The Storyteller.

The Storyteller.

There’s turf on the fire

There’s tea in the pot

Sunday’s here again

It’s been a good week

And now is the time

To hear the tale’s again

So pull up a chair and sit awhile

The clock is striking three

Tune in to WRFM

And join the Seanachái.

 

Lord Franklin.

This is another story with a song . It is taken from Arcanadh's album Soundings. It tells the story of the ill-fated Lord Franklin.

Lord Franklin.

Lord Franklin was a famous nineteenth century British sea captain and explorer.  His final expedition, undertaken in his sixties, aimed to find the (at the time) mythical Northwest sea Passage.  The expedition set off for the artic in 1846 .  At the time, it was quite usual for such expeditions to be out of contact for more than a year, so at first nobody worried too much about Franklin.  Then, as the months wore on, it became clear that the expedition had met with some mishap. 

The fate of Franklin was a public mystery ("The fate of Franklin, no man may know"). The icebound ships were abandoned and the entire crew perished from starvation, hypothermia, tuberculosis, lead poisoning and scurvy. Franklin's wife ultimately commissioned a second expedition to search for her husband, even though by the time it left, it was all but certain that Franklin himself had perished. 

It is this story that the song tells, apparently from the point of view of Lady Franklin.  Indeed, according to some sources, she was the song's author. 

The Priest's Soul.

The priest’s soul, (a story about the first butterfly).

Once upon a time far back in the mist of time Ireland was known as the land of saints and scholars. Kings and Queens would send their sons here to be educated.

At this time there was a poor young boy who was known to everyone for his intelligence and although his parents were but lowly labourers he came to the attention of one of the priests who taught those of wealth that were sent to him. This is his story.

This priest was the cleverest priest in Ireland, however, he had grown very vain and proud, he had forgotten his own lowly beginnings and even forgotten his god whom his faith had taught him was the one who had made him what he was. His pride of winning every argument led him to believe that he could prove there was no purgatory, no hell, indeed no heaven, and so logically there was no god and no soul. In fact we were no better than the beast of the field and when we died there was no rebirth or resurrection.

“Who ever saw a soul?" he would say. "If you can show me one, I will believe." No one could make any answer to this; and at last they all came to believe that as there was no other world, you might as well do as you liked in this one; the priest set the example, for he took a beautiful young girl as his wife. However, as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged to read the service himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the kings' sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent his wicked goings-on.

One night an angel appeared to him just as he was going to bed. He told the priest that he had twenty four hours to live.

“Give me more time” said the priest, but the angel refused.

“Have pity on my poor soul” said the priest.

“Why? You have no soul, isn’t that what you have taught others?” replied the angel.

“I do have a soul, I can feel it fluttering in my chest ever since you appeared, I was just being a fool before” answered the priest.

“Yes, a fool you are” said the angel “What good was all your learning when you forgot your soul?”

“If I am to die will I go to heaven?” asked the priest,

“No, for you denied heaven” replied the angel.

“Well, how about purgatory then?”

“No, you denied that as well, so it’s straight to hell for you me boy” said the angel,

“Ah now hang on a minute, didn’t I also deny there was a hell? So you can’t send me there either”, said the priest.

The angel was a little puzzled.

"Well," said he, "I'll tell you what I can do for you. You may either live now on earth for a hundred years enjoying every pleasure, and then be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to remain till the Day of Judgment, but only you can find one person that believes, and through their belief mercy will be given to you and your soul will be saved."

The priest just took a few seconds to make up his mind. "I will have death in the twenty-four hours," he said, "so that my soul may be saved at last." So the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left him.

Then, immediately, the priest went downstairs and entered the large room where all his scholars and the kings' sons were seated. The priest asked them

“Have men souls?”

They answered “Once we believed they did but you convinced us otherwise”.

The priest replied “I taught you a lie, now I believe there is a god and we do have an immortal soul” they all laughed at him for they thought this was just a trick to start another argument.

“Prove it” they said.

 

Next he went to his wife but she also laughed at him. He ran from the house and asked every person he met if they believed but they also laughed at him. Just as despair seemed to rise up all around him a little boy came by.

“God save you” said the child,

The priest jumped up “Do you believe in God child?”

“Of course, I’ve travelled far to learn about him, will you direct me to the best place to learn about him?” answered the child.

“The best place and the best teacher is here” said the priest and pointed to himself.

When the priest told the boy his name he said “Aren't you the priest who does not believe in a soul because it cannot be seen?

“I was” replied the priest.

“Well that’s stupid for I can tell you that the soul does exist” said the boy,

“How can you be so sure?” the priest inquired,

“I would say to you show me life if you believe you have life” replied the boy.

 

“But that is not possible; life cannot be seen for it is invisible” said the priest,

 The boy replied “So is the soul”.

When the priest heard him speak these words he fell down on his knees before him, now he knew his soul would go to heaven for he had found one who believed and he told the child his whole story.

As the priest finished he began to feel a great pain in his chest and the words of the angel sounded in his ears,

“You have only 24hrs to live”

The priest knew that his time on earth was drawing to an end and that the pain he was feeling was that of all the souls who had denied their god.

As he lay dying the priest asked the young boy to stay with him and to be there for his final breath saying to him,

“When you see death upon my face watch for my soul as it leaves my body.  When you see this happen run and tell everyone that you see that man has an immortal soul and that heaven does exist.

At last the time came and death settled upon him. The child saw a beautiful living creature with four snow white wings rise up from the middle of the priest’s chest and flutter around his head. He ran and brought back some of those that he met and when they saw it they all knew it was the soul of the priest and they watched in wonder as it passed from sight and disappeared into the clouds.

It is said that this was the first butterfly to be seen in Ireland and now it has entered Irish folklore as the belief that the butterfly is the soul of one who has passed off this mortal coil and is just waiting for the moment the doors of heaven open so they may pass through into eternal peace.

You see sometimes it’s enough to have the simple belief of a child.

The Birth of the Harp.

Once upon a time long, long ago there lived a man and a woman in little cottage by the sea.  The man’s name was John and he was a farmer. His wife Mary was an angry woman who spent her life chastising him.

One day John returned from his work and sat down at the table. Mary came in from outside and seeing John she began to scold him.

"Why are you still at the table?" asked Mary impatiently.

"Wife, I just sat down to my lunch five minutes ago. I've been in the fields all day!" replied John.

"Well, get you back out to the fields. You still have work to do. Take your bread and cheese with you," grumbled Mary.

"Let me get a drink of buttermilk first. It's hot outside," John said.

"Don't drink it all. It needs to last for a while."

John said, "Woman, will you never be satisfied?"

"How can I be satisfied when you sit in the house all day and do nothing?" grumbled Mary.

John grabbed his lunch and raced out to the fields.

"She never stops complaining," muttered John. "I wish I could find just one thing that would make her happy."

A few days later, Mary and John were on the beach gathering seaweed for the salt in it. As usual, Mary was grumbling.

Suddenly she stopped.

"What is that sound?" she whispered.

They listened. There it was the most haunting sound they had ever heard. But they couldn’t see where was it coming from?

They kept on walking, searching for the wonderful sound.

All they could see were the bones of a whale that had died on the beach. However, as they stood and looked at the skeleton, John noticed that the sound seemed to be coming from the bones. As the wind blew, the sound got louder. When the wind stopped blowing, the music stopped, too.

John said, "The wind is causing the music as it blows through the bones."

"That is the most soothing tune I have ever heard," said Mary in a quiet, calm voice.

And Mary was calm and uncomplaining for the rest of the week!

John was surprised but pleased with Mary's new behaviour. He began to think about it. He finally decided that it was the music that had changed Mary.

"I must find a way to keep the music close to Mary.  That way she’ll stay happy," John said to himself.

"I know what I will do," he said three days later. He went and cut down a large tree. He bought some catgut. He shaped the wood into the shape of the whale's rib bones. He made strings of the catgut and attached them to the wood. Then he painted and polished the wood. It was beautiful!

John brought the instrument into the house. He strummed the strings and waited. Mary came out from the back room. She had a lovely smile on her face.

"Oh, John," she whispered, "you have brought the music to me! It is so beautiful! I am so happy!"

She sat down and began to strum the instrument, too. It was as if she was born knowing how to play. She played and played.

And Mary was happy from that day forward. John was even happier because Mary was no longer complaining!

Some say that is how the first harp came to be.  Of course there are other theories.

The Miserly Landlord.

The Miserly Landlord.

Once upon a time there was a very wealthy landlord that lived in the west of Ireland. He was extremely miserable because he was always watching his money fearing that everyone was plotting ways to take it from him.  He had hundreds of thousands of pounds although today he would count his money in euros, ask him to spend a pound and he would go into a rage.

He had no friends because he thought that having friends cost money but those who knew him suggested that if he took himself a bride he would at least have some company.  He thought about it for at least ten seconds and quickly decided that a wife would expect some housekeeping money and this caused him to begin to shake all over.  He just as quickly decided that it would be a lot cheaper to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life as he did not want to share any of his money with anyone else.

He had no family, at least none that would admit to knowing such a miserly old skinflint.  However, the landlord did have at least one luxury that he believed was necessary, a servant.  He paid him very little and expected him to do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry and every other job he could think of. This left the landlord free to squeeze every last penny out of his tenants and to go about his business of evicting those who couldn’t pay their rent on time. It was obvious to all concerned that although he did not like spending money he could not manage without his servant.

Years passed and the landlord grew older, eventually he became ill as he would not spend money on fuel and the cold damp winters that we know so well in the west of Ireland began to affect him.  He said to his servant “I’ve looked after you all your life now you have to look after me; I need you to answer a question, how sick do you think I am”? The servant told the landlord that he thought he was very sick and should call for the doctor.  The landlord thought about this for about ten seconds then said “If I call for the doctor he will charge me a fee, but if I don’t call for him people will say I am a stupid man worried about money when I could be dying”.  The servant told the landlord that he believed he was so sick that he could indeed be dying and that he should call the doctor straight away.  The landlord replied “If I’m that bad then I have a suggestion to make.  Go to the undertaker and ask him what his fee will be when I die, then go to the doctor and ask him what his fee will be to treat me”. 

The servant did as he was told, the undertaker told him that his lowest fee was €110; he then went to the doctor who said his lowest fee would be €150.  The servant returned to the landlord and told him what he had learned, the miserly landlord quickly made a decision saying to the servant “Well the best thing to do is you must take me to the undertaker for the doctor’s cure is far too expensive”.  The skinflint of a landlord wouldn’t spend the extra forty euro’s to cure his illness and he died shortly afterwards.  The servant paid the undertaker his €110 fee and as the landlord had no relatives, or none that came forward to claim his riches, all the rest of his money went to his long suffering servant.

The landlord’s attachment to his money was the thing that killed him in the end because he chose the undertaker over the doctor.  By choosing the cheaper option he hoped to save a few euros’ little realising that once he died he would lose all his money anyway. He would now be remembered as a tight fisted skinflint, a miser who thought of no one but himself.  Had he given just a little of his wealth to a charity or some good cause, had he thought of others instead of grasping at pennies he would have been remembered fondly by all those he could have helped. 

In the end he couldn’t take it with him, the servant became a millionaire overnight. Will he believe that others will exploit him for his money or will he choose to use his new found wealth for good? Some people say that money is like manure; it can only do well if it’s spread around helping things to grow. 

In many ways this could have been the landlord’s legacy, his path to immortality.  Instead he will simply be remembered as a selfish little man. I wonder which path the servant will choose. I wonder which path you would choose.

A wife's true love.

                                                         A wife’s true love.


 

An elderly man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite scones wafting up the stairs.

He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning on the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.

With laboured breath, he leaned against the door-frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon the kitchen table were literally hundreds of his favourite scones.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his devoted wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in rumpled posture. His aged and withered hand trembled towards a scone at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked by his wife with a wooden spoon.

 "Get off and leave them alone" she said, "They’re for the funeral."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anachie Gordon.

 

                                                                  
                                                                    Anachie Gordon.
                                                         Sunday show: 23rd June 2013.

This weeks show opens with a track from Arcanadh (on the Soundings album). The track is called Anachie Gordon and it is a story told in song. Its heroine, Jeannie, is to be married off at the insistence of her father to a wealthy man, Lord Saltoun, but she is in love with Anachie Gordon, the subject of the song. The song chronicles her resistance to the marriage before she is eventually dragged to the church. Jeannie refuses to sleep in the same bed until her father comes down and tells her maid to undo her gown. Jeannie collapses at her father's feet and dies for love of Anachie. Anachie, having been away at sea, returns where Jeannie's distressed maidens tell him that Jeannie has been married in his absence and has now died of a broken heart. Anachie tells the maidens to take him to the chamber where Jeannie lies and then, having kissed her cold lips, also dies of a broken heart.

One of the members of Arcanadh is Fiona Walsh (Bohola, Co. Mayo)