Here's an old story about Gob the Builder. When the great Gob-an-Shor, the most skilled builder that ancient Ireland knew, and also the smartest man in all of Ireland, with the exception, however, of his wife - by the way, I would not forget that I must tell you something about her - so, when Gob went to France in those distant times to build a palace for the king there, he took with him his young son.
It was a hot summer day, and both were very tired, especially the boy: he was weaker and not used to traveling.
At noon they reached Cruach Gorm, and Gob said to the boy:
“My son, carry your old father over the mountains!” The surprised kid was indignant:
-Are you out of your mind, father? I can’t do the impossible, you know!
“Well, let's go home then,” said Gob. And they turned home.
The next morning Gob said to his son:
“Today we will move again, may God help us!” And they went.
It was hot, and, as the day before, when they reached the base of Cruach Gorm, they were both terribly tired. And Gob said to his son:
- O my son, carry me over the mountains! The boy replied:
- Father, but you really have lost all your mind. I, poor thing, can’t climb this mountain myself, and I can’t even carry you!
“Well, then we’ll go home again,” said Gob. And they turned home again.
That night, when Gob had already gone to bed, the mother asked her son:
“For two mornings in a row, you and your father have been going to France, but every evening you come back. What does it mean?
“Mom,” answered the son, “it seems to me that our father has gone completely crazy.” Every time we reach Cruach Gorm, and I just collapse from fatigue, this man, just imagine, asks me, weak and small, to carry him over the mountains!
“Oh, my boy,” his mother says to him, “before you can go out into the big world, you still have a lot to learn.” Tomorrow morning your father will set off with you again, and the same thing will happen again, as soon as you reach Cruach Gorm. And when he asks you to carry him over the mountains, you begin to tell him “The Wood Cuckoo” or “The Queen of the Lonely Island” or “The Princess of the Hill-at-the-Edge of the World” - in short, any of the beautiful Irish tales that I told you in the evenings. Tell the story and keep going, you'll see what happens!
The son promised his mother to do everything as she advised. And when the next day they approached Cruach Gorm and Gob again asked: “O my son, carry me over the mountains!” - the boy, as if not hearing his request, asked:
- Father, have you ever heard the fairy tale about the three sons of an Irish king who decided to steal the daughter of an Arab sheikh?
“I heard,” answered the old man, “but I could have listened many more times.”
And the boy began to tell it from beginning to end, this sweet, sweet tale, with the same rapture with which his mother once told it. And when he uttered the last wonderful words of this long, long story, the old father raised his eyes and looked first forward, then back, then up and down: Cruach Gorm was already behind!
- Oh my boy! - exclaimed Gob. “You are your mother’s son!” Today you carried us both through the mountains so easily.
Well, to tell the truth, our enchanting old tales have transported me more than once over mountains, sometimes so inaccessible!
And you, my readers, who for a good half of your life have to break the wall of everyday difficulties, I will invite you, when the next insomnia comes to you, to a three-week vacation in the enchanted hills and valleys of those very magical mountains that made me a new person - to the land of our fairy tales, the land of kings and queens, poets and prophets, scientists and sorcerers, smart wives and stupid husbands, and maybe even fairies, and ghosts, and talking birds and animals (who speak much smarter than other people). To pass the time, I may or may not sing soul-delighting poems for you and will certainly tell you fifty delightful tales.
You probably don’t even know that among all kinds of spirits there are those whom we call suitors. In the guise of a simple mortal, and a very good-looking one at that, the suitor waits for a pretty girl on a deserted heather moor and begins to court her. And if she, foolish, allows him to kiss her, eternal damnation and death await her, and her soul will fly away with her lover to his magical land.
Moira Manahan, now withered, hunched over and gray-haired, but once bearing a beautiful name - the Flowering Branch of the Valley of Eini, Moira in the days of her blooming youth met such a suitor, but by God's grace she escaped the fatal kiss. And yet, when he was courting her (“Ah, no Irish guy ever whispered such sweet and seductive words in my ear!” she sighed later), he took the ring off his finger and gave her a look through it at the enchanted world. And she saw dancing and frolicking elves and sixty beautiful youths playing tag in the middle of a marvelous green valley.
"Oh! - Moira exclaimed in delight, telling me her story. - Ah! After what I saw there, not a single sight on earth brought me joy!”
Without any evil intention or harmful consequences, I will let you look through this magic ring, and when you even catch a glimpse of the magical land of folk fantasy, it will captivate you much more than all the pleasures of your social life. And if I am wrong, I will curse the goose with whose pen I wrote this promise here, and roast it at the stake to avenge you.
So listen!
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru