair.
“That MacCarthy guy had the best wine of the entire Ireland…”
“You've drunk enough of it, for over two months… And, now, we’ll be moving towards the county of Kildare. A rich landowner lives there, in Newbridge, and owns the most flourishing vineyard of the region… You can infest his cellars…”
“All right, all right... but do you always need to describe me as a bloodthirsty monster who kills women and children? I don’t really like that...”
“Oh, you’re so prickly, Littlewhistle... I needed to exaggerate the story a little bit, otherwise Eric MacCarthy would have never trusted in me...”
“And all that fake blood you sprinkle yourself with, after... after... having killed me... Isn’t all that a little... distasteful?”
“Are you kiddin’ me? Did you see MacCarthy’s face? He became pale because of the fear... he dreaded I would have transformed him into a salamander... and, probably, I would have done something like this if he didn’t pay me...”
“How much gold did you earn?”
“A lot of gold, my friend... a lot of gold... Enough gold for me to relax and enjoy my life in Newbridge, while you guzzle into another cellar... At the end of the fair, this job is extremely profitable both for me and you...”
“What did I tell you? Meeting a clurichaun is the best luck that has ever happened in your life…”
A sharp-tailed grouse rapidly crossed his path.
“Couldn’t we stay there for another day?” a voice behind his back murmured.
“No, we couldn’t at all. You would have kept singin’, drinkin’ wine, eatin’ lamb shanks and you’d have ruined the entire farce,” the sorcerer answered.
A small man, one thumb high, sprang out from the wizard’s thick hair and sat on his right shoulder. He wore an elegant emerald-green dress, an azure waistcoat showed out from his suit and a bizarre three-pointed hat covered his red hair.
“That MacCarthy guy had the best wine of the entire Ireland…”
“You've drunk enough of it, for over two months… And, now, we’ll be moving towards the county of Kildare. A rich landowner lives there, in Newbridge, and owns the most flourishing vineyard of the region… You can infest his cellars…”
“All right, all right... but do you always need to describe me as a bloodthirsty monster who kills women and children? I don’t really like that...”
“Oh, you’re so prickly, Littlewhistle... I needed to exaggerate the story a little bit, otherwise Eric MacCarthy would have never trusted in me...”
“And all that fake blood you sprinkle yourself with, after... after... having killed me... Isn’t all that a little... distasteful?”
“Are you kiddin’ me? Did you see MacCarthy’s face? He became pale because of the fear... he dreaded I would have transformed him into a salamander... and, probably, I would have done something like this if he didn’t pay me...”
“How much gold did you earn?”
“A lot of gold, my friend... a lot of gold... Enough gold for me to relax and enjoy my life in Newbridge, while you guzzle into another cellar... At the end of the fair, this job is extremely profitable both for me and you...”
“What did I tell you? Meeting a clurichaun is the best luck that has ever happened in your life…”
