The Legend of the Golden Key

  MERCIER PRESS

  3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

  Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

  www.mercierpress.ie

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  First published in 1983 by The Children's Press, an imprint of Anvil Books

  This edition published by Mercier Press, 2011

  © Tom McCaughren, 1983, 1989, 2011

  ISBN: 978 1 85635 803 3

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 964 1

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 961 0

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  To my daughters

  Michelle, Amanda, Samantha and Simone

  Slowly, but surely, we were being drawn closer and closer to that awful Cup. The roar of water as it plunged fifty feet or more to the bottom was growing louder and louder. We could see no way of escape. The only outlet was the narrow tunnel at the bottom of the giant bowl which carried the water away beneath the estate to goodness knows where. Some people said it came out under the boating lake, but no one was sure if it ever came out anywhere. One thing was certain; nothing could survive being swept down it. And on the far side of the Cup rose the spike-topped wall which we could never hope to climb, even if we could reach it. We were trapped.

  Grimly we gripped the edge of the raft, our eyes riveted on that gaping hole that was swallowing up the lake. We couldn’t take our eyes off it, and you may not believe this but I could swear that as we watched mesmerised we could see in the cloud of spray that hung over the Cup a form – the white wispy form of that poor girl Old Daddy Armstrong was telling us about – a pale, pathetic figure, her long silken hair rising and falling around her shoulders, a slender hand outstretched towards us … beckoning us … luring us ever closer to the doom that had been hers so many years before …

  INTRODUCTION

  When The Legend of the Golden Key was first published, it was shortened to make it a compact paperback. It proved to be one of the most popular books I had written for young people, and a few years later we felt we owed it to our readers to publish the story in its entirety as originally written. It was the original version that my eldest daughter, Michelle, read and she still recalls it as one of the happiest memories of her childhood.

  In the course of visits to schools, libraries and book fairs in both parts of Ireland, many young people have asked me if the legend is true. The answer is, ‘Not exactly!’ However, many aspects of it are based on fact, and some of the settings are real.

  While the story could just as easily have taken place in County Wexford or any other county in Ireland, I imagined it in my native County Antrim, and indeed some of the characters, like Shouting Sam, are drawn from the very colourful and loveable characters that were a feature of my childhood there.

  Those were the days when packets of Woodbine Cigarettes could be bought for a few pence and many young people, not knowing the dangers of smoking, were inclined to have a ‘pull’ behind their parents’ backs. Now, of course, things are different. We’re all aware, as Cowlick points out, that smoking can be bad for our health. And so while Tapser is tempted to smoke not only cigarettes, but the pipe, young people of today will know better.

  Likewise, they will be aware of the dangers involved in going onto a river or lake on such an unreliable means of transport as a makeshift raft, the craft which features in this original version. Just how foolhardy it is of Tapser and his friends to attempt such a voyage becomes obvious.

  The Devil’s Cup, which they encounter in such a dramatic fashion, may be seen in a corner of the lake, or park dam as it’s known locally, in the People’s Park in Ballymena, where my grandfather, Tom Smyth, was caretaker for many years, although the Cup is now railed over for safety and seems much smaller than it did when I was a boy.

  As for the ‘fairy fort’ on Wariff Hill, that could be any one of several Norman forts, large earthen mounds that used to intrigue me as I stood on top of them and surveyed the countryside, as there was a common belief that from the top of one you could see the next and so on right across the North of Ireland.

  As a boy I often attended the point-to-point races in the fields at Galgorm on the outskirts of Ballymena, and they were, as Tapser says, a powerful thing to watch.

  At times, when writing, I may also have had in mind fleeting glimpses of Galgorm Castle. However, it’s in Johnstown Castle in County Wexford that the unique features of the castle of the legend may be found, including the mysterious tower that stands in the woods a short distance away. Thanks to the hospitality of the staff of the Agricultural Institute (now the Agricultural Research Centre) which was based there for many years, my family and I were able to visit Johnstown on a number of occasions, not only to research certain aspects of the story, but to enjoy the castle’s beautiful surroundings, and it’s there that the lakes, gardens and ornamental statues are also to be found.

  Strange as it may seem for a story set in Northern Ireland, it was also from Wexford that I got the idea for the plot. It all started with a report in one of our newspapers some years ago, which stated that a valuable find of gold, thought to have been buried for safety during the rebellion of 1798, had been made in a County Wexford farm outhouse.

  ‘The find,’ it went on, ‘of fifty-five gold coins (fifty-one guineas and four half-guineas) is being investigated by the National Museum. They were discovered by a farm worker while he was digging a cobblestone floor to lay a new one …’

  The coins were of the type known as George III spade guineas because of the spade-shaped shield on the back, and the report said that they dated from 1760 to 1798.

  During subsequent research in the National Library in Dublin, I learned that there had been a number of similar finds in Ireland down through the years. In one of these finds the coins had been bent and it was believed that they had been used as love tokens, so the gold guinea became a very suitable symbol for the story I had in mind, especially that of the two young lovers of the legend.

  My intention in writing such stories for young people has been to give them books which they would not only enjoy, but from which they might learn a little. I’ve been heartened, therefore, to find that over the years The Legend of the Golden Key has formed the basis of numerous school projects and tours – tours to museums to see their collections of gold guineas; tours to Norman forts which are a common feature of the Irish countryside; and tours to Newgrange in County Meath to see the great tumuli, the prehistoric burial mounds of our kings.

  It’s now my hope that new generations of young people will enjoy this full-length version of the story and visit those places too.

  Tom McCaughren

  2011

  1. THE SKIPPING SONG

  It was a lovely summer’s day, the sort of day you’d love to have all the year round if you could. The swallows were snatching flies from beneath the willow trees at the river’s edge, and Prince, my collie dog, was rooting for water rats down among the rushes.

  It was quiet and peaceful, like it always is here in the valley. Our big problem as we lazed up in the Willow Field was what were we going to do for the rest of the holidays?

  It was Cowlick who set us thinking about the legend. The sound of the girls chanting their skipping song was drifting up to us
on the hot summer air from the roadway near the houses.

  ‘What are they singing?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘Listen …’ I said, and when the girls started up their skipping song again, I went over it too …

  ‘The man is dead

  But life allows

  He’ll run forever

  Beneath the boughs

  And in his path

  There lies the key

  To wealth, happiness

  A bride-to-be …’

  Cowlick looked puzzled. ‘What is it?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s just one of the skipping songs here in the valley. Has been for generations according to Old Daddy Armstrong. It’s the legend – the Legend of the Golden Key.’

  * * *

  It’s funny how you know something for years and never really think about it until someone else asks you. That’s the way it was with the legend.

  Cowlick hadn’t heard about it before, even though he’s my cousin, because he lives in the glens. He had come up to spend the summer with us, but if his parents had known the trouble he was going to get into, they would have thought twice about letting him come! He ran his fingers through the cow’s-lick curl that gives him his nickname and asked, ‘What does the legend mean?’

  ‘Something to do with the Kings,’ Curly told him.

  ‘The kings?’

  I nodded. ‘The Rochford-Kings, over at the castle. I heard Old Daddy Armstrong talking about it. I can’t remember exactly, but it’s some story that was handed down from one of their ancestors. It’s supposed to be about a young girl who couldn’t get married and a treasure that couldn’t be found, and it’s all tied up with some story about a ghost.’

  ‘Treasure!’ exclaimed Cowlick. ‘Oh boy … that’s what I’d like to find … buried treasure!’

  ‘Wouldn’t we all,’ sighed Doubter. ‘But don’t forget, it’s supposed to have happened ages and ages ago, if it ever happened at all.’

  ‘Doubter’s right,’ I said. ‘The Kings have even given up looking for it – or so they say.’

  ‘Still,’ said Cowlick. ‘Buried treasure! It would be more fun looking for that than anything we’ve done so far – even if we didn’t find it.’

  The others nodded, and Curly added, ‘It can’t be much worse than what we’ve been doing. I mean, the summer’s half over, and what have we done? Nothing!’

  ‘Don’t forget the gymkhana over at the castle,’ I reminded them. ‘That wasn’t bad.’

  ‘It wasn’t great either,’ Doubter remarked.

  ‘It wasn’t worth the money they were charging to get in,’ said Totey.

  I had to smile at that. ‘Go away, Totey!’ I said. ‘We didn’t pay to get in, and you know it. Anyway, you’re too small. They wouldn’t have charged you even if you had gone in by the gate. And what about the yellow man? You all enjoyed it, didn’t you?’

  They couldn’t argue with that. Yellow man is a home-made toffee we all love, but usually the only time we get it is when we have a day out at the coast, or at the Lammas Fair in Ballycastle.

  ‘And what about the ice cream and the lemonade?’ I went on. ‘And the show jumping? That was good.’

  ‘It wasn’t as good as the point-to-point,’ said Curly.

  That was true, I had to admit. The point-to-point races that are held in this district every year are something special. Unlike the gymkhana there’s always a long row of bookies giving odds on the horses and we love watching them with their hoarse cries, their arms waving and their big leather bags full of money. Then, when the races start, we’re so close to the jumps that the horses are almost sailing over our heads, there’s mud flying everywhere, and everybody’s shouting and waving and urging them on. That’s a powerful thing to watch.

  ‘Still,’ I said, ‘the jumping at the gymkhana was good too.’

  ‘Did you see Simon Craig on that blood mare of his?’ asked Doubter. ‘Don’t tell me you call that good jumping. I could do better myself.’

  I said nothing, for I knew exactly what Doubter meant. Simon Craig hasn’t a great way with horses. Indeed, I sometimes think when I see him on his blood mare that he needs riding lessons more than we do.

  ‘It’s that horse,’ said Curly. ‘It’s neither a carthorse nor a jumper, and he’s always having trouble with it. I don’t know why the Kings have him working around the place at all.’

  ‘Felicity did well,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, and why wouldn’t she?’ said Doubter. ‘Doesn’t she run the riding school over there. Sure she’s out practising every day.’

  ‘After that fall she took up in the plantation,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think she would have been able to take part in the gymkhana at all.’

  ‘That was a bad fall, wasn’t it!’ said Curly.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Cowlick.

  ‘Mr Rochford-King and Felicity were having a friendly race through the plantation,’ I told him.

  ‘… and she would have won too,’ said Totey, ‘if her horse hadn’t thrown her.’

  ‘They were jumping a fallen tree,’ I explained. ‘It didn’t half give us a fright when we saw her go down like that. I think Mr King got a bad fright too. But Felicity’s a lot tougher than you would think, and she was back in the saddle and away like the wind before anyone could help her.’

  Just then we heard the clippity-clop of horses. I thought at first it was some of Juno’s sons on their piebalds coming down from the Cotton Bog Road, but then I saw it was Felicity.

  ‘That’s her now,’ I told Cowlick. ‘The others are pupils from her riding school.’ As we watched them make their way down towards the houses, I explained, ‘Felicity runs the riding school to help Mr Rochford-King and his mother pay for the upkeep of the castle, or so they say. Her father, Major Mortimer Boucher, is the Kings’ estate manager.’

  ‘Can anybody join the school?’ asked Cowlick.

  Curly shrugged. ‘It’s not for the likes of us.’

  Curly was right. We would have loved to be getting riding lessons from Felicity, as we had all made up our minds a long time ago that when we grew up we were going to be knights, with swords and lances and suits of shining armour, and fine prancing horses. But we weren’t allowed into the estate, even to watch the others learning to ride.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Cowlick, when I told him.

  ‘Because people from the valley aren’t welcome in there any more,’ said Curly. ‘Apparently they’ve been losing a lot of pheasants to poachers and Mr Moxley – he’s the new gamekeeper – he told us to get out of the estate and to stay out. He seemed to think we were sussing it out for the poachers. Tapser will tell you about it. He’s always mooching about in there with his father.’

  ‘At least we eat what we catch,’ I said. ‘And anyway, my father says it’s not poaching to take what’s in the rivers and fields that God has made for everybody.’

  ‘Ha! I dare you to tell that to Mr Moxley,’ chortled Doubter.

  ‘Or his big son Dan,’ said Curly.

  Ignoring them, I watched Felicity and her pupils ride on past the houses. Five or six of the girls who live round about had stopped their skipping and stepped into the side of the road until the horses went by. Then they started up their skipping song again …

  The man is dead

  But life allows

  He’ll run forever

  Beneath the boughs

  And in his path

  There lies the key

  To wealth, happiness

  A bride-to-be …

  2. A TALE OF ’98

  With the legend still ringing in his ears, Cowlick was as excited as a hen on a hot griddle.

  ‘That man you heard talking about it …’ he said to me.

  ‘Old Daddy Armstrong?’

  ‘Do you think he’d tell us about it?’

  ‘He might,’ I told him. ‘Then again, he might not.’

  ‘If the berries on the bourtree were ripe it might be different,’ said Doubter. ‘We could bring h
im some to make wine. That always puts him in good humour. But all the bourtree is good for at the moment is making whistles, and they’re no use to him.’

  The others were watching me trying to smoke the pith of a withered branch of elderberry or, as we call it, bourtree. We had brought some back with us from the river where we had been looking for otters, but you just can’t smoke the pith of the bourtree. It’s light and white and looks the same as cigarettes, but it’s not.

  ‘Tapser,’ said Cowlick at last, ‘you’re the limit. I told you, you can’t smoke that stuff. Anyway, did nobody ever tell you smoking’s bad for your health?’

  I laughed and threw it away. ‘I’ll tell you what. We’ll make whistles from the bark instead. From now on, every member of my gang has to have a bourtree whistle so that we can signal each other.’

  They all agreed, and so we set about cutting and scooping.

  Cowlick, I could see, was still thinking about the legend. ‘Is there no other way we could get around Mr Armstrong so that he would tell us about it?’ he asked.

  ‘We could ask him nicely, I suppose,’ said Doubter, ‘but if you lived around here you’d know you were only wasting your time.’

  ‘Still,’ persisted Cowlick, ‘I’d love to hear the story. It’s just like something you’d read in a book … and after all, we don’t have anything else to do. What about it?’

  The others shrugged.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘we’ll ask him. But remember, he can be a bit odd. You wouldn’t know what he’d say.’

  ‘Seeing that Cowlick’s a visitor, he might tell us about it,’ said Curly, ‘and we could take him up a nice trout, just to be on the safe side.’

  It wasn’t long before we had the whistles made. We gave them a toot or two to try them out. They worked great. Prince thought we were calling him and came racing up to us. Feeling highly pleased with ourselves, we crossed the road and went down to the river to catch some fish.

  We walked along the edge of Mr Stockman’s cornfields, and selected a rocky pool not far from the wooden bridge. While Doubter rolled up his trouser legs and hopped onto the nearest rock, I crossed the bridge to the Whin Hill side, rolled up my shirt sleeve an inch or two and hunkered down close to the bank. Doubter got down on his knees on the rock and poked his hand in around the side of it. Then he craned his head round and looked at me. I shook my head. Without a word he crossed to another rock and did the same. This time I nodded and crept along the bank a few feet. Doubter had just flushed a big brown trout from under the rock. It was my job to catch it.