Foofer, the Pooka &; St. Patrick

Foofer, The Pooka &; St. Patrick
by D. A. O'Toole (aka Debby Hunt)

Definition of a Pooka: An Irish fairy that comes out after nightfall,
and can assume many different forms.

Foofer O'Toole knew about St. Patrick's Day. It is the day that the
Irish people celebrated their heritage, and they do silly things like
drink green beer, march in parades, and pinch other people who aren't
wearing green. Foofer also recalled hearing that St. Patrick drove all
of the snakes out of Ireland. Foofer knew these things because his
Mummy is Irish, and while she does not drink green beer, Foofer had
seen one of her friends do this in the past. But Foofer was not
concerned with any of those things - he was excited about the month of
March for two reasons: first, it is his birthday month (March 31st);
and second, March 17th is St. Patrick's Day and that means corned beef.
And lots of it.
And not just any corned beef. Foofer craved his Gamma's corned beef;
his mouth watered for it all year long. For as good as corned beef was,
St. Patrick's Day seemed to be the only day Gamma fixed this culinary
marvel. Corned beef was just that - a savory beef in a brine with lots
of pepper, and it was normally boiled and slow-cooked in a crock-pot
all day. The meat was is tender, so juicy and divine - well, as you may
have read earlier, Foofer's mouth watered at just the mere thought of
it!
Besides his own birthday (and Christmas), Foofer did not keep track of
dates. He knew his Mummy's birthday was in the summertime, but he would
be hard put to tell you when exactly. This was just Foofer's way.
Who is Foofer, you may ask? If you have read any of his previous
e-books, you would know that Foofer is a wonderful pooch of a
Husky/Retriever mix. Foofer can also understand human English (or most
of it); and he is quite aware of the "human condition," as he calls it.
Whether he concerns himself over this condition is entirely dependent
on whether he feels like it or not at the time!
But before we get too far, let's get back to St. Patrick's Day. Foofer
knew this was an Irish celebration, but to him it was corned beef time.
As he approached his fifth birthday, powers higher than Foofer (and
yes, this is possible), decided it was time Foofer learned what St.
Patrick was all about, and what this Irish saint really means to the
Irish. Of course, no story of St. Patrick would be complete without a
bit of Irish fairy lore thrown in. As you will see in this story.
Foofer's little adventure into the realm of Irish history and myth was
just about to begin, and what a ride it was going to be!
St. Patrick's Eve:
Foofer knew it was getting close to St. Patrick's Day when he saw
Gamma preparing the "brisket" (as it is called), and readying the crock
pot. ("Gamma" is Foofer's human grandmother, and his Mummy's Mum).
Corned beef brisket came in a heavy, see-through plastic bag, swimming
in spices and brine. (Foofer knew this because he watched as Gamma took
it out of her shopping satchel). It seemed like it had been eons since
the last corned beef, so Foofer felt the stir of excitement and
outright gluttony take over his thinking in anticipation.
In the late afternoon of St. Patrick's Eve, Foofer was in the kitchen
with his Mummy and Gamma. He watched from under the table as Gamma took
the corned beef out of the bag and placed it in the crock pot. Mummy
watched Foofer watching Gamma, and she said:
"Do you remember last year, Foofer? Remember the corned beef
then?"
Foofer gave a short bark, one eye on his Mummy and the other on Gamma
and the corned beef.
Mummy smiled. "It was good, wasn't it? As I recall, you ate quite a
bit! I've always wondered if you really understood the meaning of St.
Patrick's Day."
Foofer's ears perked up.
"Do you want to learn?"Mummy asked.
Foofer sighed, and lay his head down on his paws. He really didn't
want to learn about St. Patrick - he was only interested in the corned
beef at the moment. But if Mummy insisted, he would listen.
Mummy laughed. "I can see you are not very enthused! Well, maybe some
other time."
Foofer was so relieved that he was off the hook that he jumped up,
skipping over to his Mummy. He stretched up gently and lay his paws on
Mummy's shoulders (she is not very tall, and Foofer can meet her
eye-to-eye). Foofer licked his Mummy on the face to show his happiness
at escaping yet another "lesson," and Mummy laughed even harder. Then
she kissed him back.
"You're such a good boy," she whispered into his ear. "But you have a
runny nose."
Foofer barked and wagged his tail, looking into his Mummy's
eyes.
"The things I let you get away with," she muttered. "All right - no
lesson, and no nose-wiping. But tonight we have to go to bed early,
baby-cake."
("Baby-Cake" is one of the many nickname endearments Mummy had for
Foofer).
St. Patrick's Day is just around the corner!
The Irish Pooka:
Foofer slept soundly on the night of St. Patrick's Eve; it was unusual
because he had gone to bed thinking about the corned beef, and his head
was full of the tasty treats that awaited him the next day. But
normally, Foofer was a very light sleeper.
Foofer and his Mummy shared a room; they normally slept in the same
bed, although sometimes Foofer would creep down to the floor so he
could stretch out. (Mummy only has a twin bed, and this seems a bit
small to Foofer at times. When he wants to stretch out, he would hop
down to the floor and sleep alongside the bed - so he could still keep
his eyes on his Mummy).
On this particular night, Foofer had started out sleeping on the bed,
but he had ended up on the floor sometime in the night. He lay on a
nice, soft rug next to the bed. He stretched out sideways, and as he
dozed he could feel the fuzzy lint on the rug tickling his nose. This
was the last thing he remembered as he fell into a deep, untroubled
sleep (although visions of leprechauns made out of corned beef kept
dancing in his head).
Foofer wasn't sure if he was dreaming or awake until he found himself
staring into the face of one of the ugliest creatures he had ever laid
eyes on. This in itself was amazing, but more amazing still was that
the creature - whoever and whatever it was - had managed to sneak up on
Foofer and not wake him. The reason Foofer thought he might be dreaming
was that there was a hazy mist surrounding this creature, almost as if
it were in a fog. Foofer lay still as his eyes drank in the sight of
this inhuman being. There was no other way to describe the creature but
as horrific.

Foofer looked with eyes wide open, and he could barely contain the
growl that was building in his throat. The creature had horns sprouting
out of the sides of his temples, and his ears protruded out from his
face. His eyes were mere slits, and there was a golden ring through his
nose. The apparition's lips were long and thin, and bottom fangs shot
up to almost reach the tip of his flattened nose. Fine wisps of
light-red hair - that reminded Foofer of hay - fell over the creature's
head and around his neck. He was not very tall - maybe about three feet
- and he was wearing a green tunic and a knotted gold thread around his
neck.
And he kept staring.
Finally, Foofer growled and brought himself up to a sitting position.
He seemed to tower over the creature, and he saw the hideous twist of
the being's mouth as he started in fear. "Who are you and want to do
you want?" Foofer growled - as fierce as he could - although he had
really hoped since he sat up he would realize he was having a
nightmare. But he wasn't!
"Pooka," the creature rasped, stepping a bit closer and squinting his
eyes again. "I'm the pooka who's come to tell you about St. Patrick,
and other legends in Irish history."
(A note to those who don't know what a "pooka" is. A pooka is
classified as one of many Irish fairies, and is considered one of the
most feared creatures in Ireland. This may be because the pooka is
always out after nightfall, creating mischief and harm. It can also
assume a variety of scary forms, a few of which are a dark horse or a
small goblin. It appears to roam large areas of the countryside at
night, often tearing down fences, scattering terrified livestock and
trampling crops. The American version of this creature would be
equivalent to a GREMLIN. However, for the purpose of this story, the
pooka will appear as a rather vindictive apparition with a message for
Foofer).
Foofer shook his head slightly. What kind of gibberish was this
creature babbling about?
As if reading his thoughts, the Pooka said: "I'm not speaking
gibberish!"
Foofer glowered at the Pooka, trying to intimidate him, but this
didn't seem to work. The Pooka stood his ground, and even placed his
gnarled and hairy hands on his hips - or what there was of them. Then
he continued, his voice still raspy and rough: "I've been told you
don't know about why St. Patrick's Day is celebrated, and I was also
told you need a lesson in other Irish legends. Now, it's not for me to
say, but I think you need more than that. You're a mite too scrappy, if
you know what I mean. You need more than a lesson or two - you need a
switch taken to your backside for trying to scare me on purpose."
Foofer ignored the Pooka's rude words, and he stepped closer. "Who
told you I needed lessons? Mummy?"
"Mummy, Mummy," the Pooka mocked Foofer. "So you have a Mummy, big
deal. Pooka's don't need Mummy's. And, no, young snapper, it wasn't
your Mummy. Although she might have wished it and her wish was
granted." The Pooka watched Foofer closely, his eyes narrowing. "Don't
you trust me?"
Foofer ignored the ghastly Pooka again, and he turned his head
slightly to look at his Mummy lying in the bed. She was sound asleep,
curled into a corner of her twin bed. As long as she seemed safe and
sound, Foofer decided it was okay to keep talking to the Pooka.
"I don't trust you," Foofer finally replied, the growl coming in his
throat again. "You're an awful little monster. Why should I trust you?
What could you even teach me that I'd want to know?"
The Pooka reached up and drummed his scarred fingertips on his chin.
"Well, young snapper, I suppose you'll just have to find that out,
won't you?"
Foofer glared at the Pooka. "How do I know this isn't just a
dream?"
"If you come with me you'll find out if you're dreaming or not," the
Pooka answered him slyly, a mischevious glint lighting his eyes. "I
promise, I won't hurt you."
"Where would we go?" Foofer asked, not believing he had actually asked
this loathsome creature the question. "Why do we have to leave here for
you to tell me about St. Patrick, and other Irish legends?"
"I also have to show you, as well as tell you," the Pooka said
impatiently, as if Foofer should have known this.
"Show me what?" Foofer persisted.
"The misty road," the Pooka said, this time his tone changing to a
soft mutter. "I won't hurt you - St. Patrick wouldn't hear of
it."
Although Foofer didn't know that much about St. Patrick, he felt
somehow soothed that he was being guarded over by the saint - or so the
Pooka said. Foofer decided to do as the Pooka said - but only as long
as it seemed safe, and only as long as his Mummy was left in
peace.
"I have to kiss Mummy goodbye," Foofer said, almost to himself.
"You'll have to wait."
"Mummy, Mummy," the Pooka said, irritated. Sighing, he blurted out,
"Oh, go ahead, but make it quick!" Then the Pooka tuned his head away
slightly, disgusted at the possibility of seeing Foofer kiss his
Mummy.
Foofer jumped up on the bed gently, and he heard his Mummy moan a
little. He bent his head down and sniffed at her mouth, and she
mumbled: "Is that you, Foofer-honey?"
Foofer licked his Mummy on the face.
"Love you, too," Mummy sighed, and she snuggled deeper into her
bed.
Satisfied that his Mummy was safe, Foofer jumped back down on the
floor and saw the Pooka waiting by the bedroom doorway. The mist was
back, and it seemed to be swirling around the creature. "Are you quite
finished with the kissy-face stuff?" the Pooka asked, his tone
indignant. "I don't have time for so much drivel."
"I'm ready," Foofer said, angry at the hideous Pooka. He stepped
closer. "Make this quick. I have to be back by the morning, or Mummy
will worry."
"Mummy, Mummy," the Pooka muttered under his breath. "Wouldn't want to
make Mummy worry now, would we? All right, if you want to get back by
morning, follow me. And be snappy about it!" The Pooka turned away and
disappeared into the hallway, and into the mist. Foofer sniffed the
air. He could smell nothing unusual or dangerous, so he decided it was
okay to follow the Pooka.
As he stepped into the mist, Foofer took one last look behind him. He
saw his Mummy, bathed in the frame of the fog, and laying peacefully
and serene in her bed.
St. Patrick:
Foofer and the Pooka were walking along in the mist, and from what
Foofer could tell, they were going absolutely nowhere. They kept
walking for what seemed like an eternity, so finally Foofer
spoke:
"What were you going to tell me about St. Patrick?" he asked.
"All in good time, young snapper," the Pooka replied, breathing heavy
as he walked slightly ahead. "We're coming to the shrine as we
speak."
And indeed there was a shine - shrouded a bit by the mist, but a
shrine nonetheless. Foofer looked hard in the fog, but he could make
out an image of what looked like a Catholic Cardinal, and he stared at
the image in awe for a moment.
Now, Foofer wasn't the religious sort, but the very image seemed
saintly and holy. He turned to find the Pooka staring at him, a light
gleam in his eyes.
"Is this St. Patrick?" Foofer asked.
"Indeed," the Pooka said crisply. "This is him. And there was more to
this saint than swilling green beer and walking in a parade - although
I admit the green beer part sounds mighty good about now."
"You brought me here to tell me about St. Patrick," Foofer replied,
becoming irritated. "So tell me about him!"
The Pooka glared at Foofer, but he started to talk anyway. "Saint
Patrick was the patron saint of Ireland," he said, his voice in a
scratchy monotone. "But he was not born in Ireland. In fact, old St.
Paddy was born in Britain, in a place near the Firth of Clyde, in 385
AD. When he was sixteen years old, Patrick was abducted by pirates
during a raid, and he was sold into slavery in Ireland. He escaped
after six years, and then he returned home to Britain. Once there, he
was driven to convert the Irish to Christianity because of his slavery
here."
"You mean there," Foofer interuppted. "We're not in Ireland now, so
you meant 'there'."
The Pooka snorted. "Where do you think this shrine is, anyway? We're
here."
Foofer was stunned, and momentarily speechless.
"May I continue?" the Pooka asked, highly offended that Foofer had
stopped the flow of his story. When Foofer nodded yes, the Pooka
started talking again. But one eye remained fixed on Foofer watchfully.
"Patrick studied in a monastery in France, and finally in 431 AD. Pope
Celestine sent Patrick back to Ireland as a priest. He began his work
in the northern and western parts of Ireland, where Christianity was
unheard of. He gained the friendship and trust of many tribal Irish
chieftans, and he soon had many converts. It is said that Saint Patrick
founded more than 300 churches and baptized more than 125,000 people
during his time."
Foofer looked at the Pooka doubtfully. "How would you know
that?"
"Why do you disbelieve?" the Pooka prodded, now more than a little
annoyed.
Foofer laughed shortly, but it sounded more like a high-pitched keen.
"You have to admit, you don't seem to be a typical teacher."
"Who says I'm a teacher?" the Pooka asked, angry now. Then he shook
his head, and started walking away down another misty path. "I never
said I was a teacher. I told you I was sent to give you a lesson in
Irish history. Seems to me, someone found you lacking."
Foofer followed the Pooka through the mist, anxious not to lose sight
of him. If he were to lose him, how would he ever find his way out of
the fog and back to Mummy? Again, the Pooka seemed to read Foofer's
mind.
"You'd find your way," the Pooka said, now way ahead of him on the
path, his voice faint and mocking. "Back to your precious Mummy. Once I
disappear, you will be back home safe and sound."
"So we're done?" Foofer asked hopefully. "I can go home now?"
"Not by a long shot, young snapper," the Pooka said, and this time his
voice was closer. Foofer kept walking and then found himself
face-to-face with the miserable little creature again.
"We have a ways to go," the Pooka groused.
"What about the snakes?" Foofer asked him as they kept walking along
the foggy path.
"It is said Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland," the Pooka
said. "He stood upon a hill with his wooden staff, and bade all the
snakes to disappear into the ocean. One old serpent resisted this
saintly Paddy, and he was invited into a box by St. Patrick. The box
was too small, and a fight broke out between the snake and Patrick.
Finally, the serpent went into the box to prove he was right, and
Patrick shut the box lid and cast it onto the sea. There has been nary
a snake in Ireland since."
"When did St. Patrick die?" Foofer wanted to know.
"In 461 AD.," the Pooka replied, sounding tired. "But not before he
started the idea of the Holy Trinity by using the shamrock. You do know
your verse, don't you? The shamrock represented the Father, the Son and
the Holy Spirit. The shamrock is the national symbol of Ireland because
of this." The Pooka stopped, and scratched his nose. "Patrick also
brought in priests from England and France to Ireland, and he was held
prisoner by some Druids for awhile. Patrick died in Glastonbury, and he
was buried there. The Chapel of Saint Patrick still exists there as we
speak. After he died, about 500 Irish monasteries became centers of
learning. Patrick introduced the Roman alphabet and Latin literature to
Ireland as well. So, you can see, there is more to St. Patrick's Day
than your Gamma's corned beef."
Foofer listened carefully, realizing the Pooka was right - but just
about this one thing!
"Are you ready to move on to the next lesson?" the Pooka asked,
looking Foofer up and down with disdain. "Or are you going to stand
there all night long? If you do, you'll not get to see your Mummy. Poor
Mummy, you might worry her."
"I'm ready," Foofer said quickly.
"Of course you are," the Pooka said dryly. Then he proceeded to blow
his nose in an old rag he had pulled from his shirt pocket. The blowing
noise was overly loud and Foofer cringed. It seemed to echo through all
of the mist. Then Foofer watched in disgust as the Pooka shoved the old
rag back in his shirt pocket, but only after wiping his nose again on
the back of his hand.
The Pooka smirked, noticing Foofer's expression. "Let's get a move on,
young snapper," he said gleefully. "We have a lot more to cover before
the night is over."
Foofer followed the Pooka down the misty path, and he wondered when
this nightmare-dream would ever end.
Leprechauns:
Foofer kept following the Pooka, and it was only a short while later
that they came to a stop in front of a pot on the ground. But not any
old pot - this was a pot of black color, and the base was circled with
carefully placed gold coins. The Pooka glanced over at Foofer to see
his reaction.

Foofer glanced back at him. "What's this?"
The Pooka sighed, obviously disgruntled yet again by Foofer's lack of
Irish knowledge. "This is the pot of gold," the Pooka stated. "It
belongs to the Leprechaun. Do you mean to tell me you don't know what a
leprechaun is?"
Foofer was abashed. "Well, now that you mention it!"
The Pooka shook his head and took a step closer to the pot of gold. He
reached out his hand and tried touching the pot, but suddenly there was
a loud cackle of laughter in the mist, and the Pooka drew away his
hand. "That was the leprechaun," the Pooka said. "As I said, this pot
of gold belongs to him. It is indeed a rarity that we are seeing it,
because the leprechaun is known to never let a soul to see his precious
gold. But you can be sure we'll not be touching it."
"Why won't he let anyone touch it?" Foofer asked. He looked around
him, and noticed the foggy mist had become thicker. But the pot of gold
seemed to glow through the haze.

"Leprechauns are known as the little people," the Pooka replied,
ignoring Foofer's pointed question for the moment. "They are known to
be aloof and unfriendly, but they have several common traits. The
Leprechaun is small - almost dwarf-like - and only grows to be about
two feet tall. And yes, before you ask, I'm not much taller than one of
them. But the Leprechaun is not a gnome or a dwarf (these creatures
have have large heads and stubby bodies), because they are perfectly
formed in every other way. The Leprechaun wears a hat, and is otherwise
dressed like a shoemaker. Hi shoes are black with big brass buckles on
them, and he sometimes smokes a pipe." The Pooka took a deep breath and
continued: "They live near springs, and in rocks and caves. Sometimes
you can hear the sound of the shoemaker hammer, but if you get too
close he is likely to disappear. If you are persistent, you might be
able to get him to lead you to his pot of gold, but no one has ever
been able to do this yet."
"Why?" Foofer wanted to know.
"Leprechauns are very mischevious and crafty," the Pooka replied.
"They are rarely caught by anyone. However, if you are lucky enough and
happen to catch one, he is supposed to be honest and tell you where his
money is. He can be generous - up to a point - but you have to watch
him constantly or he will disappear. Try as you might, the Leprechaun
will do everything in his power to distract you into looking away, and
once you do, he will be gone in a flash. And then you can kiss goodbye
any hopes of finding his treasure."
"So, the pot of gold is his treasure, and he doesn't want anyone else
to have it," Foofer stated, answering his own question from
before.
"Exactly," the Pooka said, sounding pleased for the first time that
Foofer had drawn his own conclusion about what he was hearing. "You're
getting better at this, young snapper."
"Will we get to see this Leprechaun?"
"I doubt it," the Pooka said. "But he's watching us now as we speak.
We're too close to his gold. We have to keep moving, or the night will
slip away from us and your precious Mummy will be in distress."
"Okay," Foofer agreed. "I'm ready."
The Pooka began continuing down the misty path, and Foofer followed
him. But he couldn't resist one last look back at the pot of gold. As
he looked back, Foofer saw a tiny man dressed like a shoemaker standing
in front of the pot of gold. He was smoking a pipe, and waving. Foofer
smiled to himself. He got to see the Leprechaun after all, but he faded
into the fog as he and the Pooka rounded another corner in the
mysterious path.
The Dullahan:
Foofer and the Pooka walked again for a short spell, and the thick fog
remained. Only it seemed darker now, and Foofer had to watch carefully
where he trod - even with his perfect eyesight.
"Tell me something," the Pooka said as they walked. "Why is is you
have two different colored eyes? One is blue, and one is brown. Can you
see well out of both? Were you born like that?"
"I was born like this, yes," Foofer answered him honestly. "I can see
out of both eyes very well, thank you."
"That is well for you," the Pooka responded. "Because you will not
believe those odd but perfect eyes once you see what's up ahead."
Suddenly, the mist became thicker again. It was almost opaque in
texture - shiny blackness - and Foofer heard a horse whiny. If you
didn't know, Foofer loved horses, but he had only ever seen them from
the car as his Mummy had been driving. Excited - thinking that he was
about to see a horse close-up for the first time - Foofer said: "Is
that a real horse?"
"Unlike you have ever seen, or ever will again," the Pooka intoned
gravely.
Foofer was puzzled by the Pooka's remark, but in the next instant he
fully understood. In a flash, a black horse sped by through the mist -
almost so quickly Foofer thought he might have imagined it. But Foofer
could smell the horse and the earth beneath his feet as he swept by,
and he could hear the horse snorting. But what was atop the horse
stopped Foofer in his tracks, and left him staring in awe.
This particular horse had a headless rider, and the rider was holding
it's own head aloft as it raced through the misty night. The eyes
seemed to glow and dart about from the lofty head, and acted as a
headlight of sorts for the horse. The expression on the head-face was
like an idiotic grin, as if the head were singularly pleased with the
breathtaking affect it was having. A fluorescent glow surrounded the
head itself. Foofer was horrified. As quickly as the horse and rider
had rushed by Foofer and the Pooka, it was gone. In the distance,
Foofer could still hear the thunder of the hooves and the earth made a
slight quivering movement. Foofer was speechless.
The Pooka snickered. "I see you have no smart remark to offer on the
passing of that one."
Foofer found his voice. "What in the world was that?"
"A Dullahan," the Pooka replied, almost sounding gleeful at Foofer's
state of shock. "Also known as a dullaghan. He was quite spectacular,
was he not?"
Foofer nodded. "I guess that's a right word for it. What does the
Dullahan do?"
"Let's keep walking and I'll tell you," the Pooka said. "We must keep
the pace and get to our next lesson." As Foofer started following him,
the Pooka talked: "The Dullahan is a black-robed horseman - as you saw
- and he usually only appears at midnight during Irish festivals.
Dullahan's are headless riders, although they always carry their heads
with them. Wherever the Dullahan stops, a mortal person will
die."
Foofer had regained some of his spirit, and he quipped: "That leaves
you out then, doesn't it?"
The Pooka glared at Foofer. "I'll ignore that remark, young snapper,"
he said in a cold tone. "Can I finish my story, or are you bound and
determined to keep flapping your gums?"
"I'll listen," Foofer said, but he was laughing to himself.
"At any rate," the Pooka continued, talking louder than he had before.
"A Dullahan has supernatural sight. That head you saw does more than
just shine some light on the road - it can see for vast distances even
in the dark. If a mortal is watching the horseman pass by, he might
either have blood thrown in his face or be struck blind in one eye. The
Dullahan has a limited power of speech, but when he does speak it
strikes fear into all who can hear."
"Why?" Foofer asked.
"The Dullahan normally stops in front of the house of a person about
to die," the Pooka said slyly. "From there, he shouts out the name of
the person who is to die. Or sometimes he stops on the very spot where
the person will die." The Pooka paused briefly, and then he said: "I
know I haven't told you about Banshee's yet, but this comparison will
come back to you later. Whereas a Banshee [an Irish ghost] pursues one
family in search of one who will die, the Dullahan does not - his
nightly call is to summon the soul of a dying person. The Dullahan does
not give death warnings like the Banshee. This is why there is no
defense against the Dullahan - he is death's herald. But there is one
thing that will frighten the Dullahan away, and you will do well to
remember this."
Foofer's ears perked up, but he was silent. And listening.
"The Dullahan fears gold," the Pooka announced. "He has an irrational
dread of this metal, even in the smallest of amounts."
As Foofer and the Pooka continued to walk through the cold mist - and
it was cold now - Foofer decided then and there that he did not want to
ever meet up with the Dullahan again. This was one lesson he felt he
could have done without!
Changelings and the Grogoch:
Foofer was heartily tired of the cold mist. It seemed as if he and the
Pooka had been walking for days (although it had actually only been a
few hours). The Pooka - once again - seemed to read his mind. "We'll be
walking for a bit more," the Pooka said. "In the meantime, I can tell
you about a few more Irish legends."
"Not like the Dullahan, I hope," Foofer piped up, tickled with himself
that he had remembered the name of the frightening spectacle on a horse
earlier.
"Nothing like that," the Pooka said, sounding a trifle annoyed again.
"The two creatures from lore I'm going to mention are the Changelings
and the Grogoch. Neither are very pretty to look at, mind you, but they
have a special place in Irish history - or rather, Irish
folklore."
"What's a changeling?" Foofer asked.
"Changelings are born stunted or deformed, and their mother's are
usually fairy's," the Pooka continued, picking up speed as he hurried
along the foggy path once more. Foofer easily kept up with him.
"Fairy's are quite keen on beauty and the like, so the changelings
repel them - even though they are only children at first. Fairy women
will try and swap their changeling children for healthy babies they
steal from the mortal world. Changelings are known to be extremely
wrinkled - like old men - and they are very ill-tempered. They can also
possess a household and work evil into it. If a mortal child is not
baptized, it is especially at risk for being swapped for
changelings."
"The poor creatures," Foofer said with sympathy.
"Not so poor," the Pooka said sharply. "Changelings can be very evil.
Sometimes they are actual fairy children, but other times they are
senile fairies disguised as children. Whatever the case, changelings
are puckered up with dark eyes and lame backs. They have a full set of
teeth, and hands that are curved and crooked. Changelings drain all
good luck from any household it stays in, and it is never happy unless
some sort of ill fortune befalls the household. It can sometimes howl
through the night, and this sound - combined with the frequency of it -
tests the strength of human endurance."
Foofer shuddered. "That sounds creepy."
The Pooka chuckled. "Yes, it does. Changelings are very horrible
creatures - and before you say it, they are even more horrible than
myself!"
Foofer blushed slightly under his Husky fur - and this was quite a
feat, and in the cold mist no less!
"Now I'll tell you about the Grogoch," the Pooka said, taking a right
turn in the path. Foofer sighed and followed him once more.
"The Grogoch?" Foofer questioned.
"Yes, the Grogoch," the Pooka responded, with just a bit of sarcasm in
his voice. "The Grogoch were once half-human and half-fairy , and they
came from Kintyre in Scotland, but they settled in Ireland. They look
like small, elderly men, but their bodies are covered in coarse red
hair, and they wear no clothes. They also attract twigs and dirt with
their hair, and this is plastered on them as well. The Grogoch's are
not the cleanest of creatures - in fact, they smell terrible - and
there are no females in the Grogoch world.
"The Grogoch is ignorant and oblivious to cold and heat, and he
prefers to live in a cave or a house made from stone. He can also
become invisible when he chooses, and he only allows those he trusts to
see him. He's very sociable, as odd as that may sound, and he becomes
attached to one person at a time. He likes to help those he is fond of
to plant their crops and do domestic chores. The only payment he asks
for is a jug of fresh cream. However, the Grogoch will look for odd
jobs to do, and he most often annoys people when he gets underfoot. He
dislikes priests, the Grogoch does, and he will not enter a house where
one is residing or visiting. If you want to get rid of a Grogoch, call
a priest!"
Foofer laughed. "I liked that lesson the best!"
The Pooka smiled grimly. "It's well you liked that story. For the next
one is the last, and perhaps the most frightening."
"Nothing could be worse than the Dullahan," Foofer insisted.
"We shall see," the Pooka said slowly. "We shall see."
The Banshee:
Foofer and the Pooka had walked just a little farther when there was a
light shining at the end of the path. Faint as the light was, it seemed
to penetrate the dense mist and act as a beacon - beckoning the Pooka
and Foofer forward.
"What is going on?" Foofer asked nervously.
"It's the Banshee," the Pooka whispered, sounding a bit nervous
himself. "She's decided to show herself to us."
"What the heck is a Banshee?" Foofer whispered back. At that moment,
for all that he mistrusted and loathed the Pooka, he felt closer to him
than ever before. He knew the Pooka was malicious and contrary, but
Foofer felt a kinship with him for an instant because he seemed as
scared as Foofer was.
"A Banshee is an Irish she-ghost," the Pooka spoke softly, but keeping
his slit-eyes on the path up ahead as it grew brighter. "Also known as
the bean-sidhe - woman of the fairy. She terrifies most of all, because
she is known as the Messenger of Death. She will come to forewarn
family members that someone that is their kin is about to die. Her
wailing call for the dead is horrible and soul-wrenching to hear. The
Banshee appears as a young woman; or a stately old lady, or a wrinkled
old hag. She normally wears a gray, hooded cloak, or the grave robe of
the dead. Most often, she appears as a washer woman, and she can be
seen washing the bloodstained clothes of the one who is about to die.
As a washer woman, she is called bean-nighe."
Foofer was still nervous about the approaching light. "Is that her
coming in the light?"
The Pooka shrugged. "I'm not sure. But in all likelihood it is."
The light in the mist came closer and closer, and Foofer found himself
stepping closer to the Pooka - he told himself this was to shield the
Pooka, but he knew better. Foofer was scared of this light approaching
- not because it was scarier than the Dullahan, but because it was of
the unknown.
"Before I forget," Foofer spoke up, "I'd like to let you know these
have been very interesting lessons you have given me, Pooka. But I
don't see how this one is going to benefit me at all - nor the one
about the Dullahan."
"Steady on, young snapper," the Pooka said softly in Foofer's ear.
"The Banshee is not after you, trust me. She does not come after dogs -
or pookas, for that matter! Just stay still, and maybe she will pass us
by."
"So you're sure it's a Banshee coming?"
"As sure as I can be!" the Pooka said sharply.
The lightened image was swirling to them in the foggy mist, and as it
came closer, Foofer saw that it was indeed a woman, and she as dressed
in a light-gray hooded cloak (just like the Pooka had told him about).
She seemed to be floating in the air toward them, almost rising above
the mist itself. As she came over them, Foofer thought he could see her
looking down at him. And as she passed over them completely, Foofer
could hear the low moaning and wailing clearly - the Banshee was
keening, calling for the dead.
"Show-off," the Pooka muttered.
"What did you say?" Foofer asked.
"Nothing," the Pooka said quickly. "We had better keep moving now. I
have to get you home to Mummy." The Pooka said the last word - Mummy -
in a slightly mocking tone. This angered Foofer a bit, so he turned
toward the Pooka to give him a piece of his mind. But as he did, a
great wind blew along the path. It cleared out the cold mist Foofer was
so tired of, and at the same time it blew twigs and rocks and leaves
into the air. The wind became fierce, and Foofer felt it rising the
tips of his ears into the air.
"Time to go home, young snapper," the Pooka shouted above the windy
din. "You have been in this world over-long. The fairies have decided
you need to go home, so it is time. Hurry now, and follow me."
The Pooka took off running - and this was quite a sight to see, a
stubby little Pooka running along a dirt path - but Foofer followed
him. With his long legs and light speed, Foofer overtook the Pooka in
no time and was soon way past him. Foofer was running so fast, he
didn't notice the sun rising and the air clearing. But he could hear
the Pooka at his heels, and this spurred Foofer on even faster.
He was going home, and he was going to see his Mummy.
St. Patrick's Day:
When Foofer woke up, his Mummy was smiling down on him. Foofer
stretched and licked her hand. Then his eyes flew wide open. He looked
around carefully and realized he was back at home, and he was in
Mummy's bed.
"You sure had a restless night, Honey-Pie," Mummy was saying. "Did you
have bad dreams? You were moving your feet like you were running in
your sleep."
"I was running, Mummy," Foofer thought.
Mummy kissed Foofer on top of the head, and she said: "Time to get up,
Baby-Cake. You need to go outside for a bit. Besides, it's St.
Patrick's Day, and Gamma has started the corned beef."
The corned beef!
Foofer stood up and jumped down to the floor, but then he stopped. He
noticed little foot-prints on the floor, although they were so small he
didn't think his Mummy would notice them. He sniffed them, and the
prints smelled like the Pooka. Then Foofer noticed the little twigs
stuck in the hair on his own legs, with a few leaves in between.
Had it all been a dream? Had Foofer really been in the other world of
Irish myth and history? But where was the Pooka, and how could all of
this have happened in one short night?
Foofer shook his head. Whether he had dreamed it or not, he was home.
And whether what the Pooka had told him about Irish history and myth
was true, Foofer guessed he would find out in good time.
But he didn't have long to wait.

About a half-hour later, Foofer was out in the back yard at his
Gamma's house. He could smell the corned beef in the air, and he knew
it wouldn't be long before he would be eating like a King. An Irish
King. Plus, Foofer had not had the heart to tell his Mummy he really
didn't need to go outside - even for a bit - because he had been out
all night!
Foofer sniffed around his favorite places in the yard, and he wondered
what had happened to the Pooka. He had told Foofer many things, and for
that Foofer was grateful. He knew now why St. Patrick was really
celebrated, even if a lot of people didn't seem to remember the real
reasons. Saint Patrick had been a saint, and he had devoted his life to
teaching the word of God to the Irish people.
Foofer had also enjoyed learning about the other characters in Irish
legend (except for the Dullahan and the Banshee, of course). And he had
the Pooka to thank.
Odd to be thanking a Pooka, and a grumpy one at that.
"But I guess I'll never get to thank the Pooka," Foofer said to
himself as he wandered under the big pine tree in the yard. "I never
got to see him again. I was running too fast." Foofer was surprised
that he also felt a little sad.
"Foofer, time to come inside," Mummy was calling from the back
porch.
Foofer raised his head and wagged his tail. Time for the corned
beef!
"Mummy, Mummy," a mocking voice said next to him. "Either you're
thinking about Mummy, or all the corned beef you can stuff into your
mouth!"
Foofer turned around and barked when he saw the Pooka standing
underneath the pine tree - casual as you please, leaning against the
tree trunk and picking his teeth was a toothpick.
The Pooka winced. "Please don't bark, young snapper," the Pooka
warned. "Teaching you lessons last night was rough on me, and I have a
headache."
Foofer rushed over to the Pooka. "I was just thinking that I never got
to thank you," he said breathlessly.
"I know," the Pooka grunted. "Except for the Dullahan and the
Banshee."
"Right!"
"Foofer!" Mummy was calling louder again.
The Pooka looked disgusted. "You'd better go to your're precious
Mummy, before she comes down here and sees me."
Foofer impulsively licked the Pooka on the face. "If you had a Mummy
like mine, you'd think she was precious, too. Thanks again, Pooka!" The
Foofer darted off, up the hill to his Mummy on the porch.
"You're welcome, young snapper," the Pooka said grumpily to himself as
he started to walk off. "You have your Mummy to thank as well. I
wouldn't have taught you anything otherwise!" Then the Pooka limped
off, and vanished behind some hedges.
Foofer met his Mummy on the porch, and she hugged him tightly. Foofer
looked over her shoulder and saw the Pooka disappear into the
hedges.
"Bye Pooka," Foofer whispered. "And Happy St. Patrick's Day!"

by Debby O'Toole-Hunt
February 6, 2002
Text composed in Pro PC Suite/document &; HTML format
e-book created with Exebook Self-Publisher v. 2.0
Irish grapics courtesy of Ireland's Eye web site.

To read more titles by D. A. O'Toole (Debby Hunt),
please visit the following web site:
e-Books by Debby Hunt
http://pages.zdnet.com/shenanchie/ebooksbydebbyhunt/
Or visit Foofer's web site:
Foofer's Den
http://pages.zdnet.com/shenanchie/foofersden/