Origin: Ireland
Book: Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry
Author: William Butler Yeats
Published: 1888

On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called
Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and
the gable-ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will.
Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept
house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece,
on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and
had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than
the King of Spain.

Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child
sneezed, which was naturally taken to be a good sign of his having a
clear head; and the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly
amazing, for on the very first day a primer was put into his hands he
tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath
his notice. No wonder, then, that both father and mother were proud of
their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they
called it in that part of the world, “_genus_.”

One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old,
was missing, and no one could tell what had become of him: servants
were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot, but
they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance
altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it
produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and
Mrs. Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of
their lost child.

There lived at this time, near Carrigaline, one Robert Kelly, a
blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his
abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of
the neighbourhood; for, independent of shoeing horses, which he did to
great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for
the young women, sung “Arthur O’Bradley” at their weddings, and was so
good-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the
country round.

Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip
Ronayne appeared to him in it, at the dead hour of the night. Robin
thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that
he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon MacMahon, who
had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the
rock. “The seven years–my time of service–are clean out, Robin,”
said he, “and if you release me this night I will be the making of you
for ever after.”

“And how will I know,” said Robin–cunning enough, even in his
sleep–“but this is all a dream?”

“Take that,” said the boy, “for a token”–and at the word the white
horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a
kick in the forehead that, thinking he was a dead man, he roared as
loud as he could after his brains, and woke up, calling a thousand
murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the
regular print of a horse-shoe, upon his forehead as red as blood; and
Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of
any other person, did not know what to think of his own.

Robin was well acquainted with the Giant’s Stairs–as, indeed, who is
not that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock,
which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps from very
deep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly
suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to
stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the
space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant
MacMahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and
the common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the
cliff up whose side the stairs led.

Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he
determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however,
before setting out on this adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad
companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down
argument, having on more occasions than one settled a little
disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he
marched, in the cool of the evening, through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s
Glen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name)
lived, who, on hearing Robin’s dream, promised him the use of his skiff,
and, moreover, offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant’s Stairs.

After a supper, which was of the best, they embarked. It was a
beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The
regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes
the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone
broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their
favour, and in a few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars
under the dark shadow of the Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously
for the entrance to the Giant’s palace, which, it was said, may be
found by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he
see. His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after
waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be
described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to
his companion, “‘Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming
here at all on the strength of a dream.”

“And whose doing is it,” said Tom, “but your own?”

At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering of light to
proceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big
enough for a king’s palace unfolded itself almost on a level with the
water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin
Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and
a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance, the whole of which
appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely
each with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of
one formed the nose of another; what appeared to be a fixed and stern
eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the
lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin
allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific
they became; and the stoney expression of this crowd of faces assumed
a savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature
into a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which
these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and
devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the
rock was about to close upon him, and swallow him up alive for ever.
Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.

“Robin, Robin,” said he, “if you were a fool for coming here, what in
the name of fortune are you now?” But, as before, he had scarcely
spoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of
the distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of
the question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage,
that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back.
He, therefore, proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last
into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp
that had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single
lamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic
figures seated round a massive stone table, as if in serious
deliberation, but no word disturbed the breathless silence which
prevailed. At the head of this table sat Mahon MacMahon himself, whose
majestic beard had taken root, and in the course of ages grown into
the stone slab. He was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly
starting up, drew his long beard from out the huge piece of rock in
such haste and with so sudden a jerk that it was shattered into a
thousand pieces.

“What seek you?” he demanded in a voice of thunder.

“I come,” answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put on,
for his heart was almost fainting within him; “I come,” said he, “to
claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.”

“And who sent you here?” said the giant.

“‘Twas of my own accord I came,” said Robin.

“Then you must single him out from among my pages,” said the giant;
“and if you fix on the wrong one, your life is the forfeit. Follow
me.” He led Robin into a hall of vast extent, and filled with lights;
along either side of which were rows of beautiful children, all
apparently seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in
green, and every one exactly dressed alike.

“Here,” said Mahon, “you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will;
but, remember, I give but one choice.”

Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of
children; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought.
But he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was
the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every
step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge battering on his anvil.

They had nearly reached the end without speaking, when Robin, seeing
that the only means he had was to make friends with the giant,
determined to try what effect a few soft words might have.

“‘Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,” remarked
Robin, “although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh
air and the blessed light of heaven. ‘Tis tenderly your honour must
have reared them!”

“Ay,” said the giant, “that is true for you; so give me your hand; for
you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.”

Robin at the first look did not much like the huge size of the hand,
and, therefore, presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing,
twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a potato
stalk. On seeing this all the children set up a shout of laughter. In
the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name called; and
all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken,
crying out at the same time, “Let me live or die for it, but this is
young Phil Ronayne.”

“It is Philip Ronayne–happy Philip Ronayne,” said his young
companions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises
were heard, and all was in strange confusion; but Robin held fast his
prize, and found himself lying in the grey dawn of the morning at the
head of the Giant’s Stairs with the boy clasped in his arms.

Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful
adventure: Passage, Monkstown, Carrigaline–the whole barony of
Kerricurrihy rung with it.

“Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne you have brought
back with you?” was the regular question; for although the boy had
been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the
day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and
he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one
awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.

“Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,” was Robin’s reply; “seeing
the boy has the blue eye of the mother, with the foxy hair of the
father; to say nothing of the _purty_ wart on the right side of his
little nose.”

However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of
Ronayne’s Court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child
from the power of the giant MacMahon; and the reward they bestowed on
him equalled their gratitude.

Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the
day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was
believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the
giant Mahon MacMahon.