JACK O'LANTERN: The story behind the legend

This is the true tale behind the legend of Jack O’Lantern. But before I begin, I’d like to share with you, if I may, a few little-known facts about Halloween.

Nowadays, many people believe that this is an American concept, although there is no mention made of it in U.S. history until after the arrival of over two million Irish migrants escaping the great famine at the start of the nineteenth century. Since then, many of the age-old customs the Irish brought with them have been modified including the carving of Jack O’Lanterns. Traditionally in Ireland, candles or hot coals were placed inside hollowed-out turnips to supposedly light the way for the lost spirit of Jack O’Lantern. Upon arrival in America, the Irish soon discovered pumpkins were far easier to carve than turnips and made much better lanterns too. 

Halloween dates back to the Pagan festival of Samhain which used to be held on the first of November to mark the Celtic New Year. Celebrations began at sunset the night before, which became known as Hallowed Eve, and continued until sunset on the day itself. Because it marked the transition of the years, it was believed that the boundaries between the human world and the Otherworld were less secure, thus allowing fairies and other ‘shape-shifting’ spirits to come and go freely. This is where the dark side of Halloween originated. Dressing up as ghosts, ghouls and the like was a way to disguise and protect oneself from any wandering evil spirits. Another Celtic belief at the source of much Irish Fairy Lore held that he who slept overnight inside a Fairy Ring of the Rath during the Samhain festival would be given the gift of otherworldly musicianship. At a price, of course. Oh yes, I’m afraid there is always a price… 

Now without further ado, I invite you to settle down comfortably, and I shall begin my tale.

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Once upon a time in a sleepy hamlet on the edge of the peaty boglands of the Island of Ireland, there lived a young lad named Jack, the only son of an honest blacksmith. Much to the chagrin of his parents, Jack refused to buckle down and learn the humble family trade, preferring instead to go gallivanting around the windy boglands with his tin whistle for company and dreaming of seeking his fortune, marrying a beautiful red-headed princess or some such nonsense. 

Early one autumn morning, after being boxed about the ears for his laziness by his despairing mother, Jack scarpered out of the yard and took to the hills to sulk. After wandering aimlessly about the moors blowing little ditties to himself upon his whistle, he became weary and decided to rest his legs a while in a shady glade. With the dappled sunlight filtering down through the trees and the merry tinkling of the little brook at his feet, Jack became drowsy and before you could say ‘Padraig O’Docherty’ the youngster was snoring away loud enough to awaken the spirit of Old Brian Boru over the misty hills in distant Clontarf.

Now whilst Jack was away in the land of Nod, who should come a-hopping and a-skipping over the hillock but one of Ireland’s legendary ‘little folk’. Seamus was the fellow’s name, and Seamus was one of the wiliest of all the wily wee Leprechauns in the land. And, being as he was a most evil and corrupt little Leprechaun, getting up to mischief, especially malicious and malevolent mischief, was one of his greatest pleasures,

Sidling up next to the sleeping young lad, Seamus eyed the battered old penny whistle and grinned to himself. It was a sinister grin which quickly spread all the way from one of his long pointy ears to the other. From a pocket deep within his leather breeches, he pulled out an ancient, intricately carved wooden flute, sat himself down on a rock next to Jack, and began to play.

Upon hearing the lilting, melodic music Jack awoke from his slumber and stared, slack-jawed, at the funny little man playing his flute and peering at him over the top of his round spectacles,

“Why, what beautiful tone that flute has! I’ve never heard such an enchanting sound,” Jack whispered in awe, “I’d give anything to be able to play like that.”

“Well hello there and top o’ the morning to ye,” replied Seamus, slapping his thigh, “I’m Seamus, and what would they be calling you, young Sir”

Flattered at being addressed as ‘young Sir’ and eager to learn more about the wonderful music, Jack soon found himself babbling away nineteen to the dozen to the old man. Before long, he had told old Seamus all about his dreams of learning to play the flute and then making his fortune. There followed much chatting and bonding about the merits and making of music along with the amassing of vast fortunes.

“So it’s the flute that draws ye, is it? Well, do ye know, Jack me lad? That would surely be a very simple thing to arrange, so it would. And Old Seamus here happens to know just the way to go about it.”

As Seamus continued, Jack’s eyes became rounder and rounder and he grew ever hotter at the thought of the wondrous prospects being described. That very night being the Hallowed Eve of Samhain, all Jack apparently needed to do was to sleep overnight inside a Fairy Ring of the Rath and he would be endowed with the gift of musicianship. In fact, added Seamus with a wink, the two of them just happened to be sitting inside one of those sacred Fairy Rings at that exact moment.

“And to think ye found it all by yerself, Jack. It must surely be yer destiny, so it must.” Seamus told him, his eyes twinkling. 

Well, I don’t suppose you need me to tell you that that is exactly what Jack did. Upon awakening the following morning, the overjoyed youth hurried home, clutching the beautiful flute Seamus had insisted he keep, unable to quite believe his incredible luck. Within weeks, his reputation with the flute grew, and before long, he was being paid handsomely to play in villages far and near. 

It was whilst Jack was playing at the Hall of one of the most important Lords in all the county that he set eyes upon the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Shauna had stunning long, red, curly locks, creamy skin dotted all over with faint pin-like freckles, emerald-green eyes and she was the Lord’s youngest daughter. Jack was besotted! Before the evening was over, he had bewitched both the court and the daughter with his magical melodies. There followed a whirlwind romance and the love-struck couple were wed within the year.

Now you might recall me telling you at the beginning of this tale that there is always a price for the fairy gifts of Samhain. Well, lo and behold, upon the fifth anniversary of Jack staying the night inside the Fairy Ring, a massive storm like no other descended on the homestead of the lovely couple. The ancient oak trees surrounding their home creaked and swayed under the force of the gale, whilst hailstones the size of pickled onions hammered against the window panes. It was exactly on the stroke of midnight whilst the storm was raging overhead, that Jack heard a faint tap-tap-tapping on their door as he was loading the fireplace for the night ahead. Wondering whoever it could be, he hastily unbolted the heavy door and it burst wide open, almost knocking him off his feet.

In strode Seamus, although gone was the kindly twinkle in his eye now, and without further ado, he made the situation plain and clear. Jack had not repaid him his dues. Unless Jack gave Seamus the sum of fifty thousand solid-silver shillings before the very next Samhain, he would claim Jack’s young Shauna for his own. Then before Jack could utter a single word, the little man vanished into the blackness of the storm, leaving poor Jack speechless and afraid.

Well, fifty thousand shillings was a mighty sum of money in those days. Far, far more than Jack could ever hope to raise. Too fearful to confide his predicament to anyone, even to his beloved Shauna, his face grew gaunt and thin, and, eating barely enough to keep a wee dunnock alive, he soon became as skinny as one of the beanpoles in his wife’s kitchen garden.

Much too quickly the dreaded day of Samhain arrived, and Jack solemnly prepared himself to keep his appointment with Seamus. Instructing his dear wife not to open the door to anybody under any circumstances whilst he was away, the hapless lad set off for the Fairy Ring with a heavy heart. As he drew closer to the magical spot, the sky grew darker and more menacing whilst a bitter wind whipped up flurries of leaves, sending them swirling about Jack’s head.

In the centre of the bewitched clearing, a stern-faced Seamus sat a-waiting, tapping his foot. Distraught, Jack fell to his knees in despair, begging for mercy. Seeing Jack empty-handed, the livid Leprechaun leapt to his feet calling upon the diabolical spirit of Donn, the Lord of the Undead to intervene. It being Samhain and the veil between the living and the dead at its thinnest, the foul Spirit materialized behind Seamus, and decreed right there and then, that Shauna’s soul be handed over to Seamus for eternity. 

As for the unfortunate Jack, he was driven away into the darkness, condemned to roam the Otherworld for evermore. The only concession allowed him was a burning piece of coal which he placed inside a hollowed-out turnip to light his way.

When visitors arrived at the house of Jack and Shauna the following day, they discovered the place completely deserted, yet curiously and inexplicably, the door remained bolted from the inside. The table was set for two and a cauldron of stew lay cold and untouched in the hearth. Not a trace was ever found of either Jack or his wife. 

It is said, however, that Jack’s grief-stricken spirit still wanders back and forth in limbo, searching in vain for his lost love. In remembrance of the poor haunted soul, it has become customary to place candles inside hollowed-out pumpkin shells at Halloween to help Jack find his way. I am told too that the sound of his old tin whistle can sometimes still be heard near the old peat bogs of Ireland, the eerie sound carried along by the wind on stormy nights, especially around the time of Halloween.