FIDDLING MICHAEL

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 181, 1 August 1936, Page 4 (Supplement)

FIDDLING MICHAEL

By LEAH R. SMITH

(A story which gained a high place In o.ur Authors' Week Contests.)

HE came in the evening, solitary and old, with a strangely beautiful .fiddle tucked under his arm. His eyes were dim and far awav. whilst his trembling mouth had "a quaintly wistful turn. We bade him come in, my sister and 1, though the friendly old clock upon the mantelshelf pointed to the weary hour of ten. Outside the rain beat cruelly and the wind howled wildly through the trees. Besides, he was old and we m ei e \ oung and dearly loved some company. The last batch of bread was crisp and brown, and a great fire' roared musically in the hearth. Hanging from the rafters were spiced and fragrant liams. beside a wizened cloth rich with fruited pudding and reminiscences of last Christmas. The chairs were worn to just the right degree of comfort and the friendliest one of all was patched with a merry old cretonne. It was all exceedingly welcome and had besides the unmistakable touch of a homestead that is lived in. We motioned the stranger to a seat, but his limbs trembled so that I rose quickly to aid him. With a view to assisting him the better I would have removed his fiddle had he not clung to it like one demented, munlbling all the while broken sentences. The words he> repeated over and over again, so that I, even now, can remember every phrase. Perhaps it was because he mentioned "Mary,"' and that is my sister's name, or perhaps it was some strange fascination that the man exercised over me; but be what it may, it remains: I still remember. "Mary, Mary," he would say, "'tis time ye made a dish o' tea for your poor old father," or it was, "Mary, ye should ha' been long abed. Ah, shure but ye area bonny girl and the image of your mother." §o he rambled on whilst we prepared him what simple fare we possessed. The fire and the food warmed his blood, and soon he smiled slowly at us; indeed, I do not believe until that moment he had taken any real heed of us or our doings. He sat there and the minutes passed pleasantly enough, he warming his hand 9 and saying little, we darning our clothes which suffered much from lionest wear and tear 011 our farm. The men were away in the nearby town buying and selling sheep, and we were left alone; though to be truthful it troubled us little, who were born with the bush around us and the loneliness of it in our hearts. Suddenly the old man spoke: "This is very kind of ye, and'l-would that I could repay you in the same kind,

though that, my dears, is impossible. However I would play you a few airs if ycru wish, tunes I learned 011 my mother's knee far away in the homeland. Perhaps it is that ye have seen the wild old Erin whence I come ?" And we answering in the negative, left him with a strange light in his eyes. "Ah, but ye shall see it and hear it too, the wild valleys and the misty hills, and the greenness, the greenness of it all. Come, listen," lie whispered. Then he drew his bow and music of such kind and of such humour came forth that I will never hear the like again. We saw it and heard it, we went hand in hand with him to his birthplace and caressed his sweet old Irish mother. We saw his daughter Mary laughing elfishlv through a mist and heard in the moonlight the little people singing, saw them steal the magic of Ireland and hide it in a fiddle. To us was revealed the fantasy of those' fairies, and we sensed the unreality of it all. I was born and bred in New Zealand, yet such an influence did the music have that had I been asked at that precise moment of what extraction I was and upon what soil I stood, in my ignorance I would have answered: "Why. shure, but I am Trish, and' the earth about me; what need to inquire ?" But suddenly he paused and for a moment we wondered if it had ever been; we questioned ourselves concerning our sanity and attributed it all to the wind outside. Now, however, it was time to retire and we led the minstrel into the rouseabouts' shed at the rear of the house. He was too weary to thank us, though the srratitude leapt from his eyes and nothing could have pleased us more than that. We slept. In the morning we rose early and prepared the breakfast in silence. Neither of us liked to broach the subject of last evening, and I always attribute this strange reticence to the fact that we both in our inmost hearts held some foolish fancy that or. the previous night we had been dreaming. This continued until suddenly I noticed my sister leave the house and step out briskly in the direction of the whare. So then, I thought, 'twas no dream and forthwith I followed her. We reached the whare and called, but in the strange stillness there came no answer. We knew before we entered that there was no living thing within or without excepting ourselves. Everything was as usual, the bed neatly made and the chair in the selfsame position. Suddenly I stooped and picked nn a small scrap of paper. I turned it over and read the blurred feeble

handwriting, "Erin will embrace you if you ever journey there. 'Erin will embrace you for me. Fiddling Michael."

We looked at one another and smiled sadly, wondered if we should ever see him again, fall speechless before his glorious music.

Three days intervened, and on the fourth there came three strangers riding hastily to our homestead Two came in, but the third remained outside with a quivering broken burden seated upon his saddle.

Something in the droop of its shoulders and the slight figure seemed familiar, and we listened with fear to the consternation and anxiety of the men because we knew who i: was.

"Is he old and white-haired?" said my sister. "Is he ill?" said I. The man nodded.

"Yes, there has been an accident. We found him lying on the outskirts of your property. He says that he has fallen, but cannot remember how. He rambles 011 and on about a fiddle, which he has lost. He converses with some imaginary person whom he calls Mary."

I looked at my sister and we thought the same thoughts.

"Bring him in," said I, "and we shall prepare a bed and some food.

Forthwith we proceeded and before long he lay between the warm blankets. The men left lis with assur ances that they would return in a day and see how the patient fared.

As for us, with old Michael's coming' we felt instinctively an air of unreality pervading all.

As the days passed there was no change in the fiddler's condition. He was neither better nor worse. The menfolk returned and left again, for these were busy times for them; bur still old Michael stayed and we were not averse to his company.

It was seldom now that he spoke any sensible words, though once he told us of his little daughter Mary, and we learned how she had died long years ago in the misty Ireland of his dreams. But often he spoke of his fiddle: day after day he tried to recall where lie had left it. though always his brain grew fuddled and he lapsed into childish talk.

One splendid autumn morning T was seated on our verandah looking steeply up to the wooded hills before me. where a superb mountain stream cut through rock smoother than the finest porcelain. To and from one part of the stream were countless tracks made by sheep as they wended there to drink. Suddenly I noticed several moving towards the stream.

The approaching leader suddenly bounded into the air, followed by the next and then the next. Of this I would have taken no heed had I not seen something flashing brilliantly under where they jumped. It micht only have been a piece of brokea glass, yet I grew determined to investigate.

Forthwith T began to climb, following: the stream from where it flowed into our land. On either side scattered sheep sprang back and gambolled hastily away. Soon I came iinon the small sheep track, and what I discovered there sent me into ecstasies of delight.

Concealed under some bracken there protruded the end of a fiddle, so placed that it stretched across tlio track and hindered the progress of the sheep. Set at the very end of it was a shining- silver plate with the words, "Michael Maloney" inscribed clearly upon it. I wondered how many hours those words had Hashed their message to the sun. Almost reverently I picked it up: it seemed so sacred a thing. It was not difficult to believe that in its lithe strings and slender bow lay the manifold witcheries of the muses. It was a small matter to climb the hill, but the descent was fraught with stumbles and dangers, occupied as my hands were with something so precious that I carried it with the care I would a child. That evening we gave into the hands of white-haired old Michael the living treasure. He clutched it feverishly, then raising the bow. brought crashing forth one long sweeping chord. He seemed satisfied then, and laid his head back on tho pillow. We told him where I had found it and he remembered suddenly that .he had fallen there when trying to drink the water. How he walked the intervening distance between there and where he had been found is still a matter for conjecture. Of that journey he could recall no part. That night we broached the subject that he should stay with us for the remainder of his days, executing any small task for his keep. We explained to him that now that he was growing old such comfort as might be his would be welcome to him. We contrasted the cold roads in winter and the friendly shelter of the fire and did all in our power to entice him to stay. We may have thought, too, that the fire would be sadly lonely of an evening without the pleasantries of his fiddle.

He smiled, but did not answer, and we in our ignorance thought that he had accepted our proposition.

The following morning old Michael did not appear, and we, always anxious for his safety, made swift investigation.

But try as we might there was no sign of him anywhere. Only in tho evening did we find tucked in the old mahogany chair a small scrap of paper. It reminded us of another day as we read:

"Seek rot old Michael, for lie lias gone! He loves the open valleys, tlie mist and the strange wild music 9f his fiddle. In them does he find a breath of Ireland, and sometimes of a dawn he finds his little daughter. She comes hand in hand with the morning, his bonny Irish colleen, and he has missed her as only old Michael could. He bids you a long sad farewell, for ever, for ever and a day."

We did not seek him; indeed, wo could not with the words still ringing in our hearts; but often of an evening we watch the moon come over the hill and we wonder. We wonder if still he lives or if his soul haq fled to the great beyond; but we feel instinctively that wherever he is there will be music, great sweeping arpeggios, deliriously soft murmurings, and everywhere hi 3 own Ireland.