There once was an ambitious young man in Tipperary by the name of Ryan. Ryan loved horses, but more important to him than the animals themselves was the thrill of racing them, and the pride he felt when he beat the other boys in the races. Ryan didn’t have any close friends, because he considered the other boys in his village to be rivals in racing, and rivals for attention from the girls. But Ryan didn’t care about love or friendship. He wanted respect. But respect is what he did not get from his chief racing opponent, Conor.
“Well, if it isn’t little Ryan, my best friend,” sneered the older boy, giving Ryan a supposedly playful shove. “Good luck in the race, boyo – you’ll need it. And may the best man win.” Conor and the other boys laughed, obviously enjoying Ryan’s sullen silence. It didn’t help Ryan’s mood when he lost the race to Conor that day.
Ryan was a fine lad, sure enough, and worked hard on his family’s farm. But he longed to make a name for himself, and to leave his parent’s home and his little town and become someone important. To Ryan, the best way to earn the respect of others was to become the best horseman around. He was already one of the best racers in his village, but if he wanted to compete with better riders, he would need a better horse. He would need to find the finest horse in all of Ireland.
Ryan had heard stories from his grandfather about mysterious creatures seldom seen by human eyes, magical animals known as Each Uisge (Awk Ishka), or Water Horses.
One day his grandfather told him, “ Water Horses live in the sea, Ryan, but sometimes, usually in November, they come out of the ocean and gallop up and down the beaches of the west coast. There are no faster horses in all the world than the Water Horses. But their speed makes it very hard to catch them. And it’s dangerous creatures that they are, for as long as they can see or smell the ocean, they are unpredictable. The trick, if you can manage it, is to surprise one of them, put a rope or a saddle on it, and ride it inland away from the sea. If you can do all that, then the Water Horse makes an excellent riding horse, indeed.”
“If I had such a fine horse,” Ryan replied, “I would give it a name to match its greatness.”
“Be careful what you name something,” cautioned his grandfather. “Words have power, and that is especially true in the world of supernatural beings. Magic has its dark side, just as people do.”
One beautiful November day Ryan left his home in County Tipperary, and rode west in search of a horse that would help him win fame, honor, and glory. He followed the River Shannon until he came to where it meets the sea. Knowing that beings from other realities are more likely to be visible at night, he tied his horse to a tree and slept until it was quite dark.
But the darkness was not only due to the setting of the sun. Clouds had rolled in from the sea, and with them, rain, and thunder, and lightning. Shivering in the cold and the rain, Ryan waited, and watched. The storm became more violent, and the winds picked up and the waves became bigger and the surf became louder. The young lad began to regret that he had chosen to journey to the sea.
But was it only the sound of the surf he was hearing, or something else? He strained his ears to listen. Yes – there was something else. It sounded like a dull roar coming from far under the water. The sound grew louder and louder, until Ryan heard the unmistakable neighing of a horse. Suddenly there was an explosion in the surf, and out of the ocean galloped a white horse. Lightning flashed, and the horse reared up, muscles rippling, water streaming from its sides, moonlight gleaming on its flanks. It was the most magnificent animal Ryan had ever seen.
The Water Horse raced up and down the beach as the storm raged. Ryan got his rope ready, and waited. As the Water Horse slowed to a trot near Ryan’s hiding place, the boy jumped up and threw his rope around the neck of the creature, then leaped upon its back. Startled, the white horse began to gallop once more, but Ryan knew what to do. He guided the mystic animal toward his own waiting horse, grabbed its reins, and rode the Water Horse east and inland toward his home. Whether the Water Horse followed the boy’s lead because it was surprised, or because of its rider’s skill, or because of some rule of enchantment, Ryan did not know. But the Water Horse seemed to accept its fate, especially as they rode farther and farther from the ocean.
Ryan told his family and neighbors that he had found an untamed horse, but he did not tell them it was a Water Horse. Even so, people began to talk, as Ryan won every race he entered in Tipperary and beyond. Some said it was no ordinary horse, and muttered darkly that it had the powers of the sidhe (shee), or fairies. But Ryan didn’t care what people said. They were just jealous of his success. He named his prized horse Fortune, because of the riches and fame that soon would be his. The people of Tipperary began to call it the Wonder Horse. The reputation of Ryan’s swift Fortune spread, and wasn’t Ryan feeling mighty important himself?
Ah, yes – pride. It usually goes with success. And there’s nothing wrong with pride, if a person can also manage to stay humble. But Ryan wasn’t humble. “I am the finest racer in all Ireland, and maybe the whole world!” he boasted. And while the other boys admired Ryan’s success, they didn’t admire him.
The grumbling and resentment continued to grow, and at last, after one particularly dramatic victory by Ryan and Fortune near the Rock of Cashel, Ryan’s competitors could stand their losses no more. Several boys angrily confronted Ryan, calling him arrogant, and other names. While Ryan was thus distracted, his longtime adversary Conor leaped up into Fortune’s saddle, grabbed its reins, and took off! Ryan cried out in shock and outrage, “Come back, Fortune – you belong to me!” But the steed paid no heed.
Ryan cursed the fickle nature of Fortune, and realized bitterly that Fortune obeys no master who is not in the saddle, and sometimes not even one who is. In the days and weeks that followed, Ryan came to understand that while Fortune was fleet, his success with it was even more fleeting. Respect would have to come some other way.
But Conor was overjoyed to have a horse that he could ride like the wind. He did not know what he would do with Fortune, but right now he didn’t care – he was just glad to have stolen the horse from Ryan. He rode south toward Cork, laughing at the suffering he had caused his racing opponent. Conor rode Fortune through glens and up into the hills above the Golden Vale of Tipperary, thrilled to be the master of Fortune, the fastest horse in Ireland.
At last horse and rider reached the crest of a ridge, and Conor paused to admire the view. In the distance was Cork harbor. Conor and Fortune inhaled the fresh air, which had just a trace of a sea breeze. Suddenly the Wonder Horse reared, its nostrils flaring and eyes wide and tempestuous. It had detected a bit of salt in the air. Snorting, the white horse leaped forward, down the hill and toward the ocean. Alarmed, Conor tried to rein in the animal, but to no avail. Faster and faster galloped Fortune, and it was all the terrified Conor could do to stay on the spell-bound creature. As it approached the water it did not slow down, and to Conor’s horror Fortune plunged over a cliff and into the waves and dived deep into the sea, until Conor was drowned and his lifeless body let go of the reins.
Conor’s body eventually washed up to the shore, but no one ever saw the Water Horse again. Oh, there were stories of a white horse galloping along the western beaches in the weeks following Halloween each year, but they were just stories, surely.
After Conor’s death, legends in Tipperary have warned of the wild winds of Fortune, by which they mean that ambition and success can be treacherous, and that it is not wise to envy someone else’s Fortune. There is now a saying in Tipperary that you can lead a horse to water, but it may take you into the drink.
© 2004
David Wigginton 