This week, The Phantom Town, recorded
into the public domain by Colleen McMahon through LibriVox, thanks to Colleen and her
production team. This is a piece of Irish folklore that was originally written into a newspaper in the late 19th century. Clearly useful in other Ars Magica or Magonomia.
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Sir, the following story is founded on the legend well-known on the carry shore of the Shannon. I imagine it originated in something like the fatal morgana of the Bay of Naples, or some such appearances as those noticed in a former number of your journal, as having been observed along the Causeway Coast.
W.F.G
On a bright summer’s morning, as I stood on one of the tremendous cliffs which overhang the broad Shannon at its mouth, where the unceasing war of the Atlantic’s gigantic waves had fretted and foamed for ages, among the caves and hollows of this iron-bound coast. Gradually a shade was thrown on the bosom of the placid glass-like river. As I gazed on the smooth waters, the shadows increased, and imperceptibly began to take palpable forms. My wonder increased on perceiving, slowly developed, the shadowy forms of towers, steeples and
pterodid castles which spread themselves on every side. There was to be seen clearly defined a noble town. On a sudden I heard a noise as of rushing waters, accompanied with what I took to be whalings and lamentations. Looking towards the sea, I saw the white crested waves rushing with impetuosity, towards the shadowy town. On they came, and in a moment all had vanished, except one solitary castle at its farthest extremity. From this, as I gazed with increased astonishment, issued the form of a warrior, armed, and mounted on a jet-black horse. On his crapper was seated, a female form, who clung closely to the warrior with one hand. The other she alternately waved towards where the town was and the shore where I stood. They buffeted with the waves for a few moments, then sunk amidst the boiling surges. As I turned with melancholy feelings from viewing these strange appearances, I heard a voice calling me in a commanding tone to remain. I stood transfixed. A venerable old man in the garb of a monk
was advancing from the face of the cliffs towards me.
“Stay, O man,” said he, “and hear from me the melancholy story of the strange sights to which you have been an unbidden spectator. I alone destined for my punishment to remain on earth, till time shall be no more, can explain these wonders.”
Centuries have passed, he continued, since these now deserted shores were in livens by the neighborhood of a large and populous town, such as you have just now seen reflected on the waters. Buried many fathoms beneath these waves led the palaces and castles of princes and barons of this land.
How so great a calamity happened, you shall hear.
The castle of King Ulic was illuminated for a general banquet in rejoicing. His queen had given birth to a daughter, heiress to his throne and possessions. The numerous retainers of the king occupied each side of the immense board, which reached from end to end of the great hall. At the head, on a throne elevated above the rest, sat the king himself.
The night was nearly spent, and many of the revellers retired, when a stranger was observed standing just within the threshold, intently gazing on the king. All eyes were quickly turned on the intruder, who, seeing he was observed, walked deliberately up the hall. When he approached the king, he drew from under his ample robe a scroll of parchment, placed it before him and retired, as if to observe its effect. The king took up the parchment and read as follows,
“O King, when thy daughter a stranger shall wed,
whose hand with the blood of her father is read,
where thy castles now stand, the broad Shannon shall cover,
and thy courtyard the grave of the maid and her lover.”
“Seize that evil-boding stranger!” cried the king, greatly excited by what he had read. A hundred armed men started to their feet, but the stranger was nowhere to be found. How he had entered, or how departed, no man could tell. All present, deeply moved to the incident, deserted the banquet, and retired to rest.
Adjoining Ulic’s territories were those of Mac-Murchard, the powerful chieftain of Leinster. These princes had united in enmity in order to repel the English invader. Mac-Murchard had a son, then six years old, to whom Ulric determined to betroth his infant daughter. He sent a trusty messenger to negotiate this treaty, and the marriage contract was ratified with the full consent of all parties. Mac-Murchard, in order that his son should possess that learning of the schools which his ancestors despised, sent him to his brother’s convent in France, where he was to remain until able to bear arms.
16 years had passed, the young Mac-Murchard had long since returned, and became a successful wooer in person to the beautiful Eva. The day was fixed for the ceremony, and all was preparation for the festivity.
Some days previous to the marriage, Mac-Murchard’s brother, the monk, unexpectedly arrived from France. He came, he said, to look once more on his native land before he died. At length, the bridal morn arrived, most inauspiciously gloomy and tempestuous. The young Mac-Murchard led his timid bride to the altar. They pledged their mutual vows, and the ceremony was finished.
At this moment, a voice was heard saying, “Ulic! Ulic, thy destiny is nearly accomplished!”. All eyes immediately turned towards that part of the chapel from which the voice came, and Ulic’s followers instantly recognized to the figure of the stranger monk, who had so mysteriously entered with the prophetic scroll.
“Ulic, said he, as he advanced, “Look on me and recognize the enemy of thy youth, Alan Mac-Murchard. Has thou forgotten the day when you disgraced my manhood with a vile blow? Thinkest thou that because my father, treating me as a hot-brained boy, interfered to prevent my staining my hands with thy coward blood, that I have forgotten that degrading stain? You were my senior in years in strength. You struck me. I sworn oath that I would not die until I’d amply revenged the dishonor. That hour is now arrived. Far towards the black north I traveled to a mighty sorceress, to procure that prophetic scroll. I, it was, who placed it on thy board. By my means thy daughter is wedded to a stranger and thy ruin certain.”
“Know, proud king, that my brother’s son, the young Mac-Murchard, lived but a few hours after his arrival at the convent. I, knowing of the marriage contract with your daughter, reared up an orphan peasant as the heir of Mac-Murchard, and a base-born Frenchman’s son as the bridegroom you have chosen.”
“Then perish minion!” said Ulic, drawing his sword, “and with thy death leave that accursed spell still unaccomplished.” He made a lunge toward the bridegroom. But the monk, seeing his intention, threw himself between them, received the wound in his side and fell.
The young Mac-Murchard, as we shall still call him, then obliged to defend himself from the furious king. Being hard-pressed made a desperate pass at Ulic, who fell mortally wounded.
“Fly!”, cried the monk with a faint voice. “Hear you not the roar of the raging waters? Take up your fainting bride and fly while there is yet hope.” All fled from the chapel on hearing this awful announcement of the dying monk.
The young Mac-Murchard, bearing the inanimate form of the lady, hastened toward the stables and led forth his trusty black warhorse. The lady, now restored to animation, he placed behind him, and prepared to ride from the threatened danger, but it was too late. The lamentations and drowning cries of the inhabitants, born on the winds, announced that some dreadful occurrence had taken place. As he advanced to the gate, the rush of the mighty ocean was heard. In a moment, the gates were closed by the violence of the waves.
Mack-Murchard, still hoping to escape, clung to his horse, supporting his bride. But a gigantic billow was seen rolling along with resistless impetuosity. They rode on its summit for a moment and were overwhelmed to rise no more. All that inhabited that peninsula were totally swallowed up by the rapacious element. Once in a hundred years, the phantom town is seen in its wanted situation, and the events of that tremendous day are acted over again, and I, the guilty monk, Mac-Murchard, an unwilling spectator of my evil work.
He ceased. I looked once more at the waters, now ruffled by the western breeze, and turned again to address the spectre monk. He was gone.
I departed and never since visited the neighborhood of the phantom town. Your saga may vary.
W.F.G
Games From Folktales 