The Pooka's Wild Ride (Campfire Story)

In the old days in Ireland, the grown-ups had one rule for the end of October. 'After Halloween night, don't you dare eat the blackberries.' And if you asked why, they'd lower their voices and say just one word. 'POOKA.'

The POOKA is a spirit that can take any shape it likes. Sometimes it's a goat, sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a little old man with very pointed ears. But most often it's a horse. A big, shaggy black horse with a mane like a storm cloud, and eyes that glow like coals in a fire.

There was a young fellow in County Kildare named Padraig, and Padraig was the biggest boaster in the whole county. 'I'm not afraid of any POOKA,' he told everybody at the fair. 'If I ever see one, I'll jump on its back and ride it like a pony.'

Well. You should be careful what you say on Halloween night, because you never know who's listening.

Padraig was walking home late across the hills, whistling to prove he wasn't scared, when he heard hoofbeats behind him. GALLOP. Closer. GALLOP. He turned around, and there was the biggest black horse he had ever seen, with eyes like burning coals.

Before Padraig could say a word, the POOKA ducked its head between his legs and flipped him up onto its back. And away they went. GALLOP!

They galloped over hedges and stone walls. They galloped through a duck pond, and the ducks went flying in every direction. They galloped right through a farmer's kitchen, in the front door and out the back, and took the farmer's Sunday hat with them. They galloped up a mountain, and then the POOKA jumped clean off the top of it and galloped across the clouds, over the moon, and down the other side.

'Stop!' yelled Padraig, holding onto the mane with both fists. 'I take it back! You're the finest horse in Ireland and I'm not brave at all!'

The POOKA only laughed and ran faster. GALLOP! GALLOP! They jumped the River Liffey three times, once forwards, once backwards and once sideways, just for fun.

At last, as the sky turned gray in the east and the first rooster crowed, the POOKA skidded to a stop beside a big blackberry bush, and Padraig went flying off its back, right into the brambles.

The POOKA looked down at him. Then it looked at the blackberries. Then it leaned over and spat on every last one. BLACKBERRIES!

And with one last whinny, it was gone.

Padraig limped home with brambles in his hair and the farmer's hat on his head. He never boasted again, at least not in October. And from that day to this, every blackberry in Ireland goes sour and moldy after Halloween, because the POOKA has spat on them all.

So if you're ever out picking BLACKBERRIES in November, take a good look first. You never know where the POOKA has been.

Storyteller tips: speed up through the wild ride and let the GALLOP cue get faster each time. Slow right down for the blackberry bush, and look at the audience before the spit.

The Pooka (Púca in Irish) is tied to Samhain, the old Celtic festival behind Halloween. November 1 was sometimes called Púca's Day, and the blackberry rule is still told in parts of Ireland.