The storyteller’s voice is soft, hypnotic, the gentle Irish rolling smoothly off his tongue. The audience, packed into a small schoolroom, is spellbound, adults and children alike. Slowly he weaves the tale of the lonely farmer, the strange golden ball he finds and hides in the chimney, the beautiful young girl who comes to work for him, and the frightening visitor who rides in at midnight.
‘His horse’s hooves striking sparks out of the stones,’ he says. ‘Into the room with him, and he stops in the middle of the floor.’ In the dramatic pause that follows, you could hear a pin drop. Then he lowers his voice to a near-whisper: ‘Ní bhainimse leis an saol seo, tagaim ón saol eile (I am not of this life, I come from the Otherworld)’.
A collective sigh arises from the people, and they nod slowly. This is as it should be. The storyteller has them in the palm of his hand now. He leads the story up and around and about, and finally to its happy ending. There is the tribute of a full five seconds of enraptured silence before the applause takes over.
Diarmuid Ó Drisceoil is a scéalaí, or storyteller, and historian, and this is the annual Cape Clear Storytelling Festival. Participants come from all over the world, while the local ferry companies lay on extra sailings and the pubs stock up on supplies. Tales are told in English as well as Irish, by New Yorkers as well as Kerrymen and Galwegians, but all are part of the same creative process that brings legends to life and connects story, storyteller and audience in the oldest, most satisfying way.
The art of storytelling is still alive in Ireland, and not just at special festivals. Anywhere a few are gathered, someone will always have a tale to tell, and everyone settles down to listen. It’s an old custom. Back in ancient Ireland, poets recounted great battles or recited the genealogy of the noble family under whose roof they were being sheltered. Well-loved tales of Cúchulainn, of Fionn Mac Cumhaill, of the Red Branch Knights and Queen Maeve, were told in great halls by the blazing log fire, as the winds howled, the rain pattered on the roof, and the audience crowded closer to hear every word.
The ancient tales of Ireland are meant to be recounted by the human voice and heard by the human ear. They were not designed to be read page by page, the book perhaps being casually put down with a marker showing where you had left off. They were never intended for computer screens. They were an experience in which everyone shared – whether they laughed, wept or mourned.
The ancient tales of Ireland are meant to be recounted by the human voice and heard by the human ear.
A well-told story might go on all night, with digressions added, depending on comments from the crowd. It could take several different directions, depending on whose family needed to be praised or discredited for the occasion. (Just as Shakespeare discreetly ended his Henry VIII with the birth of Elizabeth, omitting any mention of the later beheading of Elizabeth’s mother, so too would an Irish bard adjust his tale for his patron.)
For thousands of years, the legends and stories of Ireland, royal genealogies and records of major events were passed down in the oral tradition, through the songs, poems, epic declamations of druids, bards and poets. Being able to recall a complete family history with marriages and intermarriages, recite the stirring events of a great battle, or relate how the Tuatha Dé Danann vanquished the Fomorians was the skill of those who had trained their memories for many years. The direct descendants of these are the traditional storytellers, who still enjoy a devoted following throughout Ireland.
Over the centuries, one rule has always held firm: You are not a true scéalaí unless you have in your memory, and can relate at the drop of a hat, in every detail, the Three Sorrows of Storytelling. This is the collective name for three stories: The Quest of the Children of Turenn, The Fate of the Sons of Usna, and The Enchantment of the Children of Lir.
