WEEK 5

OLD FERGAL

Mornings for Old Fergal were a routine. He got up at the

break of dawn and prepared himself a loaf of bread, a cup of

milk, and brown butter. This would sustain him for a few

hours at sea before a break with Bold Calvagh, who took it

upon himself to bring lunch for the two as was their custom.

Upon arriving at Calvagh’s cottage, Old Fergal knocked

on the door and, after a while of complete silence, a woman

with silvery hair and covered in a dark red shawl opened and

whispered to Old Fergal that Calvagh would not be going to

sea with him for he was not feeling well. Old Fergal bid

farewell to the woman and told her he would be checking on

Calvagh later. Fergal headed for the harbor, where his small

one-sail Púcán was moored.

 Waiting for him near his boat was Gadah, the island’s

simpleton whom everyone gave a job, for he had no one to

care for him. Old Fergal took his time untying the small

fishing vessel while Gadah prepared the nets and weights.

Fergal looked around to scout the sea. It was calm and the

sun had not yet peaked on the horizon.

The ebb was ideal, and Old Fergal began rowing out of

the harbor and out to the bay with Gadah along to help him

with the nets. He felt the cold water slapping his hands as he

rowed. The small fishing boat bobbed up and down, going

with the waves and out of the tight, rocky harbor. Old Fergal

tightened the sail and the wind began to come over the side

and the boat began to move forward, crossing the bay and

out to sea. Old Fergal knew exactly the spot, a small cove a

mile or two out of the bay around the island and between
rocks that closed the place off from high winds and crashing

seas. He had been there before and he had gotten a few

creels of fish without running into other fishermen. But what

happened next, Old Fergal had not prepared for it.

The sun at last had broken out and the day was

auspicious for a good catch. Gadah sat scouting the sea

ahead while Old Fergal worked the sails, catching a good

wind. He began to maneuver the tiller sails, heading in the

direction of his chosen spot, when in the horizon a dark

cloud approached head-on. He couldn’t understand why a

water spout had formed on such a beautiful and clear day.

The wind grew stronger, and now the little Púcán was

pushed straight ahead to meet the water spout. No matter

what Old Fergal did with the sails, nothing seemed to

change the vessel’s course, for it had taken on a life of its

own, sailing itself and veering completely off course.

Old Fergal and Gadah were shouting commands to each

other, but neither could hear the other for by now the wind

was roaring. Water pelted them and swells grew taller,

creating dangerous, choppy waters that could flood a small

fishing boat, but this little Púcán continued moving ahead

with the speed of a flying peregrine. Then they entered the

water spout head on. It was dark inside, and their little Púcan

rolled sideways, bobbing up and down, hitting choppy waters

with heavy thuds. It was a wild and bumpy water ride. Old

Fergal clawed his hands on the tiller, while Gadah hunched

down, bracing himself.

Suddenly all stopped, and out of the water spout they

found themselves sailing across a crystal blue sea with

translucent skies. Old Fergal’s and Gadah’s clothes were

tattered and their bodies were wet and chilled to the bone.

The little Púcán’s sails were shredded, and without them the

boat was just going down along with the soft, gentle waves

that rocked it, sending it toward the big rocks in the middle of

this unknown bay.

Then right in front of them appeared a beautiful woman

with raven black hair sitting on a very large rock and singing

a melodious tune. Old Fergal and Gadah, who minutes

before had experienced sheer terror, were now serene, in a

sleep-like state. Their arms hung limp by the sides of their

bodies, their lips partially parted into smiles—they were

under a spell.

The woman waved her hands towards the water, and the

little boat sailed closer and closer toward the rocks. Old
Fergal didn’t have to bother to try to slow the boat, for there

was no sail to let out. It was the power emanating from her

hands that moved the boat closer toward her.

The beautiful woman looked at Old Fergal and said, “Dear

man, I’m fstranded on thifs ifsland, will you help me?”

Old Fergal couldn’t believe his eyes—she was the most

beautiful maiden he’d ever seen.

“The fsea fsank my boat and I wafs left to live. Will you,

kind man, take me back to land?”

Old Fergal felt pity. “Yes, dear lady, but as you can see

my Púcán has no sails to take us back. We’ll have to row our

way, and the seas are not kind to us.”

“Pleafs, before we leave come and help me carry what I

have been able to gather alone on thifs ifsland,” she said

and pointed to a cave behind the rocks. Old Fergal left

Gadah sitting in the Púcán and followed the beautiful maiden

into the cave.

Minutes passed, and the beautiful woman came out of the

cave alone and climbed onto the Púcán to the dismay of

Gadah. “Your old man decided to fstay. Off we fsail!” She let

out a cackle.

“Mistress, we have no sails. We need Old Fergal to help

row us back to land,” said Gadah, who stood with his arms

open, showing the woman that the sails were mere tattered

rags beaten by the sea and wind.

“Then, go get him!” She gave Gadah a push so hard that it

sent him overboard. Gadah couldn’t swim. Bubbles formed

around a ring of water.

 Old Fergal ran out of the cave after the beautiful maiden.

The woman turned to him. “My wifshefs to you, Old Fergal,

you fool! You’re now trapped afs I wafs.”

The woman’s face had a sudden transformation. From

softened young skin, her face turned ashen and wrinkly. The

corners of her mouth turned down. Her eyes took on a murky

glare, and her hair became a mess of long, matted, dull salt-

and-pepper strands. Her fingers became gnarled like

twisted, dead tree branches and her nails curled like snakes.

Old Fergal knew instantly who she was. But he couldn’t

utter a word, for she had frozen his lips.

“Old Fergal, hear me now! You will now pay for what

Ulliac did to me!”

She stood on the Púcán with spread out arms and began

to chant:
 “Liafs eerf Ecinro

Dniw aefs era enim

Ecinro isf eerf”

Sail free Ornice

Wind, sea, are mine

Ornice is free”

The winds changed and the sky turned black and stormy.

The Púcán flew above water, leaving Old Fergal trapped

inside the island.