“O Crow of Achill,” said the King of Ireland’s Son, “I was sent to ask if you had knowledge of the Unique Tale.”
“The Unique Tale! No, I never heard of it,” said the Crow. She gathered her wings up to her neck again and bent her gray head.
“Think, O Crow of Achill,” said the King of Ireland’s Son. “I will bring you the warmest wool for your nest.”
“I never heard of the Unique Tale,” said the Crow. “Tell Laheen I was asking for her.” Nothing would rouse the Crow of Achill again. The King of Ireland’s Son set the wheel rolling and followed it. Then he was going and ever going with the clear day before him and the dark night coming behind him. He came to a wide field where there were field-fares or ground larks in companies. He crossed it. He came to a plain of tall daisies where there were thousands of butterflies. He crossed it. He came to a field of buttercups where blue pigeons were feeding. He crossed it. He came to a field of flax in blue blossom. He crossed it and came to a smoke-blackened stone house deep sunk in the ground. The wheel stopped rolling before it and he went into the house.
An old woman was seated on the ground before the fire basting a goose. A rabbit-skin cap was on her hairless head and there were no eye-brows on her face. Three strange birds were eating out of the pot—a cuckoo, a corncrake and a swallow. “Come to the fire, gilly,” said the old woman when she looked round.
“I am not a gilly, but the King of Ireland’s Son,” said he.
“Well, let that be. What do you want of me?”
“Are you the Old Woman of Beare?”
“I have been called the Old Woman of Beare since your fore-great-grandfather’s time.”
“How old are you, old mother?”