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__THE ELF OF SLIGO .|. PAGE 2 OF 2

He directed me up Mail Coach Road and we made a left on Cleever Road. The sun was brilliant and it was a fine fair spring day. The woods on both sides of the road were quiet and there were no other drivers on the road.

"Ah, lad, you'll want to mind your car just now," Tom said in a low voice.

"Huh?"

"Your man will be coming down. This road is winding. Be careful."

I looked at Tom and almost said, "What are you taking about? There are no cars around." But I didn't. I figured the old guy was talking about the monks. A few seconds later a small car came whipping by us down the hill.

"How the hell did you know that car was coming?" I asked.

Tom gave me a big smile, "I know t'ings."

We pulled over on an overlook and got out to look down on Lough Gill. The lake was vast and the wind started to hit the water, making it choppy.

"There is spirits in that lough, boyo. Every year she claims a few fisherman. Don't go in it. Just look at it." Old Tom sat on a rock and told me how Yeats probably sat right here and wrote his great poetry about Sligo. And in a deep voice he started quoting Yeats. After a line about a terrible beauty being born, he pointed out two mountains, "Ah, this is a fine country. Those are Knocknarea and Benbulben mountains. Majestic. On top of Knocknarea is a cairn. You know what a cairn is?"

"I guess it's a gathering of stones."

"Right, Yank, and underneath that cairn on the mountain lays buried fair Queen Maeve, the high queen of all of Ireland. I won't take you there, but you're free to go. Just go in the daylight. Don't venture on mountains in the dark."

"Why, the spirits?" I asked.

Tom laughed, "Well, maybe, but you don't strike me as a woodsman. A mountain in the dark is no place for city folk. You can get lost or hurt tripping over rocks. Course if you want me to make up a tale about fairies, I will. I've never seen them there but just because I don't believe in fairies doesn't mean they don't exist. The fairies probably don't believe in me."

Tom went on to tell me that two miles from the mountains was an ancient burial site that predates the pyramids. He described how to get there and to look for a series of circular stones with two stones standing straight up and a slab across the top.

"They'll say they don't know who's buried there but I know who lies under that ground." Tom took an apple from his pocket and bit into it.

"So who's buried there?"

"The giants of Ireland. The lost people, lost race."

Tom went on to tell me that the main tourist attractions for the local people of Sligo are the strands of Strand Hill where the sea comes in like a tyrant and the strands of Rosses Point where the same sea comes in as calm as a prayer.

We got back into the car and drove to the Holy Well, an outdoor altar where Catholics came to have mass said when the Brits didn't allow it. A metal stand held rows of candles and Tom stared at them.

"I'm going back into the car. Light a candle for me. A man like me needs a candle lit once in a while. And while you're at it, Yank, say a prayer for us."

I smiled, lit a few candles and said a prayer for Tom -- and for all my people who once lived in this country.
SALON | March 16, 1998

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C.J. Sullivan is a writer who lives in New York.