The Whale and the Grasshopper, and Other Fables

by Seumas O'Brien

“‘Yes, he will carry each and every one of us to the great country beyond the grave.’

“‘’Tis strange indeed,’ ses I, ‘that you should see the White Horse of Banba so often.’

“‘Some are more favoured than others,’ ses he. ‘But if you will wait until the lights in the city grow dim, and when the lights in the sky sparkle and glimmer, and when the birds fall asleep on their perches, and the dogs begin to snore in their kennels, and all the tired people are stretched in their beds, then if you are lucky you may see him passing by here, and he flying through the night, the way you’d see a pigeon racing home, or a meteor shooting through space.’

“‘And is it all alone that he does be?’ ses I.

“‘No. There is always some one on his back, and the banshee follows at his heels, wailing and moaning the way you’d be scared out of your wits.’

“‘But some people have no wits,’ ses I.

“‘That’s so. But we all dread something. It may be the sea, fire, loneliness, the past, the present, the future, hereafter, a wife with an angel’s face and the tongue of the Devil, a rat maybe, or a shadow itself. There’s a weak spot in the strongest, and a strong spot in the weakest, even though it might be stubbornness. But there’s nothing to make a man more scared than the cry of the banshee that follows the White Horse of Banba as he gallops along the dreary roads, where the ghosts themselves would be afraid to venture. And he always has some one on his back, holding on to his wavy mane, lest they might fall and be dashed to pieces on the cobbled roadway. Sometimes it does be an old man full of days with toothless gums and white hair that you’d see, and other times some comely maiden, with the virtue of purity and innocence stamped on her brow, and she more beautiful than Helen of Troy or the Queen of Sheba. And oftentimes it does be a little child with rosy cheeks and golden curls, or maybe an infant who just opened its eyes to get one peep at the world, and then closed them forever. It may be a young giant of a man that you’d see, or an old woman, wrinkled and feeble. And as he skelters by, the very trees themselves bow their heads, the corncrakes in the meadows and the toads in the marshes keep still, and you would hear no sound at all, except the clattering of hoofs on the stony roads and the wailing of the banshee. ’Tis along this very road that the White Horse comes at the close of night and the birth of morn, and he races with the speed of the lightning flash, until he comes to the top of the cliff beyond, where he stands for a little while, sniffs the air and shakes his mane, turns his head and gives a knowing look at whoever does be on his back. Then a weird whinnying cry is heard, and he plunges into the sea, and he swims and swims through the surf and billows until he reaches the edge of the moon that does be rising out of the waters at the horizon. As quick as thought he shakes the water from his mane, stamps and prances and jumps from the top of the moon to the nearest star, and from star to star until he arrives at the Golden Gate of the Land of No Returning.

“‘Then he walks through a beautiful avenue, sheltered by tall green trees and made fragrant with sweet blooms, until he is met by St. Peter and St. Patrick on the steps of a marble palace. And the stranger on his back dismounts and accompanies the Holy Apostles into the Sanctum Sanctorum where a record of our good and bad deeds is kept. And when the record book is found and the stranger’s fate discovered, St. Peter looks at St. Patrick, and St. Patrick looks at St. Peter, but no words at all are spoken. Then the stranger is hurried away by an attendant with a flaming sword in his hand.’

“‘And where does the angel with the flaming sword carry the poor stranger?’ ses I.

“‘Nobody knows,’ ses he. ‘And the pity of it all is that very few care. It was the White Horse of Banba who took my father away and my grandfather, and his father and grandfather, and his father before him again, and some night when we may least expect it he will take ourselves, and gallop along like the wind over the highways and byways, through the meadows and marshes, underneath bridges, and over the cobbled tracts on the mountain side. And a terrifying sight it is to see him as he thunders past. He spares no one at all, and takes those we love and those we hate. He stole the woman of my heart from me, and made me the lonely man that I am to-night.’