The Drowned Earl

The Stories of Lough Guir

I cannot have been more than twelve or thirteen when I first met the venerable Miss Anne Baily of Lough Guir, a village in County Limerick, in Ireland. Miss Anne and her equally aged sister were the last remnants of their family line, an old and respected lineage in that part of Ireland. They were ‘old maids’, unmarried and childless – facts which they seemed positively proud of. I’ve never known old ladies to be livelier, kinder or more hospitable, particularly to the young. They were both remarkably generous and remarkably clever. Like all old ladies of the Irish counties at that time, they were expert genealogists, and could tell you the origins, intermarriages and members of every important county family right back through the generations.

Indeed, the noted author Crofton Croker visited the ladies at their Lough Guir house, and mentioned the pair of them by name in the second series of his fairy legends. It was in this series that he featured some of the lovelier traditions of the lakes around the village, which he had almost certainly heard from Miss Anne. Actually, I should say that ‘lakes’ is inaccurate now — the smaller and prettier of the two has since been drained to reveal some very curious long-lost relics.

The ladies had some interesting relics of their own in their drawing room, however. Old enough they were, too, although from a much more modern period, and of a rather less disturbing nature. One was an ancient stirrup-glass from the inn at Lough Guir, for drinking on horseback. Crofton Croker found it curious enough to sketch, but I have often held it in my hand and wondered. It had a short stem and rounded bottom, typical enough for a wine glass. The body however rose cylindrically, scarcely wider than an old, narrow ale glass, and went on to such a height that it could almost hold an entire bottle of wine. To drink from it, you would have had to extend your arm quite alarmingly — a severe test for a tipsy rider, particularly in the saddle of a less-than-perfect horse. It was a curious design, and no less than a miracle that such a marvellously tall glass had managed to make its way down the centuries without getting a crack.

The drawing room also held another glass of significant interest. It was a gigantic thing, shaped conically, like one of the archaic jelly glasses which could be seen in sweet shops once upon a time. It had an engraved rim that bore the words “The glorious, pious and immortal memory”. On special occasions, it would have been filled to the brim and passed around the guests for all to drink from and toast the memory of the hero that the vast cup’s legend invoked.

Now, however, the cup was little more than a transparent phantom, left over from the solemn celebrations of a generation who had lived within constant earshot of cannon-fire and rousing speeches. By the time I saw it, the glass had long retired from politics, and made its peaceful stand on a little table. Every day, the ladies refreshed it with clean water, and crowned it with flowers from the garden.

Miss Anne Baily was more inclined to dwell upon the legendary and the supernatural than her sister was. She told her tales with all the conviction, colour and mystery so important to story-telling, and never tired of answering questions about the old castle. She loved to amuse her young audiences with fascinating little glimpses of old adventures and bygone days. I can still see my elderly friend very distinctly in my memory. She was slim and straight-backed, and somewhat taller than the average. She bore a general likeness to the famous full-length portrait of the Countess d’Aulnois, to whom we all owe our earliest and most brilliant glimpses of fairy-land. There was something about Miss Anne’s serious yet kindly expression — or in her mysterious side-long glance and uplifted finger — that seemed to indicate the approaching pinnacle of some tale of wonder.

Lough Guir itself was held to be a centre of operations for the fairies of Munster. When the ‘good people’ stole away a child, it was to Lough Guir that it was brought, to be transmuted from human to Fae. Furthermore, legend had it that the grand old castle of the Desmonds lay beneath the waters of the lake — complete with the great Earl himself, his beautiful young wife, and all the retainers and servants who surrounded him in his moment of catastrophe. The disaster came at the height of his splendour, and many were said to be lost beneath the water.

There were more strictly historic associations to the village, too. Close to the sisters’ house was a huge, square tower that rose to amazing heights. Even without its battlements and the top floor, long gone, the structure still entranced my young senses. It had been the stronghold of the last of the Earls of Desmond, a die-hard rebel. The ancient Hibernia Pacata text described the tower complete with its native garrison. The document even mentioned the garrison’s defiance of the armies of the English Lord Deputy, as they marched past, over the hills overhanging Lough Guir. The sister’s house itself nestled under the tower’s protective shadow. The cottage was undeniably old, a warren of small, low rooms, but it was snug and welcoming. Similar houses of a similar age could still be seen some years later along the border between England and Wales, in Shropshire and neighbouring counties.

When I was there however, it was the lakes that commanded my attention. The hills around them always appeared to my youthful fancy to be covered in a short, soft grass of the most vividly dark green colour. I swear that I had never seen its like, not before nor after. One of the lakes held a small, rocky island, with some sparse woodland on top of it. The locals believed that this was the top of the highest tower of lost Castle Desmond, spell-cursed to the bottom of the lake. Under the correct circumstances, when the mood is right, I have even heard well-educated people discuss the island’s queer aspect. From a boat, at a certain distance, the island seems suddenly to rise some feet from the water – or so they say. At such times, its rocks look curiously like cut stonework, and the whole of the island’s edge appears suggestively reminiscent of the battlements of a long-lost castle’s highest tower, jutting stubbornly above the waters.

Miss Anne Baily’s story of the sinking of that lost castle was as follows.

The Magician Earl

It is well known that the great Earl of Desmond lives on, to this very hour, trapped inside his castle. Although history claims to dispose of him differently, he is enchanted, with all his household, held at the bottom of the lake.

In the great Earl’s day, there was none in the world who was more accomplished a magician. His loveliest castle stood upon an island in the Lough Guir, an exquisite setting for such a delightful structure. It was to this home that he brought his young, beautiful new wife. He loved his lady with all his heart, and it was to prove his doom. She used his love to force him to risk everything, just to satisfy her capricious curiosity.

They had not been living long in Lough Guir when Lady Desmond decided one day to go and see the room where her husband studied and practiced the forbidden arts. Fascinated by the topic, she begged and pleaded for him to show her some of the wonders of his magic. He tried to refuse her, to explain the most serious dangers, but her tears and desperate imploring wore him down. Eventually, despite his misgivings, he agreed.

Before he began the series of incredible transformations with which he was to amaze her, he explained the most serious conditions and dangers of the process. She would witness a               certain series of terrifying phenomena within the bounds of that unhallowed room, and would have to do so alone. Once the process started, the Earl would not be able to stop, shorten or even alter the sequence. During this hideous succession, she would have to remain absolutely silent. If one word – even one sound – passed her lips, the dark forces lurking below in the depths of the lake would hear her. In that instant, they would rise up and claim the island for their own, and the land, and castle, and everything within it would be dragged down to the bottom of the lake. They would be imprisoned there, under the waters, as the ages passed.

Lady Desmond’s curiosity was beyond caution. She remained adamant that she was equal to the task. The cavernous study room’s thick oak door was locked and barred, and the demonstration began.

The Earl sat his wife down on a chair, and stood over her. He started muttering a guttural spell, and suddenly feathers started forcing their way out of his skin, right across his body. His face contracted and hooked, his eyes yellowed, and his hands contorted like ugly talons. The stench of decay filled the air and suddenly, with slow, heavy wingbeats, a gigantic vulture hung in the Earl’s place. It whirled round and round the room, screaming, as if on the point of pouncing upon her.

With a ghastly wheel, the vile bird dived towards Lady Desmond, shrieking like a fiend. She matched its horrid gaze, and steadfastly uttered no sound. The bird broke away at the last instant, crossing the huge room to land by the door. It sagged in the most horrible fashion, twisting, and in less than a minute it had transformed itself into a disgustingly deformed and dwarfish hag. The crone had vile wattles of sallow skin hanging from her face, and enormous, staring eyes. Her face contorted in fury, and she started swinging herself across the room towards Lady Desmond on a pair of gnarled crutches. Spittle foamed from her mouth, and her grimaces and contortions became more and more hideous every moment as she closed on the Earl’s wife.

With a vile yell, the hag threw herself at the Lady’s feet, rolling and threshing in a most alarming fit. Lady Desmond darted up from her seat in alarm, but managed to keep silent, and forced herself back into her seat. The hag convulsed repulsively, spinning and spinning until she suddenly spun herself into a huge serpent. The snake fixed Lady Desmond with cold, black eyes and drew itself up slowly, coils slithering against each other, repulsive tongue darting and twitching towards her. It pulled back and up and up and back until it was towering over her, swaying. She found herself powerless to move, hypnotised by the terrifying reptile’s vile glare, suddenly certain her husband’s spell had gone fatally wrong. Drops of venom hissed from its fangs as it reared back to strike, and then crashed down towards her.

In the instant that it was about to bite, as panic was about to overwhelm her, she could see the Earl in the snake’s stead, standing before her. He was as pale as ice, with beads of sweat on his brow. He had his finger across his lips, entreating her to maintain her silence. Almost before she could register his presence, he was dashed to the floor by invisible forces and stretched out to his full height. To her horror, the stretching did not stop. The Earl was pulled out longer and longer and thinner and thinner, his face contorted with agony, stretching across the huge room until he would reach from one wall to the other. He uttered no sound, but his face writhed in tormented anguish.

Lady Desmond was overcome with unbearable guilt and horror at her noble lover’s suffering. She was so lost in her horror that she did not even realise she had let out a despairing wail.

Instantly, the castle and all that was within it sank to the bottom of the lake, and that was that.

But, once in every seven years, under cover of night, the Earl of Desmond and his retinue emerge from the depths and cross the land in a shadowy cavalcade. The Earl rides a whte horse with silver horseshoes, and on that one night alone, he is allowed to ride and ride until daybreak. It is in his interest to make good use of his time, for the spell that holds the castle’s inhabitants at the bottom of the lake will only lose its power when his horse’s silver shoes are finally worn through.

Even that is not the end of the Earl’s story, however. When I (being Miss Anne Baily) was a child, a man named Teigue O’Neill was still living, and he had a strange story to tell.

O’Neill was a smith, and his forge stood on the brow of the hill, overlooking the lake, on a lonely stretch of the road to Cahir Conlish. One particular brightly moonlit night, he was working very late, all on his own. The only signs of life and conscious vigil for miles around were the clink of his hammer and anvil, and the glow of his fire shining through his forge door.

Between strikes, the smith became aware of the ringing of many hooves pounding up the steep road that passed his forge. He went to the doorway, and was just in time to see a gentleman ride up on a white horse, dressed in a fashion the likes of which he had never before seen. This gentleman was accompanied by a mounted retinue of men who followed, each as strangely dressed as he himself was.

It seemed to the smith, by the clang and clatter that announced their approach, as if they were riding on up the hill at a hard gallop. Their pace slowed suddenly as they drew near however. The rider of the white horse was a grave man with a lordly air, clearly accustomed to command, and the smith assumed him to be a man of rank. As this lord came close, he drew bridle, and halted at the smith’s door.

The lord did not speak, and all his men remained silent. Wordlessly, the lord beckoned to the smith, and pointed down at one of his horse’s hooves. The smith obediently lifted the hoof and examined it. He held it just long enough to see that it was shod with a silver shoe, worn as thin as a wafer. Then the true situation dawned on the smith, and he recoiled with a terrified prayer.

Pain and fury crossed the lord’s face, and he slashed down at the smith suddenly with something that whistled through the air like a whip. An icy streak seemed to rip through Teigue’s body as if he had been slashed through with a leaf of steel. Despite the pain he was totally unscathed, as he later discovered. In the same moment, the whole assembly broke into gallop and hurtled down the hill, even momentarily vaulting into the air, like a ball from a cannon.

The mysterious lord had been none other than the accursed Earl himself. He had tried one of his favourite strategies for tricking the smith into talking to him. It is well known that the imprisoned magician repeatedly tries to make people address him directly, presumably for the purpose of shortening the duration of his enchantment. But if he were to succeed – and maybe he has, from time to time – there is no way to know what would happen to the hapless wretch so ensnared… for none who have succumbed and spoken to the Earl have ever been found.

Original story by J. Sheridan LeFanu, 1860. Rewrite (c) Tim Dedopulos 2004