The blacksmith has always been a powerful figure in myth and legend. It is hardly surprising that someone who had command of the mysteries of fire to transform iron would have a special role in traditional cultures, and could be thought to have other powers that might be considered miraculous too.
There is a family by name of Curtis, or Curtin, in the Kilnaboy area that have a reputation for having a cure for liver disease, bleeding, and cows who swallow potatoes. This cure is passed on from one generation to the next, since the day, long ago, when the Kilnaboy blacksmith did a great service that saved the life of someone in dire need. Some say it was Saint Patrick himself that the blacksmith helped; others say that it was a priest during the penal times whose life he saved; but all are clear that the cure was given to Curtis as a blessing, in thanks for a service rendered in time of need. Here is one version of the story:
A long time ago there was a blacksmith living in Kilnaboy by the name of Curtin. His forge was in a hut that stood by the side of the road, convenient for anyone passing by. The smith worked there every day despite the fact that he was not in the best of health. For a blacksmith, he was not the strongest of men, as he suffered from the liver complaint.
One fine morning, as he worked in the forge, Curtin saw a horseman coming towards him at a gallop. The horse was lathered in sweat and dust, the rider gaunt, ragged, filthy and drawn. Both looked exhausted, as if the hounds of Hell were at their heels and would soon catch up with them.
Horse and rider came to stop in front of the forge and the man dismounted.
‘A blessing on you good smith, if you would shoe my horse, and quickly, in the name of God.’
The smith investigated the horse’s damaged shoe, and watched the worried face of the rider, who was constantly looking over his shoulder. He agreed to shoe the horse and set about his work.
While he was shaping the metal he noticed that the man’s hands were shaking, and his breathing was fast and irregular.
Curtin asked, ‘What is wrong with you, man? Are you unwell, sir? I can’t help but notice you seem to be terribly afraid of something.’
The man replied ‘I am a priest and I am being hunted like a dog by the English. I have been fleeing from them for three days now, and still they are close behind me. I cannot keep on riding like this, nor can my horse keep up this pace. I greatly fear that it will not be long before they catch me, and God help me if they do!’
The smith felt sorry for the hunted priest. By his eyes and his demeanour, he could see the priest was a good man, and he wished he could think of a way to help him. After a while he came up with a cunning plan.
He turned to the priest and said, ‘Bring in your horse.’
The smith removed all four of the horse’s shoes, turned them back to front and nailed them on again.
The priest looked baffled, until the smith explained his plan, ‘ Now, when your horse travels in this direction, anyone who sees the tracks will think it is going the opposite way.’
The priest was delighted and shook his hand and thanked him very much, saying he wished that he could do something for him in exchange for his kindness.
As he made ready to leave, the priest asked Curtin if he was suffering from any disease.
‘I have the ‘Liver Complaint’,’ said the smith.
‘When you wake next morning, you will find yourself cured,’ said the priest. ‘And more than that, this blessing will pass from you to your descendants, so that always your family will always have the cure. People will come to you to cure their liver disease, and you will always have a way to earn a living.’
Since that day, many people have been cured by this gift of the Curtins of Kilnaboy.
The sick person lies on an anvil and the smith pretends to strike him three times with his hammer, after which the patient must drink forge water. A person going for the cure needs to go on two Mondays and a Thursday. The man who has the cure now (in the late 1930s) is called Robert Curtin.
The blacksmith has always been a figure of fascination and has often been accredited with unusual powers, sometimes as a healer, other times as a go-between with the fairies and other unseen forces.
There was a man named Melican who lived in the townland of Cahercanivan near Kilmihil. He was known in the area as ‘The Gaba Ruad’, or ‘Goweru’, because he was a blacksmith by trade and had red hair. His forge was by a crossroads that is still known as the Gaba Ruad’s Cross, although a different house is there now.
People said that the Goweru had a habit of ‘going with the fairies’, and that he was a master of all the ‘holy travellers’ or ghosts. The reputation of his uncanny gift of prophecy and other remarkable powers meant many of his neighbours were afraid of him.
The Goweru would often disappear for several days at a time. No one could say where he had gone, nor why. Those with less of an imagination would say that he had taken to his bed. Wherever it was he went, when he returned he could tell his customers and neighbours all manner of secret things that had happened to them or their families.
He told one man about a letter he had received in the last few days, from a relative in America informing him of his brother’s death there. He told him that he had become heir to a small fortune – a fact that the man had chosen to keep secret from his neighbours for the meantime. He told other people about perils that would befall them on a certain date. Sometimes it was good news that he told about. Whatever he said, his prophecies always came true, and so people were careful not to offend him in case he would set his friends, the fairies, or ‘good people’, against them. Because of his clients’ fears, the forge was always busy, and no one would dare to quarrel over whatever he charged for his services.
When he was absent from the forge, people said he was travelling with the good people, or living with them within the green hills. As soon as he returned, he could tell his neighbours if one of them had gone to another blacksmith, even for a small job, like putting in a single nail to a horse’s hoof. He would punish them, saying they would not do it again. He would put a spell on them then, so that their horses would then run lame. The other blacksmiths would refuse to help them for fear of the Goweru’s anger.
He was a great judge of horses, and could tell his neighbours to the penny what price would be offered for their horses at the next fair, and whether they would accept the price.
He would also tell them tales from his travels with the fairies, tell what he had seen the night before. He would describe how he had seen a particular white cow in a certain spot in their field that night.
One night, a party of horsemen came to wake him when he was asleep in his bed. They told him to get up and make ready to ride with them. He had no horse himself, so they told him to climb onto a plough that lay outside the wall of the forge. He mounted the plough and it rose up, carrying him along with the party of horsemen as they flew over ditches and dykes, riding through the night. In the morning he was deposited back at the forge and took to his bed for the day.
Later that day a beggar man came to his door, asking for a place to rest for the night. The Goweru welcomed him in and gave the poor man a place to sleep. He noticed the beggar getting weaker and more weary as each hour passed. ‘Are you sick, man?’ he asked, but the beggar said ‘No’.
‘Should I fetch you the priest?’ asked the blacksmith.
‘No, no, it’s late. It will keep till the morning.’
But the Goweru feared the man would not last so long, and went out in the night to fetch the priest. The priest gave the poor man the last rites, and he died a few hours later.
Some months later, that same old man’s ghost appeared at the forge late one night. The man asked, ‘You were kind to me, blacksmith. Is there something I can do for you? What do you want? Ask me, and I will give it.’
The Goweru asked, ‘Answer me this: What sort of place is the otherworld?’
The old man said, ‘It is a good man that will have the sheltery side of the ditch earned for himself on the Last Day’.
There was at one time a blacksmith working around Mount Callan, whose life was a complete mystery to the people there. If you asked, no one could tell you where he lived. No one could give you directions to the forge. No one ever saw him at work. Despite all the mystery, the work still got done. The smith shod horses and he made whatever tools the farmers in the area needed.
One day, as the smith was walking along, he saw a number of soldiers on horseback coming along the road. He could see that the horse the general rode was very lame. The general called out to him, asking did he know was there if a forge anywhere nearby that he could get his horse shod.
The smith answered, ‘I do not. But if you will break the horse’s leg and give to me the shin bone and the hoof, I will bring it back to you shod, and the horse will be none the worse after it.’
The general was mystified, but as the horse was lame anyway, he did as the smith said. The horse lay down on the ground and looked asleep. The smith took the shin and hoof and said he’d be back in twenty minutes time.
When he came back he had a new shoe on the horse’s hoof. He put the two parts of the horse’s leg together and said some words no one could understand. As soon as he did, the horse woke up, shook itself and stood up on its four legs again, good as new.
The general was delighted with the work done well and quickly. He asked the man what he owed the smith for his work. The smith answered, ‘He takes no money.’
‘Well, what is this smith’s name?’
‘Mairtin Liam Gaba,’ said the smith, and was gone as quick as a flash.
The Blacksmith’s Cure: SFS (1937-38) Patrick McGuane, Scumhall, Corofin, County Clare, p.57, Diseart.
An Gaba Ruad: SFS (1937-38) Thomas Madigan, Burrane Lower, Burrane School, p.12; John O’Dea, told to Thomas MacDonnell, Tullycrine NS p.64.
The Mysterious Blacksmith: SFS (1937-38) Michael Donlan, Caherush.