THE COOMEEN WELL

“Indeed it is rare for an Irishman to tell a story. About as rare as the sky meeting the sea.”

– Judith Garibaldi O’Toole, St Patrick’s Day 1923.

Michael was a wealthy young man, a favorite of the village and the faeries since birth when the blessings of the ancient gods were visible to the Tuatha De Danann. Even the Druids took notice of someone out of their realm for a change, consistently nodding their stark approval. When his father passed back in January he was intercepted after the funeral by several of the elders. Did Da talk of the well, lad, or did he plan to take the secret to his grave?

“I know nothing of the well,” smiled Michael. “Da never spoke of it. He took me there once but would not let me look down it. He said unfriendly spirits dwelt there and that was all. “Stay clear!” he had said. He dropped a small spittoon down the well to further dissuade any future embarkations on my part. We listened hard for it to hit. Then we went to the pub.”

Soon Michael began thinking about the Coomeen Well. Why were these men so concerned, almost frightened?

“Some say it is enchanted and that the faeries will push a mortal down into the dark shaft just for the fun of hearing him hit bottom,” he told his sister Maureen, who was having none of it. “I’ll be passing the well this afternoon. Can I bring you anything?”

“Bring back some sense if you can,” she ripped. “since you don’t seem to have much of it.”

Michael laughed her off saying “I am a favorite” protected from the banshee and even the troll under the bridge. “The wee people love me and no harm can befall a favorite of the leprechauns. My life is blessed.”

He walked home that afternoon along the bogs and the east estuary where he turned down a steep path toward the well. It was quiet and starting to rain when he began to smell the seaweed, the primrose, and the mossy rock that went on forever, across the beach, then darted up over emerald hills through eyebright and blackthorn. He was there…at their wicked well. All appeared quite peaceful.

“Who goes there?” said a low voice from in the ground

“It is Michael, a friend to the Danann.”

“We have no friends. Go away.”

“I will not. I am a favorite of the Danann.”

The little man was red-faced, freckled and stuck in the well just a few feet from the surface. He appeared exhausted. It was clear that he could easily be rescued with a stout pull or two but first he had to make sure whom he was dealing with on this misty afternoon.

“What will you do for me if I pull you up?” asked Michael.

“I don’t need your help,” said the voice in the well. I am happy down here.”

“How is that possible? It is dark, wet and slippery. You must be mad.”

“No I am happy. Come and take a look for yourself.”

‘Michael moved closer, careful to keep some space between himself and the rock chamber.

“I will gladly pull you up sir but what will be my reward?” he asked knowing the wee people could be clever and adept at twisting fantasy into reality.

“Gold! All of you humans would sell your souls for a pound of gold. I shall make you a rich man this very day.”

Michael moved to the circle of rock that crested the shaft and looked down into the darkness.

“But I am already rich. Nonetheless I shall rescue you and you will give me gold to make me even richer.”

“That’s right,” said the voice from the well.”

Michael’s grave near Castletown-Bearhaven

Michael reached down to pull the man up and found himself swiftly yanked into the well, falling and falling to the sound of laughter. He was jerked so smoothly and violently that his boots remained on the ground, transfixed. Next to them, according to the lies and truth, was his father’s spittoon crammed full of gold coins The magic treasure soon surfaced at the pub, growing lighter by the hour, with the remainder of the loot going to the poor.

No one on in Castletown-Bearhaven ever saw Michael again. Every so often a loved one carefully throws flowers down the well, thinking of the young man and his harrowing departure.

Only a small sign on the well memorializes “a favorite of the faeries”. It reads: Niether a bhrú ná a tharraingt má tá tú lán buicéad that translates as Neither push or pull if your bucket is full.

Others watch the well from up high – sometimes wrapped in the coat of a lamb, caked with sand or even in the dress of Cliodhna…Intruders are pushed into the well by the faeries more than we realize. The pucas in the dark prefer to torment England’s idle rich and tourists from America bragging on their Irish roots.

– Leopold Bloom