The Bewitched Butter

Written by John Keegan.

About the commencement of the last century there lived in the vicinity of the once famous village of Aghaboe, a wealthy farmer, named Bryan Costigan. This man kept an extensive dairy and a great many milch cows, and every year made considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter. The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighbourhood has always been proverbial; and, consequently, Bryan’s cows were the finest and most productive in the country, and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and brought the highest price at every market at which he offered these articles for sale.

Things continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan Costigan, when, one season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance, and his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this change to the weather, or some such cause, but soon found or fancied reason to assign it to a far different source. The cows, without any visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to crawl about on their pasture: many of them, instead of milk, gave nothing but blood; and the scanty quantity of milk which some of them continued to supply was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink it; whilst the butter which it produced was of such a bad quality, and stunk so horribly, that the very dogs would not cat it. Bryan applied for remedies to all the quacks and ‘fairy-women’ in the country – but in vain. Many of the imposters declared that the mysterious malady in his cattle went beyond their skill; whilst others, although they found no difficulty in tracing it to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in the matter, as the charm under the influence of which his property was made away with, was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special interposition of Divine Providence. The poor farmer became almost distracted; he saw ruin staring him in the face; yet what was he to do? Sell his cattle and purchase others! No; that was out of the question, as they looked so miserable and emaciated, that no one would even take them as a present, whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the flesh of one which he killed for his own family was as black as a coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.

The unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what to do; he became moody and stupid; his sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered about the fields, amongst his ‘fairy-stricken’ cattle like a maniac.

Affairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry evening in the latter days of July, Bryan Costigan’s wife was sitting at her own door, spinning at her wheel, in a very gloomy and agitated state of mind. Happening to look down the narrow green lane which led from the high road to her cabin, she espied a little old woman barefoot, and enveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly, with the aid of a crutch which she carried in one hand, and a cane or walking-stick in the other. The farmer’s wife felt glad at seeing the odd-looking stranger; she smiled, and yet she knew not why, as she neared the house. A vague and indefinable feeling of pleasure crowded on her imagination; and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade her “welcome” with a warmth which plainly told that her lips gave utterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart.

“God bless this good house and all belonging to it,” said the stranger, as she entered.
“God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever you are,” replied Mrs. Costigan.
“Hem, I thought so,” said the old woman with a significant grin. “I thought so, or 1 wouldn’t trouble you.”

The farmer’s wife ran, and placed a chair near the fire for the stranger; but she refused, and sat on the ground near where Mrs. Costigan had been spinning. Mrs. Costigan had now time to survey the old hag’s person minutely. She appeared of great age; her countenance was extremely ugly and repulsive; her skin was rough and deeply embrowned as if from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate; her forehead was low, narrow, and, indented with a thousand wrinkles; her long grey hair fell in matted elflocks from beneath a white linen skullcap; her eyes were bleared, bloodshotten, and obliquely set in their sockets, and her voice was croaking, tremulous, and, at times, partially inarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked around the house with an inquisitive gaze; she peered pryingly from corner to corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she had the faculty, like the Argonaut of old, to see through the very depths of the earth, whilst Mrs. Costigan kept watching her motions with mingled feelings, curiosity, awe, and pleasure.

“Mrs,” said the old woman, at length breaking silence, “I am dry with the heat of the day, can you give me a drink?”
“Alas!'” replied the farmer’s wife, I have no drink to offer you except water, else you would have no occasion to ask me for it.”
“Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder?” said the old hag, with a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly indicated her fore-knowledge of the fact. Mrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly related to her every circumstance connected with the affair, whilst the old woman still remained silent, but shook her grey head repeatedly; and still continued gazing round the house with an air of importance and self-sufficiency.

When Mrs. Costigan had ended, the old hag remained a while, as if in a deep reverie; at length she said –
“Have you any of the milk in the house?”
“I have,” replied the other.
“Show me some of it.”

She filled a jug from a vessel and handed it to the old sybil, who smelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she had taken on the floor.

“Where is your husband?” she asked.
“Out in the fields,” was the reply.
“I must see him.”
A messenger was dispatched for Bryan, who shortly after made his appearance.
“Neighbour,” said the stranger, “your wife informs me that your cattle are going against you this season.”
“She informs you right,” said Bryan.
“And why have you not sought a cure?”
“A cure!” re-echoed the man; “why, woman, I have sought cures until I was heart-broken, and all in vain; they get worse every day.”
“What will you give me if I cure them for you?”
“Any thing in our power” replied Bryan and his wife, both speaking joyfully, and with a breath.
“All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that you will do everything which I will bid you,” said she.
The farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the moderation of her demand. They offered her a large sum of money.
“No,” said she, “I don’t want your money; I am no cheat, and I would not even take sixpence, but that I can do nothing till I handle some of your silver.”

The sixpence was immediately given her, and the most implicit obedience promised to her injunctions, by both Bryan and his wife, who already began to regard the old beldame as their tutelary angel. The hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or fillet, which encircled her head inside her cap, and gave it to Bryan, saying: “Go, now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon, turn her into the yard, but be sure don’t touch the second, nor speak a word until you return; be also careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground, for, if you do, all is over”.

Bryan took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned, driving a red cow before him.

The old hag went out, and, approaching the cow, commenced pulling hairs out of her tail, at the same time singing some verses in the Irish language in a low, wild and unconnected strain. The cow appeared restive and uneasy, but the old witch still continued her mysterious chaunt until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered the cow to be drove back to her pasture, and again entered the house.

“Go, now,” said she to the woman, “and bring me some milk from every cow in your possession.”

She went, and soon returned with a large pail filled with a frightful looking mixture of milk, blood and corrupt matter. The old woman got it into a churn and made preparations for churning.

“Now,” said she, “You both must churn, make fast the door and windows, and let there be no light but from the fire; do not open your lips until I desire you, and by observing my directions, I make no doubt but, ere the sun goes down, we will find out the infernal villain who is robbing you.”

Bryan secured the doors and windows, and commenced churning. The old sorceress sat down by a blazing fire which had been specially lighted for the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she had sung at the pulling of the cow-hairs, and after a little time, she cast one of the nine hairs into the fire, still singing her mysterious strain, and watching, with intense interest, the witching process.

A loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard approaching the house; the old witch discontinued her incantations, and listened attentively. The crying voice approached the door.

“Open the door quickly,”‘ shouted the old charmer.

Bryan unbarred the door, and all three rushed out in the yard, when they heard the same cry down the boreheen, but could see nothing.

“It is all over,” shouted the old witch; “something has gone amiss, and our charm for the present is ineffectual.”

They now turned back quite crestfallen, when, as they were entering the door, the sybil cast her eyes downwards, and perceiving a piece of horse-shoe nailed on the threshold, she vociferated –
“Here 1 have it; no wonder our charm was abortive. The person that was crying abroad is the villain who has your cattle bewitched; i brought her to the house, but she was not able to come to the door on account of that horse-shoe. Remove it instantly, and we will try our luck again.”

Bryan removed the horse-shoe from the doorway, and by the hag’s directions placed it on the floor under the churn, having previously reddened it in the fire.

They again resumed their manual operations. Bryan and his wife began to churn, and the witch again to sing her strange verses, and casting her cow-hairs into the fire until she had them all nearly exhausted. Her countenance now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and disappointment. She got quite pale, her teeth gnashed, her hand trembled, and as she cast the ninth and last hair into the fire, her person exhibited more the appearance of a female demon than of a human being.

Once more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired woman was seen approaching the house quickly.

“Ho, ho!” roared the sorceress, “I knew it would be so; my charm has succeeded; my expectations are realized, and here she comes, the villain who has destroyed you.”
“‘What are we to do now?” asked Bryan.
“Say nothing to her,” said the hag; “give her whatever she demands, and leave the rest to me.”

The woman advanced screeching vehemently, and Bryan went out to meet her. She was a neighbour, and she said that one of her best cows was drowning in a pool of water – that there was no one at home but herself, and she implored Bryan to go rescue the cow from destruction.

Bryan accompanied her without hesitation; and having rescued the cow from her perilous situation, was back again in a quarter of an hour.

It was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing supper. During supper they reverted to the singular transactions of the day. The old witch uttered many a fiendish laugh at the success of her incantations, and inquired who was the woman whom they had so curiously discovered.

Bryan satisfied her in every particular. She was the wife of a neighbouring farmer; her name was Rachel Higgins; and she had been long suspected to be on familiar terms with the spirit of darkness. She had five or six cows; but it was observed by her sapient neighbours, that she sold more butter every year than other farmers’ wives who had twenty. Bryan had, from the commencement of the decline in his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor, but as he had no proof, he held his peace.

“Well,” said the old beldame, with a grim smile, “it is not enough that we have merely discovered the robber; all is in vain, if we do not take steps to punish her for the past, as well as to prevent her inroads for the future.”
“And how will that be done?” said Bryan.
” I will tell you; as soon as the hour of twelve o’clock arrives to-night, do you go to the pasture, and take a couple of swift-running dogs with you; conceal yourself in some place convenient to the cattle; watch them carefully; and if you see any thing, whether man or beast, approach the cows, set on the dogs, and if possible make them draw the blood of the intruder; then ALL Will be accomplished. If nothing approaches before sunrise, you may return, and we will try something else.

Convenient there lived the cow-herd of a neighbouring squire. He was a hardy, courageous young man, and always kept a pair of very ferocious bull-dogs. To him Bryan applied for assistance, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and, moreover proposed to fetch a couple of his master’s best grey-hounds, as his own dogs, although extremely fierce and blood-thirsty, could not he relied on for swiftness. He promised Bryan to be with him before 12 o’clock, and they parted.

Bryan did not seek sleep that night; he sat up anxiously awaiting the midnight hour. It arrived at last, and his friend, the herdsman, true to his promise came at the time appointed. After some farther admonitions from the collougb, they departed. Having arrived at the field, they consulted as to the best position they could choose for concealment. At last they pitched on a small brake of fern, situated at the extremity of the field, adjacent to the boundary ditch, which was thickly studded with large, old white-thorn bushes. Here they couched themselves, and made the dogs, four in number, lie down beside them, eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown and mysterious visitor.

It was a still, calm night, and, for the season, extremely dark and gloomy. There was not a single star visible in all the vast expanse of heaven, whilst large masses of dark vapour, which rolled slowly athwart the brow of the silent summer-night sky, almost constantly obscured the waning moon, which at intervals appeared sinking redly on the western horizon. There was a solemn tranquility, too, over the face of nature – not a sound was to he beard, except the monotonous, grating call of the land-rail from the adjacent meadows, or, now and then, the appalling shriek of the screech-owl, hovering on dusky wing over the ivy-wreathed ruins of Aghaboe Priory, which, a little to the eastward of where the watchers lay, reared its venerable head in grim and isolated grandeur.

Here Bryan and his comrade continued a considerable time in nervous anxiety, still nothing approached, and it became manifest that morning was at hand. The twilight breezes had now sprungup, and were chasing the clouds along the sky before them, and the morning star was visible over the rocky pinnacle of Shean More. Still nothing appeared to disturb the sentinels; they soon began to grow impatient, and were talking of returning home, when on a sudden they beard a rushing sound behind them, as if proceeding from something endeavouring to force a passage through the thick hedge in their rear. They looked in that direction, and judge of their astonishment, when they perceived a large hare in the act of springing from the ditch, and leaping on the ground quite near them. They were now convinced that this was the object which they had so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to watch her motions narrowly.

After arriving to the ground, she remained motionless for a few moments, looking around her sharply. She then began to skip and jump in a playful manner; now advancing at a smart pace towards the cows, and again retreating precipitately, but still drawing nearer and nearer at each sally. At length she advanced up to the next cow, and sucked her for a moment; then on to the next, and so respectively to every cow on the field – the cows all the time lowing loudly, and appearing extremely frightened and agitated. Bryan, from the moment the hare commenced sucking the first, was with difficulty restrained from attacking her; but his more sagacious companion suggested to him, that it was better to wait until she would have done, as she would then he much heavier, and more unable to effect her escape than at present. And so the issue proved; for being now done sucking them all, her belly appeared enormously distended, and she made her exit slowly, and apparently with difficulty. She advanced towards the hedge where she had entered, and as she arrived just at the clump of ferns where her foes were couched, they started up with a fierce yell, and hallooed the dogs upon her path.

Now came on the ‘tug of war.’ The hare started off at a brisk pace, squirting up the milk she had sucked from her mouth and nostrils, and the dogs making after her rapidly. Rachel Higgins’s cabin appeared, through the grey of the morning twilight, at a little distance; and it was evident that puss seemed bent on gaining it, although she made a considerable circuit through the fields in the rear. Bryan and his comrade, however, had their thoughts, and made towards the cabin by the shortest route, and had just arrived as the hare came up, panting and almost exhausted, and the dogs at her very scut. She ran round the house, evidently confused and disappointed at the presence of the men, but at length made for the door. In the bottom of the door was a small, semi-circular aperture, resembling those cut in fowl-house doors for the ingress and egress of poultry. To gain this hole, puss now made a last and desperate effort, and had succeeded in forcing her head and shoulders through it, when the foremost of the dogs made a spring and seized her violently by the haunch. She uttered a loud and piercing scream, and struggled desperately to free herself from his grip, and at last succeeded, but not until she left a piece of her rump in his teeth. The men now burst open the door; a bright turf fire blazed on the hearth, and the whole floor was streaming with blood. No hare, however, could he found, and the men were more than ever convinced that it was old Rachel who had, by the assistance of some demon, assumed the form of the hare, and they now determined to have her if she were over the earth. They entered the bed-room, and heard some smothered groaning, as if proceeding from some one in extreme agony. They went to the corner of the room from whence the moans proceeded, and there, beneath a bundle of freshly cut rushes, found the form of Rachel Higgins, writhing in the most excruciating agony, and almost smothered in a pool of blood. The men were astounded; they addressed the wretched old woman, but she either could not, or would not, answer them. Her wound still bled copiously; her tortures appeared to increase, and it was evident that she was dying. The aroused family thronged around her with cries and lamentations; she did not seem to heed them, she got worse and worse, and her piercing yells fell awfully on the ears of the bystanders. At length she expired, and her corpse exhibited a most appalling spectacle, even before the spirit had well departed.

Bryan and his friend returned home. The old hag had been previously aware of the fate of Rachel Higgins, but it was not known by what means she acquired her supernatural knowledge. She was delighted at the issue of her mysterious operations. Bryan pressed her much to accept of some remuneration for her services, but she utterly rejected such proposals. She remained a few days at his house, and at length took her leave and departed no one knew whither.

Old Rachel’s remains were interred that night in the neighbouring churchyard. Her fate soon became generally known, and her family, ashamed to remain in their native village, disposed of their property, and quitted the country for ever. The story, however, is still fresh in the memory of the surrounding villagers; and often, it is said, amid the grey haze of a summer twilight, may the ghost of Rachel Higgins in the form of a hare, be seen scudding over her ancient favourite and well-remembered haunts.

What a wild, fanciful, and improbable story is this; yet to discredit it is considered by many in the neighbourhood where it is said to have occurred, as a crime equal at least to murder or heresy.