Once upon a time in a village called Monkton, Granda McGuire arrived from Ireland to live with his family. Granda was old and poor. He came to the McGuire home from a small village in Donegal with just a small bag of belongings and a handsome fiddle.

The fiddle was his lifeline to Ireland and the home he had to leave. It had passed through generations of McGuires and now resided with Granda.

Granda’s fiddle was made of the finest maple and spruce with a horsehair-wrapped bow or fiddlestick as Granda called it. The finish on the wood gleamed and a band of black ebony surrounded the F-shaped scrolls on each side of the fingerboard and under the fingerboard. On the back of the fiddle an ‘I’ was etched into the wood.

Granda said that the ‘I’ letter was the signature of the faeries who lived on Innisfree, an island in the middle of an Irish lake. He added that his own Great Granda told him when he was a boy growing up in Ireland that the faeries of Innisfree had crafted the McGuire fiddle.

Sixteen-year-old Tommy McGuire was intrigued. Faeries making fiddles on Innisfree. Granda’s fiddle was crafted by faeries. Um…he was thinking Granda’s tale was probably just Irish malarky. He smiled.

Tommy had heard that years ago faeries and elves had once visited Monkton. But no one could confirm the visit, not even the Mayor Drake or the pastor at the Methodist Church on the hill. Tommy had asked. He was sure that Granda was just telling a tale about the faeries.

Granda was very sad and homesick when he first came to Monkton. He missed Ireland so fiercely that he sometimes wept when taking his afternoon tea. He would sit by the fireplace, but he never took down his fiddle from its place resting on the mantel. Tommy loved his Granda fiercely and was sad that Granda cried when having tea and that he never played his fiddle.

“Granda,” he said one afternoon watching his Granda wipe away his tears, “why did you come to America? Why didn’t you stay in Ireland?”

“Ah, Tommy me boy,” Granda said very quietly. “I had no money, me farm was gone, me kin were scattered across Ireland. I was thinking about jumping off the cliffs at Moher, but me priest said that would be a terrible sin. Then a letter came from me beautiful daughter-in-law, your Mam, and she rescued me. She wrote for me to come live with you in America, and I came.”

From that day on, Tommy was determined to help his Granda and to make him laugh and play his fiddle again. Over the next weeks, he spent all his free time with his Granda. He listened while Granda told wonderful tales of Ireland, and sometimes of Faerie Queens, and elves, and pixie dust.

Finally, one day, Tommy encouraged Granda to take down his fiddle and play a tune. Much to his surprise, Granda did.

In a few months Granda was happy in his new home. And the McGuire family dearly loved him. The entire clan would gather almost every night in the large kitchen of their cottage on Manor Road to listen as Granda told Irish tales, sometimes the same tale over and over again. No one cared. Everyone loved to listen.

Sometimes Granda talked about the faeries and elves that dotted the woods and hid behind trees in Donegal, popping out now and again.

Many of his stories centered on Innisfree. Sometimes Granda talked about the faeries and elves that dotted the woods and hid behind trees in Donegal, popping out now and again. The town’s menfolk swore they saw faeries and elves when weaving home from a visit to O’Hara’s pub at night said Granda. “I personally never had an encounter with the little creatures,” Granda added.

After the story telling, Grandpa would take up his fiddle and play sweet, melancholy melodies until all the McGuire kids begged him to play something happy and fun. Then Granda would switch to lively tunes, so lively that Tommy’s Mam and Da jumped up from their chairs and danced jigs around the kitchen.

Tommy’s parents had learned to dance in Ireland before they journeyed to America. Since arriving they had no time for dancing with Mam working as a seamstress for Judge Pendergast’s wife, Da working at the Manor Grist Mill, and both tending to their large family. But now when Granda took up his fiddle, they couldn’t resist.

Tommy thought it was all great fun, although he didn’t think he would ever dance a jig, but maybe one day he would play a fiddle. Sensing his interest, his Granda began to give him fiddle lessons.

“Granda,” said Tommy one evening when Granda was teaching him how to hold the fiddle and draw the fiddlestick across the strings, “I like learning to play the fiddle, but more than that, I like to listen to you play all the tunes. I think you are a grand fiddle player,” he added, giving Granda a hug before he started up the stairs to the room he shared with his four brothers.

Tommy thought it was all great fun, although he didn’t think he would ever dance a jig, but maybe one day he would play the fiddle.

“I thank you kindly for the great compliment,” Granda called after Tommy. “But and I swear this by all the saints, one day, everyone will say that Tommy McGuire is the best fiddle player in all of Maryland.”

And so, as spring passed and summer rolled in, Tommy and Granda spent all their free time fiddle playing – sometimes Granda gave Tommy a lesson, but sometimes they just passed the fiddle between them, each playing a tune. Tommy struggled, but Granda said he was doing fine, and if Granda thought he was doing fine, Tommy decided he would try to do his best.

Often, they sat on the porch of the McGuire cottage and Granda would play a tune and then he would hand the fiddle to Tommy, and Tommy would play as best as he could. The Irish ditties would float down the lanes of Monkton, and often a crowd of villagers would gather in front of the McGuire house to hear them play.

When Manor Mill sponsored the Monkton Fall Festival, Mr. Jensen, the Mill owner, asked them to give a fiddle concert right after the BBQ.

“Well, Tommy, my lad, what do you say? “Should we delight these folks with a wee bit of Irish music?” asked Granda.

“Ok,” said Tommy. Tommy wasn’t so sure he was as good at fiddle playing as his Granda said. But he did have a secret.

During the summer, he had met a short, red-haired man at Manor Mill. The man spoke up when he heard Tommy talking to his friend James, one of the young mill workers. Tommy was telling James about struggling to play the fiddle even though Granda was a great teacher.

“I just don’t have the talent Granda thinks I have,” explained Tommy to his friend. “But my playing the fiddle makes Granda so happy, I have to try.”

“Um, excuse me,” said the little man interrupting the conversation, “Are you Irish?”

“Well, my family came from Ireland,” said Tommy.

“But I am here to tell you that the best for a wish is a four-leaf clover. Find a four-leaf clover and wish to be a great fiddle player, and your wish might come true.”

“I am Hamish Connor from Scotland, right across the sea from Ireland, and I heard the Irish take get store on the luck of the shamrocks,” said the little man. “But I am here to tell you that the best for a wish is a four-leaf clover. Find a four-leaf clover and wish to be a great fiddle player, and your wish might come true.”

Tommy looked at the little man.

“Where am I going to find a four-leaf clover?” said Tommy. “They are hard to find if I even went looking for one.”

Tommy turned to James and winked and when he turned back, he saw the little man climb into his horse cart and drive away. He didn’t see the cart turn on Monkton Road, heading to the McGuire cottage. Nor did he see the little man take out a small silver box, open it, and release a firefly-like faerie into the air. The tiny faerie flew over Mam McGuire’s garden and sprinkled pixie dust.

The tiny faerie flew over Mam McGuire’s garden and sprinkled pixie dust.

When Tommy got home that afternoon, Mam was in a dither.

“Tommy, you won’t believe this, I came out to water my petunias and look, almost the entire garden is covered in clover,” said Mam. “And look at this, look closely at this one patch. It is full of four-leaf clovers!”

Tommy looked down. “Yikes,” Tommy whispered and whistled an Irish tune. There was a large patch of four-leaf clovers right in Mam’s garden.

When Mam went to get her watering can, Tommy leaned down right over the four-leaf clovers and whispered, “I wish to play the fiddle like Granda. I wish to be the best the fiddler man in the county.” Then he dug up the plot of four-leaf clovers, planted them in a pot, and took them to his bedroom.

“Maybe wishes do come true with four-leaf clovers,” he whispered quietly to himself. “If so, I want to store a few for future needs.”

The next day, when Tommy and his Granda took down the fiddle from the mantel to practice, Tommy played like a fiddler master, full of energy, spirit, and skill. Wishing on a four-leaf clover had stirred magic into Tommy’s fiddle playing. Granda was so amazed at his improvement he slipped into the Irish and cried out, “Iontach.” Tommy looked confused.

“He is speaking the Irish,” said Mam, who was listening from the kitchen. “He means your playing was just grand.”

And so, they played, and played again and again during the fall and early winter months. Tommy played Granda’s fiddle with such talent and skill that Granda said he almost played as grand as the great Irish fiddler man Michael Coleman. Granda also patted himself on the chest for being such a good teacher for Tommy.

At Christmas, Tommy and Granda played the fiddle for the annual Christmas Party at Judge Pendergast’s estate on the Manor. As always, Granda and Tommy passed Granda’s fiddle back and forth, each playing a tune or two. Judge Pendergast was impressed with their music.

“If, you are agreeable, I am going to arrange for you to play your fiddle at the great St. Patrick’s Day celebration in Baltimore City on March 17,” said the Judge. “Will you bring your fiddle and come and play at the great concert hall for all to hear? And the superb fiddler Michael Coleman is coming to hear the local fiddlers.”

Granda didn’t hesitate. “Aye,” he said, “We will be there with our fiddle, and we will play our wee hearts out.”

On the first day of March, the McGuires gathered their neighbors and friends together for a party. It was a pre-St. Patrick’s gathering since the family would be away in Baltimore City for the concert on March 17. Everyone had a lively time at the McGuire’s party with Irish dancing, storytelling, and, of course, fiddle playing.

Right before midnight, after goodbyes, the McGuire family cleaned up and headed upstairs to bed. Tommy placed the fiddle in its usual place on the kitchen fireplace mantel. Off in the distance they could hear the rumblings of an unusual spring-like storm.

A flash of brilliant lightning seemed to engulf the entire house. Another clap of thunder echoed as a roaring wind shook the cottage.

A few hours later, in the middle of the night, as rain poured down, a loud thunderclap jarred the entire family awake. A flash of brilliant lightning seemed to engulf the entire house. Another clap of thunder echoed as a roaring wind shook the cottage. Mam and Da gathered the children and ran down the front stairway. Tommy helped Granda and together they struggled down the steps through billowing smoke to the outside.

The large kitchen, which was in the back of the house, was on fire. Mam hurried the little kids to the barn while Tommy, Granda, and Da tried to stem the flames. In a few minutes, the villagers arrived to help. Everyone worked together and after several hours of hard work, the great flames were just flickers. The house stood, but the kitchen was gone.

As soon as the cottage cooled down, Tommy walked through the rubble with Da and Granda. Nothing was left of the large, family kitchen, but the brick fireplace. Among the smoldering smoke Tommy couldn’t see Granda’s prized fiddle. Then he looked down.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Tommy. He brushed his hand through a pile of charred ashes, once Granda’s magnificent fiddle.

Granda fell to the floor, crying out, “Me grand fiddle is gone,” over and over.

“We will buy you another fiddle, Granda,” cried Tommy as he reached down to pick up his beloved Granda and hold him tight. “We will find the money for another grand fiddle.”

Granda only sobbed.

The family carried Granda into the barn, their temporary home. They managed to bring his brass bed into the barn where they all helped to clean off the dusty soot and get Granda into it. He didn’t move. He just looked up to the rafters and cried, “Me grand fiddle is gone.”

Everyone was sad.

But Granda was too desolate to respond to any of the gracious offers.

When they heard about the charred fiddle, the villagers came and announced they were taking up a collection to buy a new fiddle for Granda. The pastor at the Monkton Methodist Church donated the Sunday offering for a new fiddle. Judge Pendergast arrived with a beautiful brand-new violin from the best musical instrument store in Baltimore. Judge Pendergast said he heard that a fiddle and violin were the same thing. He had questioned the proprietor at the music store and been assured that they were.

But Granda was too desolate to respond to any of the gracious offers. He sent Tommy to the Manor Tavern for a pint of whiskey. For the next week, he only drank his whiskey and quietly wept. Doc Evans stopped by and announced that Granda’s heart was failing and that he was weak from lack of food. Father Joseph, the Catholic priest from Cockeysville, arrived and thought the last rites of the church might be in order.

Mam cried, “Oh, no, not yet. We’ve cleaned out the cottage and we are moving back in today. Granda is sure to get better when we get out of the barn and into the cottage.”

Tommy didn’t know what to do. Tomorrow would be March 17 and the St. Patrick’s Day concert. He didn’t have a fiddle, and Granda wouldn’t get out of bed. As he was walking to Manor Mill to buy cornmeal for his Mam, he suddenly spied the horse cart and the little man with the red hair.

“Sir, Hamish, you helped me once when you said to wish upon a four-leaf clover to become a better fiddle player, and it worked,” he said, rushing up to the little man. “Now I have a great problem, and I’ve wished and wished on my pot of four-leaf clovers, but nothing has happened, nothing has changed. Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, and we have no fiddle.”

“Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day, and we have no fiddle.”

“Aye…I heard about the great fire at your house and the loss of your Granda’s fiddle,” said the little man. “I heard the fiddle is now just a pile of ashes, and that your Granda is so sad and miserable that he has given up and taken to his bed with a pint of whiskey.”

“Yes, that is all true,” said Tommy, his voice quivering.

“Um, I might have a plan, but you must be brave and not tell anyone what we are going to do. Will you meet me at midnight, deep in the woods on the banks of the Gunpowder River, near the bridge?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I will come.

“Do you still have the ashes from the fiddle?’

“Yes, I don’t know why, but I shoveled them into a bucket and hid it in the barn.”

“Well, bring the ashes and your pot of four-leaf clovers, we might need them too,” said the little man as he climbed on his horse cart and clattered away.

That night, when the cottage was quiet and everyone was sleeping, Tommy crept down the stairs.

Quietly he left the cottage and ran to the Gunpowder Bridge. Hamish was there, and he directed Tommy to come with him, deeper and deeper into the surrounding woods. The moon was just a wisp of white in the dark sky. Tommy could barely see.

A beautiful lady dressed in sparkling white gown stepped out. She was holding a very long golden wand and a golden bag that twinkled on and off.

Suddenly, the little man stopped in front of a great oak tree and opened his little silver box. Tommy saw a very tiny faerie-like creature fly out and around the tree. Three times around and a great light came down from the sky and broke open the trunk of the tree. A beautiful lady dressed in sparkling white gown stepped out. She was holding a very long golden wand and a golden bag that twinkled on and off.

“Tommy,” said the little man, “I would like you to meet the Great Faerie Queen. She has come all the way from Scotland because she thought this job might be too hard for a little elf like me and my firefly faerie. The Queen bought hundreds of faeries from Innisfree, some of these faeries made your Granda’s fiddle more than a century ago.”

Tommy was confused. He didn’t know what to say, “I…thank you for coming,” he managed to stammer.

“Tommy,” said the Faerie Queen. “After we work magic here, I will erase this entire night from your memory. I will erase all the recent tragedy from the minds of your Granda, your family, your friends, and all the people in Monkton. The fire will never have happened. Tomorrow morning your Granda’s fiddle will be resting on the fireplace mantel, just as it always did.”

Tommy was befuddled. How could this great magic happen?

“Don’t try to make sense of this,” said the Faerie Queen. “Just step back and let the magic begin.”

“Kindness is magic without faeries and Faerie Queens. Kindness and love are the greatest human virtues. They are like magic. And Tommy you possess that human magic.”

“But why would you make such amazing magic for me,” Tommy asked.

“Because you are kind. If more people were kind like you, faeries would not be so busy interfering with people’s lives. By letting your Granda teach you to play his fiddle, you restored his spirit and joy with your kindness. Kindness is magic without faeries and Faerie Queens. Kindness and love are the greatest human virtues. They are like magic. And, Tommy, you possess that human magic.”

Then, she opened her golden bag and hundreds of tiny faeries flew out and descended on the pile of fiddle ashes in the bucket. Around and around they flickered. Much to his amazement, Tommy saw a fiddle emerging from the ashes. Gradually, the fiddle and the fiddlestick took shape with all the woods, markings, and swirls of Granda’s own fiddle.

“Take it, Tommy,” said the little man. “Try it out.”

Tommy picked the fiddle up. It was still warm with a bit of faerie dust scattered here and there on the fiddle neck and bridge. He turned it over and saw an ‘I’ engraved on the back. Then he picked up the fiddlestick and began to play a lively Irish jig. The sound was astonishing. The tone was exactly like Granda’s fiddle. It was Granda’s fiddle.

“Tommy,” said the Faerie Queen, “I am going to leave you soon, but Hamish, my devoted red-haired elf, will stay and be with you as you carry the fiddle back to your cottage. You will put it on the fireplace mantel in the kitchen.”

For a brief time, Monkton, and the Manor, even the Manor Grist Mill, will be under an enchantment.

“While you are walking home,” she continued, “my Innisfree faeries will roam Monkton and the Manor washing away the memories of the fire and all that came after. For a brief time, Monkton, and the Manor, even the Manor Grist Mill, will be under an enchantment. When the people awake, there will have been no fire. Everything will continue along as if nothing has happened. And you and Granda will go to Baltimore and give a great fiddle concert.”

The Faerie Queen touched Tommy with her wand and disappeared in a golden haze of faerie dust.

Tommy felt dazed and astounded, but very carefully, he tucked the fiddle under his arm and started home. Hamish trotted behind him with his firefly faerie sitting on his shoulder. The sun was coming up as they reached the McGuire front porch. The little man grabbed Tommy’s arm.

“I am going to say goodbye, Tommy,” he said. “You will probably never see me again, but that’s ok because you will not remember me, nor the Faerie Queen, nor the Innisfree faeries, nor anything about tonight, or the last week.”

And just before he turned to go, he added, “You will become the best fiddler in the country.” Then he threw faerie dust on Tommy and disappeared.

Tommy walked into the kitchen and placed the fiddle on the fireplace mantel. Nothing had changed. He walked back out onto the porch. “I must have had a faerie dream,” he whispered to himself.

“Tommy, Tommy,” Mam called as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. “What are you doing out on the porch so early this morning?”

Startled for a second, Tommy looked at his Mam standing in the doorway. All was good. Everything looked just like always. “I am excited for the concert tonight,” he said.

Tommy smiled. He hugged his Mam and whispered, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

He walked into the kitchen and glanced at the fireplace. Granda’s fiddle was resting on the fireplace mantel. Tommy smiled. He hugged his Mam and whispered, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”

Then he sighed and yelled to his Granda, “Granda, get up. Today is a beautiful St. Patrick’s Day, and tonight, tonight we become the greatest fiddlers in Maryland.”

A few months later at the Faerie Queen’s castle in Scotland, the Faerie Queen and Hamish were chatting about all the magic of they had dispensed over the past year.

“And, what is the news from Monkton?” asked the Faerie Queen.

“I understand from faerie spies that Tommy and his Granda gave a great concert in Baltimore City on St. Patrick’s Day,” said Hamish. “They played like true masters. Fiddler Michael Coleman was in the audience and when Tommy and Granda finished, he stood up and saluted them and then the entire audience cheered and yelled.

“After the concert, Granda announced his retirement from fiddle playing and gave his fiddle to Tommy,” continued Hamish. “Now Tommy is traveling all around America playing his fiddle. He might take a trip to Ireland to play. If so, he says he will take Granda along.”

“Yes,” said the Faerie Queen. “And, one day Tommy will not only play fiddle tunes, but he will also play the fiddle with a great orchestra. He will be a fiddle maestro!”

Then, the Faerie Queen raised her great, gold wand into the sky and wrote, Granda, Tommy, and all the McGuires lived happily ever after!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beth Smith learned about faerie tales in the 1950s and 1960s from Walt Disney, who presented a kinder, gentler world than the faerie tales of the Brothers Grimm or even Hans Christian Anderson. When asked to write faerie tales for Manor Mill, she resisted the violence and scariness of the originals, and wrote her tales in a Disney mode with “happily ever after” always ending her tales. A resident of Hunt Valley, Beth listed “wants to write a novel” on her Towson High School yearbook page.

Over the years, a novel has not appeared, but Beth has written for Baltimore Magazine, Maryland Magazine, Style Magazine, and worked as a freelancer for the Baltimore Sun, where her beat was finding and writing about beautiful houses in Maryland. She served as Director of Communications at St. Paul’s School for Girls for several years and taught journalism. Currently, Beth is getting disciplined and energized to write her novel while volunteering for several projects, tending her house and husband of 59 years, connecting with her son and family in Florida, and telling bedtime stories with her grandchildren.

Fiddler Man