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                               HERO-TALES
                                   OF
                                 IRELAND

                              COLLECTED BY
                             JEREMIAH CURTIN

                                 LONDON
                            MACMILLAN AND CO.
                                  1894

                            University Press:
                 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN MORLEY,

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR IRELAND.


SIR,—

To you, a thinker who values every age of human history, and a statesman
who takes deep interest in the nation which produced and kept these
tales, I beg to dedicate this volume.

                                                         JEREMIAH CURTIN.




CONTENTS.


                                                                      PAGE

    INTRODUCTION                                                        ix

    ELIN GOW, THE SWORDSMITH FROM ERIN, AND THE COW GLAS GAINACH         1

    MOR’S SONS AND THE HERDER FROM UNDER THE SEA                        35

    SAUDAN OG AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF SPAIN; YOUNG CONAL
      AND THE YELLOW KING’S DAUGHTER                                    58

    THE BLACK THIEF AND KING CONAL’S THREE HORSES                       93

    THE KING’S SON FROM ERIN, THE SPRISAWN, AND THE DARK KING          114

    THE AMADAN MOR AND THE GRUAGACH OF THE CASTLE OF GOLD              140

    THE KING’S SON AND THE WHITE-BEARDED SCOLOG                        163

    DYEERMUD ULTA AND THE KING IN SOUTH ERIN                           182

    CUD, CAD, AND MICAD, THREE SONS OF THE KING OF URHU                198

    CAHAL, SON OF KING CONOR, IN ERIN, AND BLOOM OF YOUTH, DAUGHTER
      OF THE KING OF HATHONY                                           223

    COLDFEET AND THE QUEEN OF LONESOME ISLAND                          242

    LAWN DYARRIG, SON OF THE KING OF ERIN, AND THE KNIGHT OF
      TERRIBLE VALLEY                                                  262

    BALOR ON TORY ISLAND                                               283

    BALOR OF THE EVIL EYE AND LUI LAVADA, HIS GRANDSON                 296

    ART, THE KING’S SON, AND BALOR BEIMENACH, TWO SONS-IN-LAW OF
      KING UNDER THE WAVE                                              312

    SHAWN MACBREOGAN AND THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION                  335

    THE COTTER’S SON AND THE HALF SLIM CHAMPION                        356

    BLAIMAN, SON OF APPLE, IN THE KINGDOM OF THE WHITE STRAND          373

    FIN MACCOOL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION       407

    FIN MACCOOL, THE THREE GIANTS, AND THE SMALL MEN                   438

    FIN MACCOOL, CEADACH OG, AND THE FISH-HAG                          463

    FIN MACCOOL, FAOLAN, AND THE MOUNTAIN OF HAPPINESS                 484

    FIN MACCOOL, THE HARD GILLA, AND THE HIGH KING                     514

    THE BATTLE OF VENTRY                                               530

    NOTES                                                              547





INTRODUCTION.


The tales included in this volume, though told in modern speech, relate
to heroes and adventures of an ancient time, and contain elements
peculiar to early ages of story-telling. The chief actors in most of
them are represented as men; but we may be quite sure that these men are
substitutes for heroes who were not considered human when the stories
were told to Keltic audiences originally. To make the position of these
Gaelic tales clear, it is best to explain, first of all, what an ancient
tale is; and to do this we must turn to uncivilized men who possess such
tales yet in their primitive integrity.

We have now in North America a number of groups of tales obtained from
the Indians which, when considered together, illustrate and supplement
one another; they constitute, in fact, a whole system. These tales we
may describe as forming collectively the Creation myth of the New World.
Since the primitive tribes of North America have not emerged yet from
the Stone Age of development, their tales are complete and in good
preservation. In some cases simple and transparent, it is not difficult
to recognize the heroes; they are distinguishable at once either by
their names or their actions or both. In other cases these tales are
more involved, and the heroes are not so easily known, because they are
concealed by names and epithets. Taken as a whole, however, the Indian
tales are remarkably clear; and a comparison of them with the Gaelic
throws much light on the latter.

What is the substance and sense of these Indian tales, of what do they
treat? To begin with, they give an account of how the present order
of things arose in the world, and are taken up with the exploits,
adventures, and struggles of various elements, animals, birds, reptiles,
insects, plants, rocks, and other objects before they became what they
are. In other words, the Indian tales give an account of what all those
individualities accomplished, or suffered, before they fell from their
former positions into the state in which they are now. According to the
earliest tales of North America, this world was occupied, prior to the
appearance of man, by beings called variously “the first people,” “the
outside people,” or simply “people,”—the same term in all cases being
used for people that is applied to Indians at present.

These people, who were very numerous, lived together for ages in harmony.
There were no collisions among them, no disputes during that period;
all were in perfect accord. In some mysterious fashion, however, each
individual was changing imperceptibly; an internal movement was going
on. At last, a time came when the differences were sufficient to cause
conflict, except in the case of a group to be mentioned hereafter, and
struggles began. These struggles were gigantic, for the “first people”
had mighty power; they had also wonderful perception and knowledge. They
felt the approach of friends or enemies even at a distance; they knew
the thought in another’s heart. If one of them expressed a wish, it was
accomplished immediately; nay, if he even thought of a thing, it was
there before him. Endowed with such powers and qualities, it would seem
that their struggles would be endless and indecisive; but such was not
the case. Though opponents might be equally dexterous, and have the power
of the wish or the word in a similar degree, one of them would conquer in
the end through wishing for more effective and better things, and thus
become the hero of a higher cause; that is, a cause from which benefit
would accrue to mankind, the coming race.

The accounts of these struggles and conflicts form the substance of
the first cycle of American tales, which contain the adventures of the
various living creatures, plants, elements, objects, and phenomena in
this world before they became what they are as we see them. Among living
creatures, we are not to reckon man, for man does not appear in any of
those myth tales; they relate solely to extra-human existences, and
describe the battle and agony of creation, not the adventures of anything
in the world since it received its present form and office. According to
popular modes of thought and speech, all this would be termed the fall
of the gods; for the “first people” of the Indian tales correspond to
the earliest gods of other races, including those of the Kelts. We have
thus, in America, a remarkable projection of thought, something quite as
far-reaching for the world of mind as is the nebular hypothesis for the
world of matter. According to the nebular hypothesis, the whole physical
universe is evolved by the rotary motion of a primeval, misty substance
which fills all space, and which seems homogeneous. From a uniform motion
of this attenuated matter, continued through eons of ages, is produced
that infinite variety in the material universe which we observe and
discover, day by day; from it we have the countless host of suns and
planets whose positions in space correspond to their sizes and densities,
that endless choral dance of heavenly bodies with its marvellous figures
and complications, that ceaseless movement of each body in its own
proper path, and that movement of each group or system with reference
to others. From this motion, come climates, succession of seasons, with
all the variety in this world of sense which we inhabit. In the theory
of spiritual evolution, worked out by the aboriginal mind of America,
all kinds of moral quality and character are represented as coming from
an internal movement through which the latent, unevolved personality
of each individual of these “first people,” or gods, is produced. Once
that personality is produced, every species of dramatic situation and
tragic catastrophe follows as an inevitable sequence. There is no more
peace after that; there are only collisions followed by combats which are
continued by the gods till they are turned into all the things,—animal,
vegetable, and mineral,—which are either useful or harmful to man, and
thus creation is accomplished. During the period of struggles, the gods
organize institutions, social and religious, according to which they
live. These are bequeathed to man; and nothing that an Indian has is of
human invention, all is divine. An avowed innovation, anything that we
call reform, anything invented by man, would be looked on as sacrilege,
a terrible, an inexpiable crime. The Indian lives in a world prepared
by the gods, and follows in their footsteps,—that is the only morality,
the one pure and holy religion. The struggles in which creation began,
and the continuance of which was creation itself, were bequeathed to
aboriginal man; and the play of passions which caused the downfall of
the gods has raged ever since, throughout every corner of savage life in
America.

This Creation myth of the New World is a work of great value, for by aid
of it we can bring order into mythology, and reconstruct, at least in
outline, and provisionally, that early system of belief which was common
to all races: a system which, though expressed in many languages, and
in endlessly varying details, has one meaning, and was, in the fullest
sense of the word, one,—a religion truly Catholic and Œcumenical, for it
was believed in by all people, wherever resident, and believed in with
a vividness of faith, and a sincerity of attachment, which no civilized
man can even imagine, unless he has had long experience of primitive
races. In the struggle between these “first people,” or gods, there were
never drawn battles: one side was always victorious, the other always
vanquished; but each could give one command, one fateful utterance,
which no power could resist or gainsay. The victor always said to the
vanquished: “Henceforth, you’ll be nothing but a ——,” and here he named
the beast, bird, insect, reptile, fish, or plant, which his opponent was
to be. That moment the vanquished retorted, and said: “You’ll be nothing
but a ——,” mentioning what he was to be. Thereupon each became what his
opponent had made him, and went away over the earth. As a rule, there is
given with the sentence a characteristic description; for example: “The
people to come hereafter will hunt you, and kill you to eat you;” or,
“will kill you for your skin;” or, “will kill you because they hate you.”

One opponent might be turned into a wolf, the other into a squirrel;
or one into a bear, the other into a fox: there is always a strict
correspondence, however, between the former nature of each combatant and
the present character of the creature into which he has been transformed,
looked at, of course, from the point of view of the original myth-maker.

The war between the gods continued till it produced on land, in the
water, and the air, all creatures that move, and all plants that grow.
There is not a beast, bird, fish, reptile, insect, or plant which is
not a fallen divinity; and for every one noted there is a story of its
previous existence.

This transformation of the former people, or divinities, of America
was finished just before the present race of men—that is, the
Indians—appeared. This transformation does not take place in every
American mythology as a result of single combat. Sometimes a great hero
goes about ridding the world of terrible oppressors and monsters: he
beats them, turns them into something insignificant; after defeat they
have no power over him. We may see in the woods some weak worm or insect
which, in the first age, was an awful power, but a bad one. Stories
of this kind present some of the finest adventures, and most striking
situations, as well as qualities of character in the hero that invite
admiration.

In some mythologies a few personages who are left unchanged at the eve of
man’s coming, transform themselves voluntarily. The details of the change
vary from tribe to tribe; but in all it takes place in some described
way, and forms part of the general change, or metamorphosis, which is
the vital element in the American system. In many, perhaps in all, the
mythologies, there is an account of how some of the former people, or
gods, instead of fighting and taking part in the struggle of creation,
and being transformed, retained their original character, and either went
above the sky, or sailed away westward to where the sky comes down, and
passed out under it, and beyond, to a pleasant region where they live in
delight. This is that contingent to which I have referred, that part of
“the first people” in which no passion was developed; they remained in
primitive simplicity, undifferentiated, and are happy at present. They
correspond to those gods of classic antiquity who enjoyed themselves
apart, and took no interest whatever in the sufferings or the joys of
mankind.

It is evident, at once, that to the aborigines of America the field for
beautiful stories was very extensive.

Everything in nature had a tale of its own, if some one would but tell
it; and during the epoch of constructive power in the race,—the epoch
when languages were built up, and great stories made,—few things of
importance to people of that time were left unconsidered; hence, there
was among the Indians of America a volume of tales as immense, one might
say, as an ocean river. This statement I make in view of materials which
I have gathered myself, and which are still unpublished,—materials which,
though voluminous, are comparatively meagre, merely a hint of what in
some tribes was lost, and of what in others is still uncollected. What
is true of the Indians with reference to the volume of their stories, is
true of all races.

From what is known of the mind of antiquity, and from what data we have
touching savage life in the present, we may affirm as a theory that
primitive beliefs, in all places, are of the same system essentially as
the American. In that system, every individual existence beyond man is
a divinity, but a divinity under sentence,—a divinity weighed down by
fate; a divinity with a history behind it, a history which is tragedy or
comedy as the case may be. These histories extend along the whole line of
experience, and include every combination conceivable to primitive man.

Of the pre-Christian beliefs of the Kelts, not much is known yet in
detail and with certainty. What we may say at present is this, that
they form a very interesting variant of that aforementioned Œcumenical
religion held in early ages by all men. The peculiarities and value of
the variant will be shown when the tales, beliefs, and literary monuments
of the race are brought fully into evidence.

Now that some statement has been made touching Indian tales and their
contents, we may give, for purposes of comparison, two or three of them,
either in part or condensed. These examples may serve to show what Gaelic
tales were before they were modified in structure, and before human
substitutes were put in place of the primitive heroes.

It should be stated here that these accounts of a former people, and the
life of the world before this, as given in the tales, were delivered in
one place and another by some of these “former people” who were the last
to be transformed, and who found means to give needful instruction to
men. On the Klamath River, in Northwestern California, there is a sacred
tree, a former divinity, which has been a great source of revelation. On
a branch of the Upper Columbia is a rock which has told whole histories
of a world before this.

Among the Iroquois, I found a story in possession of a doctor,—that is, a
magician, or sorcerer,—who, so far as I could learn, was the only man who
knew it, though others knew of it. This story is in substance as follows:

Once there was an orphan boy who had no friends; a poor, childless
widow took the little fellow, and reared him. When the boy had grown up
somewhat, he was very fond of bows and arrows, became a wonderful shot.
As is usual with orphans, he was wiser than others, and was able to hunt
when much smaller than his comrades.

He began to kill birds for his foster-mother; gradually he went farther
from home, and found more game. The widow had plenty in her house now,
and something to give her friends. The boy and the woman lived on in this
fashion a whole year. He was good, thoughtful, serious, a wise boy, and
brought game every day. The widow was happy with her foster-son.

At last he came late one evening, later than ever before, and hadn’t half
so much game.

“Why so late, my son; and why have you so little game?” asked the widow.

“Oh, my mother, game is getting scarce around here; I had to go far to
find any, and then it was too late to kill more.”

The next day he was late again, a little later than the day before, and
had no more game; he gave the same excuse. This conduct continued a week;
the woman grew suspicious, and sent out a boy to follow her foster-son,
and see what he was doing.

Now what had happened to the boy? He had gone far into the forest on the
day when he was belated, farther than ever before. In a thick and dense
place he found a round, grassy opening; in the middle of this space was
a large rock, shaped like a millstone, and lying on one side, the upper
part was flat and level. He placed his birds on the rock, sprang up, and
sat on it to rest; the time was just after midday. While he was sitting
there, he heard a voice in the stone, which asked: “Do you want me to
tell a story?” He was astonished, said nothing. Again the voice spoke,
and he answered: “Yes, tell me a story.”

The voice began, and told him a wonderful story, such as he had never
heard before. He was delighted; never had he known such pleasure. About
the middle of the afternoon, the story was finished; and the voice said:
“Now, you must give me your birds for the story; leave them where you put
them.” He went away toward home, shot what birds he could find, but did
not kill many.

He came the next day, with birds, and heard a second story; and so it
went on till the eighth day, when the boy sent by the foster-mother
followed secretly. That boy heard the story too, discovered himself,
and promised not to tell. Two days later the widow sent a second boy to
watch those two, and three days after that a third one. The boys were
true to the orphan, however, and would not tell; the magic of the stories
overcame them.

At last the woman went to the chief with her trouble; he sent a man to
watch the boys. This man joined the boys, and would not tell. The chief
then sent his most trusty friend, whom nothing could turn aside from his
errand. He came on the boys and the man, while they were listening to a
story, and threatened them, was very angry. The voice stopped then, and
said: “I will tell no more to-day; but, you boys and you men, listen to
me, take a message to the chief and the people,—tell them to come here
to-morrow, to come all of them, for I have a great word to say to every
person.”

The boys and men went home, and delivered the message. On the following
day, the whole people went out in a body. They cleared away the thick
grass in the open space; and all sat down around the stone, from which
the voice came as follows:—

“Now, you chief and you people, there was a world before this, and a
people different from the people in the world now,—another kind of
people. I am going to tell you of that people. I will tell you all about
them,—what they did; how they fixed this world; and what they became
themselves. You will come here every day till I have told all the stories
of the former people; and each time you will bring a little present of
what you have at home.”

The stone began, told a story that day, told more the next day. The
people came day after day, week after week, till the stone told all it
knew. Then it said: “You have heard all the stories of the former world;
you will keep them, preserve them as long as you live. In after times
some man will remember nearly all of these stories; another will remember
a good many; a third, not so many; a fourth man, a few; a fifth, one
story; a sixth, parts of some stories, but not all of any story. No man
will remember every story; only the whole people can remember all. When
one man goes to another who knows stories, and he tells them, the first
man will give him some present,—tobacco, a bit of venison, a bird, or
whatever he has. He will do as you have done to me. I have finished.”

Very interesting and important are these statements touching the origin
of stories; they indicate in the Indian system revelation as often as it
is needed. In Ireland, the origin of every Fenian tale is explained in a
way somewhat similar. All the accounts of Fin Mac Cool and his men were
given to Saint Patrick by Ossian, after his return from Tir nan Og, the
Land of the Young, where he had lived three hundred years. These Fenian
tales were written down at that time, it is stated; but Saint Patrick
gave an order soon after to destroy two-thirds of the number, for they
were so entertaining, he said, that the people of Erin would do nothing
but listen to them.

In every case the Fenian tales of Ireland, like the tales of America,
are made up of the adventures of heroes who are not human. Some writers
assert that there have never been such persons on earth as Fin Mac Cool
and his men; others consider them real characters in Irish history. In
either case, the substantial character of the tales is not changed. If
Fin and his men are historical personages, deeds of myth-heroes, ancient
gods of Gaelic mythology, have been attributed to them, or they have been
substituted for heroes who were in the tales previously. If Fin and his
men are not historical, they are either the original non-human heroes,
or a later company of similar character substituted in the tales for the
original heroes, or for some successors of those heroes; at this date it
would be difficult to decide how often such substitutions may have been
made.

The following tale of Pitis and Klakherrit, though condensed, is
complete; it is given here not because it is the best for illustration,
but because it is accessible. The tale is dramatic; the characters
are well known; it is ancient, and may be used to show how easily the
character of stories may be modified without changing their structure,
simply by changing the heroes. This tale of Pitis and Klakherrit is not
more than third rate, if compared with other Indian tales, perhaps not so
high in rank as that, still, it is a good story.

At a place called Memtachnokolton lived the Pitis people; they were
numerous, all children of one father. They lived as they liked for a
long time, till one of them who had gone hunting did not return in the
evening. Next day two of his brothers went to look for him, and found his
headless body four or five miles away, at the side of a deer-trail. They
carried the body home, and buried it.

On the following day, another went to hunt, and spent the night out in
like manner. Next day his headless body was found, brought home, and
buried. Each day a Pitis went to hunt till the last one was killed; and
the way they died was this:—

Not very far south of the deer-trail were the Klak people, at
Klakkewilton. They lived together in one great house, and were all blind
except one Klakherrit, who was young and strong, bad, a great liar, and
very fond of gambling. This Klakherrit hated the Pitis people, and wanted
to kill them all; he used to go out and watch for them. When a Pitis went
hunting, and was following the deer, Klakherrit sat down at the trail,
some distance ahead; and, as the Pitis came up, he would groan, and call
out, “Oh, I have a big splinter in my foot; I cannot take it out alone,
help me!”

The Pitis pitied him always, and said: “I will pull it out for you;” then
he sat down, took the foot in his hand, looked at it, and pulled at the
splinter.

“Oh, you cannot pull it out with your fingers; you must take it between
your teeth.” The Pitis took the end of the splinter between his teeth,
and began to pull; that moment Klakherrit cut his head off, and carried
it to Klakkewilton, leaving the body by the roadside.

When Klakherrit killed the last Pitis, he took his skin, put it on and
became just like Pitis. He went then to Memtachnokolton, and said to the
Pitis women and children, “I killed a deer to-day; but Klakherrit ran off
with it, so I come home with nothing.”

“We have enough to eat; never mind,” said the women, who thought he was
their man.

About dark that evening, Klakherrit, the counterfeit Pitis, killed all
the women and children except one little child, a boy, who escaped by
some wonderful fortune, and hid under the weeds. Klakherrit burned the
village then, and went home, thinking: “I have killed every Pitis.”

Next morning little Pitis came out of his hiding-place, and wandered
around the burnt village, crying. Soon an old woman, Tsosokpokaila, heard
the child, found him, took him home, called him grandson, and reared him;
she gave him seeds to eat which she took from her own people,—a great
many of them lived in her village. She was a small person, but active.

In a few days, little Pitis began to talk; and soon he was able to run
around, and play with bows and arrows. The old woman said to him then:
“My grandson, you must never go to the south nor to the east. Go always
to the north or west, and don’t go far; you needn’t think to meet any of
your people, they are dead, every one of them.”

All this time Klakherrit went out every morning, and listened long and
carefully; hearing no sound of a Pitis, he went in one day, and said to
his blind relatives: “I hear nothing, I see nothing of the Pitis people;
they are all dead.”

There was one old man in the house, an uncle of Klakherrit, and he
answered: “My nephew, I can’t see anything; but some day you may see a
Pitis. I don’t think all the Pitis people are dead yet; I think some are
living in this world somewhere.”

Klakherrit said nothing, but went out every morning as before; at last he
saw far away in the west a little smoke rising, a slender streak of it.
“Some people are living off there,” thought he; “who can they be, I must
know.” He hurried to the house for his choicest clothes, and weapons, and
made ready. He took his best bow, and a large quiver of black fox-skin,
this he filled with arrows; then he put beads of waterbone on his neck,
and a girdle of shining shells around his waist. When dressed to his
wish, he started, and went straight toward the fire. As he came near
it, he walked slowly, to see who was there; for a time he saw no one,
but he heard pounding at the other side of a big pine-tree. He went
around slowly to the other side, and saw a man pounding something. He
would pound a while, and then pick up nuts, crack the shells with his
teeth, and eat the kernels. This person was Kaisusherrit; and he was so
busy that he did not see Klakherrit, who stood looking on a good while.
“Hallo, my friend!” said Klakherrit, at last, “why are you alone; does no
one else live around here?”

Kaisusherrit said nothing; he went on pounding pine cones, getting nuts
out of them, didn’t look at the stranger. Around his neck he had a net
bag filled with pine nuts. After a while he stopped pounding, cracked
some nuts, put the kernels in his mouth, and then pounded pine cones
again.

“My friend, you are alone in this place. I came here by myself; there
are only two of us. I saw your smoke this morning; and I said, before I
started, ‘I will go and see a good man to-day.’ I thought that you were
here, and I found you.”

Kaisusherrit said nothing, but pounded away.

“My friend, why not talk to me; why not say something? Let us gamble:
there is plenty of shade under the trees here; we might as well play.”

Kaisusherrit was silent, didn’t take his eyes off the pine cones.

“Why not talk to me, my friend? If you don’t talk to me, who will; there
are only two of us in this place. I came to see you this morning, to have
a talk with you. I thought you would tell me what is going on around
here where you live; and I would tell you what I know. Stop eating;
let’s gamble, and have a good talk.”

Klakherrit talked, and teased, and begged, all the forenoon. He didn’t
sit down once; he was on his feet all the time. At last, a little after
noon, Kaisusherrit looked up, and said: “Why do you make all this fuss?
That is not the way for one grown person to talk to another. You act like
some little boy, teasing, and talking, and hanging around. Why don’t you
sit down quietly, and tell me who you are, what you know, and where you
live? Then I can tell you what I like, and talk to you.”

Klakherrit sat down, and told who he was. Then he began again: “Well, my
friend, let us play; the shade is good here under the trees.”

“Why do you want to play?” asked Kaisusherrit; “do you see anything here
that you like? I have nothing to bet against your things.”

“Oh, you have,” said Klakherrit,—“you have your pounding stone, your net
full of nuts, your pine cones.”

“Very well,” said Kaisusherrit; “I will bet my things against yours;”
and he placed them in one pile. Klakherrit took off his weapons and
ornaments, and tied them up with Kaisusherrit’s things in one bundle, so
that the winner might have them all ready to carry away. Kaisusherrit
brought sticks to play with, and grass to use with the sticks. He sat
down then with his back to the tree, and motioned to the other to sit
down in front. The bundle was near the tree, and each had a pile of grass
behind him.

“Let us go away from this tree to the shade out there; I don’t like to be
near a tree,” said Klakherrit.

“Oh, I can’t go there; I must have my back against a tree when I
play,” said Kaisusherrit. “Oh, come, I like that place; let us go out
there.” “No, my back aches unless I lean against a tree; I must stay
here.” “Never mind this time; come on, I want to play out there,” urged
Klakherrit. “I won’t go,” said Kaisusherrit; “I must play here.”

They talked and disputed about the place till the middle of the
afternoon: but Kaisusherrit wouldn’t stir; and Klakherrit, who was dying
to play, agreed at last to let Kaisusherrit put his back to the tree, and
to sit opposite himself. They began, and were playing about two hours,
when Klakherrit was getting the advantage; he was winning. Both were
playing their best now, and watching each other. Kaisusherrit said then
in his mind, “You, Klakherrit’s grass, be all gone, be grass no more,
be dust.” The grass in Klakherrit’s hand turned to dust. He reached
behind to get more grass, but found none; then he looked to see where it
was. That moment Kaisusherrit snatched the bundle, and ran up the tree.
Klakherrit sprang to his feet, looked through the branches; and there he
saw Kaisusherrit with the bundle on his back.

“Oh, my friend,” cried he, “what is the matter; what are you doing?”
Kaisusherrit said nothing, sat on a limb, and looked at the stranger.
“Oh, my friend, why go up in the tree? Come, let us finish the game;
maybe you’ll win all my things. Come down.”

Klakherrit talked and talked. Kaisusherrit began to come down slowly,
stopping every little while; he reached the lower limbs. Klakherrit
thought he was coming surely; all at once he turned, and hurried up
again, went to the very top, and sat there. Klakherrit walked around
the tree, persuading and begging. Kaisusherrit slipped down a second
time, was near the ground, seemed to be getting off the tree; Klakherrit
was glad. Kaisusherrit didn’t get off, though; he went up to the next
limb, smiled, and looked at Klakherrit, who was getting terribly angry.
Kaisusherrit went higher. Klakherrit could hold in no longer; he was
raging. He ran, picked up sharp rocks, and hurled them at Kaisusherrit.
The first one hit the limb on which he was sitting, and cut it right
off; but he was very quick and sprang on to another. Klakherrit hurled
stone after stone at the tree, with such force and venom that a limb
fell whenever a stone struck it. At dusk there wasn’t a limb left on the
tree; but Kaisusherrit was there yet. He was very quick and resolute, and
dodged every stone. Klakherrit drew breath a moment, and began again to
hurl stones at Kaisusherrit; wherever one struck the tree, it took the
bark off. At dark the tree was all naked and battered, not a branch nor
a bit of bark left. Kaisusherrit was on it yet; but Klakherrit couldn’t
see him. Klakherrit had to go home; when he went into the house, he said,
“Well, I’ve met a man to-day who is lucky; he won all my things in play.”

“My son,” said Klakherrit’s father, who was very old, “you have been
telling us that you are a great player; but I thought all the time that
you would meet a person some day who would beat you. You have travelled
much to find such a one; you have found him.”

Next morning Klakherrit went out, and saw a smoke in the west. “That
is my friend,” said he; “I must see him.” He took his best dress and
weapons, and soon reached the fire. “Hallo, my friend,” said Klakherrit,
“I’ve come to play with you to-day.” “Very well,” answered Kaisusherrit,
who was wearing Klakherrit’s clothes that he had carried up the tree.
“But, my friend, you won’t do as you did yesterday?” “Oh, no; I’ll
play nicely to-day, I’ll play to please you.” They tied the stakes in
one bundle, brought sticks and grass. Kaisusherrit put his back to a
tree much larger than the first one. Klakherrit wished to play in the
open; Kaisusherrit wouldn’t go there. They disputed and quarrelled till
Klakherrit had to yield; but he made up his mind not to let Kaisusherrit
go up the tree this time.

They played as before till the middle of the afternoon, when Klakherrit
was winning. Kaisusherrit turned the grass into dust, and was up the
tree before Klakherrit could stop him. The deeds of the day before
were repeated with greater force. Kaisusherrit was more cynical in his
conduct. Klakherrit was more enraged; he cut all the limbs, and stripped
all the bark from this tree with stone-throwing. At dark he had to go
home, leaving Kaisusherrit unhurt.

On the third morning, Klakherrit was watching for smoke; he wanted to
win back what he had lost in the west. Soon he saw a herd of deer pass,
followed by a Pitis.

It was the end of summer; little Pitis had grown very fast, was a young
man now. While Klakherrit was gambling, Pitis told his grandmother that
he wanted to hunt. “Oh, my grandson,” said she, “you must never go
hunting; all your people were killed while out hunting. I don’t want you
to hunt; I don’t want you to be killed.”

“I don’t want to be killed, my grandmother; but I don’t like to stay
around the house here all the time. I want to find food and bring it
home; I want, besides, to see where my people were killed. I want to see
the place where they died; I want to look at the person who killed them.”

“My grandson, I don’t like to hear you talk in that way; I don’t want you
to go far from this house. There is a very bad person south of us: he is
the one who killed all your people; he is Klakherrit.”

“My grandmother, I can’t help going,—I must go; I must see the place
where my people were killed. If I can find him, I must look at
Klakherrit, who killed all my relatives.”

Next morning, young Pitis rose, and dressed himself beautifully. He took
a good bow, and a quiver of black fox-skin; his arrows were pointed with
white flint; in his hair he had Winishuyat[1] to warn him of danger. “My
grandmother,” said he, at parting, “do the best you can while I am gone.”
The old woman began to cry, and said, “Oh, my grandson, be on the watch,
and guard yourself well; take good care, my grandson.”

Pitis started off; and, when out of sight, Winishuyat said, “My brother,
a little ahead of us are deer. All your relatives were killed by
Klakherrit for the sake of these deer. The deer obeyed your people, and
went wherever they told them.” Pitis saw twenty deer, and, a few moments
later, twenty more. He shouted; they ran around, stopped, and looked at
him. “I want you, deer,” said Pitis, “to go toward the south, and go past
Klakherrit’s house, so that he can see you and I can see him.”

Pitis shouted three times; and Klakherrit, who was watching for
Kaisusherrit’s smoke, heard him. The forty deer went on one after another
in a line, Pitis following. When Klakherrit saw them, he ran into the
house, and called to his relatives: “Deer are coming; and a Pitis is with
them!”

“Oh, my nephew,” cried the blind uncle, “you kept saying all the time
that there was not another Pitis in this world; but I knew there were
some left somewhere. Didn’t I say that you would see Pitis people; didn’t
I tell you that you hadn’t killed all that people, my nephew? You will
meet a Pitis to-day.”

Klakherrit made no answer; he took his bow and quiver quickly, and
hurried out. The deer had passed the house and Pitis was just passing.
Klakherrit saw him well; and Pitis had a good look at Klakherrit.
Klakherrit went away on one side of the trail, got ahead of the deer, and
sat down at the side of the trail near a rock. When they came up, the
deer passed him; but Winishuyat said to Pitis, “My brother, Klakherrit
is near that rock right there; when you pass, don’t stop, don’t speak to
him. It is he who killed our people; he wants to kill you.”

When Pitis came to the rock; Klakherrit jumped up on one leg, and cried,
“Oh, my friend, I can’t travel farther. I was going to help you, but I
have this great splinter in my foot; draw it out for me.” Pitis didn’t
look at him, went straight past. A little later, Winishuyat said, “My
brother, on the other side of that clump of bushes your enemy is sitting:
go by; don’t speak to him.” When Pitis came, Klakherrit begged him again
to pull the splinter out of his foot; but Pitis didn’t stop, didn’t speak
to him. Five times that day did Klakherrit run ahead by side-paths, and
beg Pitis to pull a splinter out of his foot; but Pitis never stopped,
never answered him. In the evening, Pitis said to the deer, “You, deer,
meet me in the morning where you met me to-day.” That night, Pitis said
to his grandmother, “I saw Klakherrit; he bothered me all day. Five times
he was ahead of me with a sore foot; but if his foot is sore, how can he
travel so? There must be a great many of his people just like him.”

“My grandson, Klakherrit has many relatives; but he is the only one of
that people who can travel. All the rest are blind; he is the one who was
ahead of you all day.”

“Well, grandmother, I have seen Klakherrit; I know all about him. I know
what I can do to him; I shall follow the deer to-morrow.” (Pitis didn’t
hunt deer; he just followed them.) Next morning, Pitis rose very early,
bathed in the creek, ate his breakfast, and dressed for the road; then
he brought two flat stones, a blue and a white one, each about a foot
wide, put them down before the old woman, and said, “My grandmother,
watch these two stones all day. If you see thick black spots of blood
on the blue stone, you may know that I am killed; but if you see light
red blood on the white stone, you may know that I am safe.” The old
woman began to cry; but he went to the place where he met the deer the
day before. He sent them by the same road; and, after a while, he met
Klakherrit, who begged him to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis
passed in silence; when out of sight, he stopped the deer, and said,
“Now, my deer, let the strongest of you go ahead; and if Klakherrit is
by the trail again, run at him, and stamp him into the ground with your
fore-feet; jump on him, every one of you.”

Some distance farther on, they saw Klakherrit sitting at the side of the
trail. The first deer ran and thrust his hoofs into his body; the second
and the third did the same, and so did the whole forty. He was all cut
to pieces, one lump of dirt and blood. The deer went on; Pitis followed.
Soon Pitis called to the deer, “We’ll go back again;” and he walked ahead
till they returned to where they had trampled his enemy. Klakherrit was
up again, begging, “Oh, my friend, pull this great splinter out of my
foot; I cannot do it alone, help me!” Pitis sent the deer at him again;
they trampled him into the ground, and went on. When they had gone
perhaps two miles, Klakherrit was sitting at the roadside as before, and
begged Pitis to pull the splinter out of his foot. Pitis was terribly
angry now; he stopped in front of Klakherrit, and walked up to him. “My
friend,” said he, “what are you talking about; what do you want? Are you
one person, or are there many like you? You bothered me all yesterday;
what do you want to-day?”

“I am only one person,” said Klakherrit; “but, my friend, pull this
splinter out; my foot pains me terribly.”

“But how do you run so fast, and go ahead of me every time, if your foot
is hurt; how do you pull the splinter out?”

“I get it out at last, and run ahead; but by that time there is another
splinter in my foot.”

“Why do you follow me; what do you want; why don’t you let me alone?”
inquired Pitis, sitting down.

“Oh, my friend, pull this splinter out; my foot is so sore I cannot talk.
Pull the splinter, and I will tell you.”

Pitis took hold of the splinter and pulled, but no use, he could not
draw it out. “Take it between your teeth, that is the only way,” said
Klakherrit.

“My brother,” said Winishuyat, “look out for your life now; that is the
way in which Klakherrit killed all your people. Do what he says; but
dodge when I tell you.”

Pitis took the splinter between his teeth, and began to pull. That moment
Klakherrit drew his knife, and struck; but before the knife came down,
Winishuyat cried, “Dodge to the left!” Pitis dodged, and just escaped.
Pitis struck now with his white-flint knife. Every blow he gave hit
Klakherrit; he dodged every blow himself so that it struck only his
clothes. Klakherrit was very strong, and fought fiercely. Pitis was
quick, and hit all the time. The fight was a hard one. In the middle
of the afternoon, Pitis was very tired, and had all his clothes cut to
pieces; and Klakherrit’s head was cut off. But the head would not die; it
fought on, and Pitis cut at it with his knife.

Now Winishuyat called out, “My brother, you can’t kill Klakherrit in that
way; you can’t kill him with any weapon on this earth. Klakherrit’s life
is in the sky; Klakherrit’s heart is up there on the right side of the
place where the sun is at midday.”

Pitis looked up, and saw the heart. He stretched out his right hand then,
pulled down the heart, and squeezed it; that moment Klakherrit died.

Pitis took the skin off Klakherrit’s body, put it on himself, and
became just like him. He cut up his enemy’s flesh, then carried it to
Klakkewilton, went into the house and said, “I have some venison to-day;
I will roast it.” He roasted Klakherrit’s flesh, and gave it to his
relatives. All ate except the old uncle, who grumbled, and said, “This
meat doesn’t seem right to me; it has the smell of our people.” Pitis
walked out, pulled off Klakherrit’s skin, threw it into the house,
and was himself again; then he set fire to the house, and stopped the
door. He listened; there was a great noise inside and an uproar. If any
broke through, he threw them back again. At last one woman burst out,
and rushed away; she escaped, and from her were born all the Klaks in
the world. But she and they were a people no longer; they had become
rattlesnakes. The Pitis people became quails, and Kaisusherrit’s people,
gray squirrels.

The old woman, Tsosokpokaila, who reared Pitis, became a weed about a
foot high, which produces many seeds; the quails are fond of these seeds.

The following summary shows in outline the main parts of a tale which
could not be so easily modified as the preceding, and one which is much
more important as to contents.

Before thunder and lightning were in this world, Sulapokaila (trout old
woman) had a house on the river Winimem, near Mount Shasta. One evening,
a maiden called Wimaloimis (grisly bear maiden) came, and asked a night’s
lodging of the old woman; she gave it. Next morning, Wimaloimis wanted
to eat Sulapokaila, and had almost caught her, when the old woman turned
into water, and escaped. Wimaloimis went her way then, but remained in
the neighborhood. She built a house, lay down near the door, and gazed at
the sun for a long time; at last she grew pregnant from gazing. In time
she had twins. When the first one was born, she tried to swallow it; but
the infant gave out a great flash of light and frightened her. When the
second child was born, she tried to eat that; but it roared terribly, and
she was so frightened that she rushed out of the house, and ran off. The
old woman, Sulapokaila, came and took the children home, washed them,
cared for them, named the first-born Walokit (Lightning), and the second
Tumukit (Thunder).

The boys grew very fast, and were soon young men. One day, Walokit asked,
“Brother, do you know who our mother is, who our father is?”

“I do not know,” answered Tumukit; “let us ask our grandmother.”

They went and asked the old woman. “I know your father and mother,”
replied the old woman. “Your mother is very bad; she came to my house,
and tried to eat me. She wanted to eat trees, bushes, everything she saw.
When you were born, she tried to eat you; but somehow you little boys
frightened her. She ran away, and is living on that mountain yonder. Your
father is good; he is living up there in the sky.”

A couple of days later, Walokit said to his brother, “Let us go and find
our mother.” They went off, and found her half-way up on the slope of
a mountain, sitting in front of her house, and weaving a basket. Her
head was down; she did not see them even when near. They stood awhile in
silence, and then walked right up to her.

“Oh, my children!” cried she, putting the basket aside, “come into the
house, and sit down.” She went in; the boys followed. She sat down.

“Come here, and I’ll comb your hair; come both of you, my children.”
They sat down in front of her, and bent their heads. She stroked their
hair, took her comb, and began to comb; next, she opened her mouth wide,
and was going to swallow both at one gulp. That moment some voice said,
“Look out, boys; she is going to eat you.” They saw no one, but heard the
voice. Next instant, Walokit flashed, and Tumukit roared. The mother,
dazzled, deafened, rushed out of the house in great terror.

“I don’t believe she is our mother,” said Tumukit.

“I don’t believe she is either,” answered Walokit. They were both very
angry, and said, “She is a bad woman anyhow. She may be our mother; but
she is a bad woman.”

They went home, and later Walokit found his mother, and killed her.
Tumukit merely stood by, and roared. The woman’s body was torn to pieces,
and scattered. The brothers wept, and went to their grandmother, who sent
them to various sacred springs to purify themselves, and wash away the
blood of their mother. When they had done that, after many pilgrimages,
they said, “We will go to our father, if we can.”

Next day they said, “Grandmother, we will stay with you to-morrow, and
leave you the next day.” On the second morning, they said, “We are going,
and you, our grandmother, must do the best you can without us.”

“To what place are you going, my grandsons?”

“We are going to our father, if we can.”

When the old woman heard this, she went into the house, and brought out a
basket cup full of trout blood (water), and gave it to Walokit, “Rub this
over your whole body; use it always; it will give you strength. No matter
how much you use the blood, the basket will never be empty.”

They took farewell of the old woman, and went to the upper side of the
sky, but did not go to their father. They live up there now, and go over
the whole world, sometimes to find their father, sometimes for other
purposes. When they move, we see one, and hear the other.

This tale has a few of the disagreeable features peculiar to some of
the early myth-tales of all races,—tales which, if not forgotten, are
misunderstood as the race advances, and then become tragedies of horror.
Still, such tales are among the most precious for science, if analyzed
thoroughly.

In another tale, told me by the same man who related this one, the sun,
after his road had been marked out, finally, was warned against his own
children, the grisly bears, who would beset his path through the sky, and
do their best to devour him.

The grisly bear maiden, Wimaloimis, is a terrible criminal; she piles
horror upon horror. She tries to eat up the hospitable trout woman who
gives her lodging; she has twins from her own father; she tries to
eat her own children; she brings them to commit matricide under cruel
conditions. The house of Pelops and Lot’s daughters, combined, barely
match her. If the tale of Wimaloimis had belonged to early Greece, and
had survived till the time of the Attic tragedians, the real nature
of the actors in it would have been lost, in all likelihood, and then
it might have served as a striking example of sin and its punishment.
Instead of discovering who the _dramatis personæ_ were really, the people
of that time would have made them all human. In our day, we try to
discover the point of view of the old myth-maker, to learn what it really
was that he dealt with. In case we succeed, we are able to see that many
of the repulsive features of ancient myths were not only natural and
explicable, but absolutely unavoidable. The cloud, a grisly bear, is
a true daughter of the sun. The sun and the cloud are undoubtedly the
parents of the twin brothers, Thunder and Lightning; there are no other
parents possible for them. That the cloud, according to myth description,
tried to devour her own children, and was destroyed at last, and torn
to pieces by them, is quite true. When we know the real elements of the
tale, we find it perfectly accurate and truthful. If the personages in it
were represented as human, it would become at once, what many a tale like
it is made to be, repulsive and horrible.

Among Gaelic tales there are few in which the heroes are of the earliest
period, though there are many in which primitive elements are prominent,
and some in which they predominate. In a time sufficiently remote,
Gaelic tales were made up altogether of the adventures of non-human
heroes similar to those in the tales of America,—that is, heroes in the
character of beasts, birds, and other living creatures, as well as the
phenomena and elements of nature.

Beasts and birds are frequent in Gaelic tales yet; but they never fill
the chief rôle in any tale. At most they are friends of the hero, and
help him; not infrequently he could not gain victory without them. If on
the bad side, the rôle is more prominent, a monster, or terrible beast,
may be the leading opponent, or be one in a series of powerful enemies.

In a few Gaelic tales, phenomena or processes of nature appear still as
chief actors; but they appear in human guise. The two tales in which this
position is most evident, are those of Mor and Glas Gainach,—not the tale
of Mor as given in this volume, but an older tale, and one which, so far
as I know, exists only in fragments and sayings. This tale of Mor, which
I gathered bit by bit in one place and another through West Kerry, is, in
substance, as follows:

Mor (big), a very large woman, came by sea to Dunmore Head, with her
husband, Lear, who could not live with Mor, and went around by sea to the
extreme north, where he stayed, thus putting, as the phrase runs, “All
Ireland between himself and the wife.” Mor had sons, and lived at Dun
Quin (the ruins of her house Tivorye [Mor’s house], are shown yet) at the
foot of Mount Eagle. She lived on pleasantly; much came to her from the
sea. She was very proud of her sons, and cared for no one in the world
except them. The woman increased greatly in substance, was rich and happy
till her sons were enticed away, and went to sea.

One day, she climbed to the top of Mount Eagle, and, for the first time,
saw Dingle Bay with the highlands of Iveragh and Killarney. “Oh, but
isn’t Erin the big country; isn’t it widely spread out!” cried she. Mor
was enormously bulky, and exerted herself to the utmost in climbing the
mountain. At the top, certain necessities of nature came on her; as a
result of relieving these, a number of deep gullies were made in Mount
Eagle, in various directions. These serve to this day as water-courses;
and torrents go through them to the ocean during rainfalls.

News was brought to Mor on the mountain that her sons had been enticed
away to sea by magic and deceit. Left alone, all her power and
property vanished; she withered, lost her strength, went mad, and then
disappeared, no man knew whither. “All that she had came by the sea,”
as people say, “and went with the sea.” She who had been disagreeable
and proud to such a degree that her own husband had to leave her; the
woman whose delight was in her children and her wealth,—became the most
desolate person in Erin, childless, destitute, a famishing maniac that
disappeared without a trace.

There is an interesting variant to this story, referring to Lear, Mor’s
husband. This represents him not as going to the other end of Erin, but
as stopping where he touched land first; there he died, and was buried.
This is the version confirmed by the grave mound at Dunmore Head.

From the artistic point of view, it is to be regretted that the tale
of Mor has not come down to us complete with its variants; but we may
be thankful for what we have. The fragments extant, and the sayings,
establish the character of the tale, especially in view of a most
interesting bit of testimony preserved in a book published in 1757.

After I had collected all the discoverable scraps and remnants of the
tale, I came upon the statement in Smith’s “History of Kerry,” page 182,
that Dunmore Head was called by the people thereabout, “Mary Geerane’s
house.” The author adds the name in Gaelic (which he did not know), in
the following incorrect form: “Ty-Vorney Geerane.” Now this sentence does
not mean Mary Geerane’s house at all, but the house of Mor, daughter of
the sun, Tigh Mhoire ni Greine, pronounced, “Thee Vorye nyee Grainye.”
Here is the final fact needed,—a fact preserved with an ignorance of its
nature and value that is absolutely trustworthy.

What does the story mean now? Mor, daughter of the sun, leaves her
husband, Lear, and comes to land herself. The husband cannot follow; for
Lear is the plain of the sea,—the sea itself in its outward aspect. Lear
is the Neptune of the Gaels. One version represents Lear as coming to his
end at Dunmore Head; the other, as going around the island to Donaghedee,
to live separated from a proud and disagreeable wife by the land of all
Ireland. Each of these variants is equally consonant with the character
of the couple. Let us pursue the tale further. Mor, the cloud woman,—for
this she is,—has issue at Dun Quin, has sons (the rain-drops), and is
prosperous, is proud of her sons, cares only for them; but her sons
cannot stay with her, they are drawn to the sea irresistibly. She climbs
Mount Eagle, is amazed at the view from the summit, sits down there and
performs her last act on earth, the result of which is those tortuous
and remarkably deep channels on the sides of Mount Eagle. After that she
hears on the mountain that her sons are gone, she vanishes from human
ken, is borne out of sight from the top of Mount Eagle.

Such is the myth of the cloud woman, Mor (the big one), a thing of wonder
for the people.

In “Glas Gainach,” with which this volume opens, we have, perhaps, the
best tale preserved by memory in Ireland. The tale itself is perfect,
apparently, and its elements are ancient.

The prize for exertion, the motive for action, in this tale, is a present
from King Under the Wave to his friend the King of Spain. This King of
Spain is, of course, supposititious. Who the former friend was whose
place he usurped, we have no means of knowing; but we shall not be far
out of the way, I think, if we consider him to be the monarch of a
cloud-land,—a realm as intangible as the Nephelokokkygia of Aristophanes,
but real.

In Elin Gow, the swordsmith, we have a character quite as primitive
as the cow or her owners. Elin Gow is found in Scotland as well as in
Ireland. Ellin Gowan’s Height, in Guy Mannering, is simply Elin Gow’s
Height, _Gowan_ (_Gobhan_ in Gaelic) being merely the genitive case of
_Gow_ (_Gobha_). Elin Gow means simply Elin the smith. Under whatever
name, or wherever he may be, Elin Gow occupies a position in Gaelic
similar to that of Hephæstos in Greek, or Vulcan in Latin mythology; he
is the maker of weapons, the forger of the bolt.

In a short tale of Glas Gavlen, which I obtained near Carrick, County
Donegal, it is stated that the cow came down from the sky. According to
the tale, she gives milk in unlimited quantities to all people without
exception. Time after time the rich or powerful try to keep her for
their own use exclusively, but she escapes. Appearing first at Dun
Kinealy, she goes finally to Glen Columkil near the ocean, where a strong
man tries to confine her; but she rises in the air, and, clearing the
high ridge on the northern side of the glen, disappears. Since then,
there is no free milk in Erin, and none but that which common cows give.

The cow, Glas Gainach or Gaunach or Gavlen, for all three refer to the
same beast, betrays at once her relationship with those cows of India so
famous in the Rig Veda, those cloud cows whose milk was rain, cows which
the demon Vritra used to steal and hide away, thus causing drought and
suffering. Indra brought death to this demon with a lightning bolt; for
this deed he received the name Vritrahan (slayer of Vritra). The cows
were freed then from confinement; and the world was refreshed by their
milk, which came to all, rich and poor, in like manner. So far the main
characters of the tale are quite recognizable. Cian and Cormac are simply
names current in Irish history, and are substituted for names of original
heroes, who were characters as far from human and as mythologic as King
Under the Wave or Glas Gainach.

A comparison of Gaelic tales with the Indian tales of America shows that
the Gaelic contain materials some of which is as ancient as the Indian,
while the tales themselves are less primitive.

There are many Indian tales which we can analyze, genuine myths,—a myth,
in its earliest form, being a tale the substance of which is an account
of some process in nature, or some collision between forces in nature,
the whole account being given as a narrative of personal adventure.

Among the Irish tales there are very few ancient myths pure and simple,
though there are many made up of myth materials altogether. The tale
of Mor, reconstructed from fragments, is a myth from beginning to end;
the history of a cloud in the guise of a woman, as Glas Gainach is the
history of a cloud in the guise of a cow.

Tales like Glas Gainach and Mor are not frequent in Gaelic at present;
but tales of modified structure, composite tales to which something
has been added, and from which something has been taken away, are met
with oftener than any. The elements added or taken away are not modern,
however; they are, if we except certain heroes, quite ancient.

In course of time, and through change of religion, ancient heroes were
forgotten in some cases, rejected in others, and new ones substituted;
when the argument of a tale, or part of it, grew less distinct, it was
strengthened from the general stock, made more complete and vivid. In
this way came adventure tales, constructed of materials purely mythic
and ancient. Parts were transferred from one tale to another, the same
incidents and heroes being found in tales quite different in other
respects.

The results to be obtained from a comparison of systems of thought
like the Indian and the Gaelic would be great, if made thoroughly. If
extended to all races, such a comparison would render possible a history
of the human mind in a form such as few men at present even dream of,—a
history with a basis as firm as that which lies under geology. If this
work is to be accomplished, we must make large additions indeed to our
knowledge of primitive peoples. We must complete the work begun in
America. We must collect the great tales of Africa, Asia, and the islands
of the Pacific,—tales which embody the philosophy of the races that made
them. The undertaking is arduous, and there is need to engage in it
promptly. The forces of civilized society, at present, are destroying
on all sides, not saving that which is precious in primitive people.
Civilized society supposes that man, in an early degree of development,
should be stripped of all that he owns, both material and mental, and
then be refashioned to serve the society that stripped him. If he will
not yield to the stripping and training, then slay him.

In view of this state of things, there is no time for delay; primitive
man is changing, and the work is extensive.

Of Chinese thought we know very little, especially of Taoism, the most
ancient system of the country,—the one which has grown up from Chinese
myth-tales. Of African tales, only few have been collected, and those of
small value mainly.

In Asia and Eastern Europe, the Russians have done the best work by far;
besides many good volumes of Slav tales, they have given us much from
the Tartars and Mongols of exceptional value and ancient. In the United
States, little was accomplished till recent years; of late, however,
public interest has been roused somewhat, and, since Major Powell entered
the field, and became Director of the Bureau of Ethnology, more has been
done in studying the native races of America than had been done from the
discovery of the country up to that time.

To sum up, we may say, that the Indian tales reveal to us a whole system
of religion, philosophy, and social polity. They take us back to the
beginning of things; they describe Creation and the establishment of the
present order in the world.

Those tales form a complete series. The whole mental and social life
of the race to which they belong is evident in them. The Gaelic tales
are a fragment of a former system. The earliest tales in that system
are lost; those which formed the Creation myth, and related directly to
the ancient faith and religious practices of the Gaels, were set aside
and prohibited at the introduction of Christianity. In many of those
that remained, leading heroes were changed by design, or forgotten, and
others put in their places. In general, they were modified consciously
and unconsciously,—some greatly, others to a less degree, and a few very
little.

We find various resemblances in the two systems, some of which are very
striking in details, and others in general features; the question,
therefore, rises readily enough: Can we not use the complete system to
aid us in explaining and reconstructing, in some degree, the imperfect
one? We can undoubtedly; and if to materials preserved by oral tradition,
like those in this volume, be added manuscript tales, and those scattered
through chronicles ecclesiastical and secular, we may hope to give some
idea of what the ancient system of Gaelic thought was, and discover
whether the Gaelic gods had a similar origin with the Indian. What is
true of the Gaelic is true also of other ancient systems in Europe, such
as the Slav and Teutonic. These have much less literary material than the
Gaelic; but the Slav has vastly greater stores of oral tradition, and
tales which contain much precious thought from pre-Christian ages.

During eight years of investigation among Indian tribes in North America,
I obtained the various parts of that Creation myth mentioned in this
introduction, from tribes that were remote from one another, and in
different degrees of development. Such tales I found in the east, in
the central regions, and finally in California and Oregon. Over this
space, the extreme points of which are three thousand miles apart, each
tribe has the Creation myth,—one portion being brought out with special
emphasis in one tribe, and another portion in a different one. In tribes
least developed, the earliest tales are very distinct, and specially
valuable on some points relating to the origin and fall of the gods.
Materials from the extreme west are more archaic and simple than those
of the east. In fact the two regions present the two extremes, in North
America, of least developed and most developed aboriginal thought.
In this is their interest. They form one complete system, a single
conception richly illustrated.

Shall we find among tribes of Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands,
tales which are component parts of great Creation myths like that of
North America? We shall find them no doubt, if we spend time and skilled
labor sufficient.

The discovery and collection of these materials, and the proper use of
them afterward, constitute, for scientific zeal and activity, a task as
important as self-knowledge is important to man.

       *       *       *       *       *

In 1887, I made a journey to Ireland; when I collected tales from which
were selected the twenty forming the “Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland,”
Boston, Little, Brown, and Company, 1889. While in Ireland, during that
first visit, and this one, I have met with much good will and kindness
which are pleasant to remember.

I must mention, to begin with, my indebtedness to Rev. P. A. Walsh, of
the St. Vincent Fathers, Cork, a widely known Gaelic scholar, and a man
whose acquaintance with the South of Ireland is extensive and intimate.
Father Walsh gave me much information concerning the people, and letters
to priests. I am greatly obliged to J. J. MacSweeny, Esq., of the Royal
Irish Academy, for help in many ways, and for letters to people in
Donegal. To Rev. Eugene O’Growney, Professor of Gaelic at Maynooth, I am
grateful for letters and advice.

If I were to mention all who have done me deeds of kindness, the list
would be long indeed. I must name, however, in Dingle, the venerable
Canon O’Sullivan and Father Scollard, in Bally Ferriter, Rev. John
O’Leary. To Mr. Patrick Ferriter, of Dingle, a man of keen intelligence
and an excellent Gaelic scholar, I am deeply indebted for assistance
in Gaelic. Canon Brosnan, of Cahirciveen, placed all his knowledge of
the region where he lives at my service, and on one occasion led in an
unwilling story-teller. Father MacDevitt, of Carrick, County Donegal,
assisted me much in his neighborhood. Rev. James MacFadden, of Glena,
County Donegal, and his curate, Rev. John Boyle, of Falcarra, helped me
effectively, and showed the most courteous hospitality. I should return
special thanks to Prof. Brian O’Looney, of Dublin, whose knowledge of
ancient Gaelic lore is unmatched, and who at all times was as willing as
he was able to aid me.

In America, the list of my obligations is short; there is only one man
on that continent to whom thanks are due in connection with this volume,
but that man, like the hero in Gaelic tales, was worth more than the
thousands on all four sides of him. The contents of this book would not
have been collected without the co-operation of Hon. Charles A. Dana, who
published fifty of these Gaelic tales in the Sunday edition of “The Sun.”
At that time no other editor was willing to join in the enterprise; and
I did not feel able to endure both the financial burden and the labor of
finding and collecting Gaelic tales, as I had done in 1887. Mr. Dana,
with his keen eye for literary character, noted at once in the “Myths and
Folk-lore” the originality of Gaelic tales and their heroes. When I told
him that relics like the Cuculin and Gilla na Grakin of my first book
were on the verge of extinction, he joined hands with me to save them,
and I set out on my second journey to Ireland.

                                                         JEREMIAH CURTIN.

LONDON, ENGLAND, August, 1894.




HERO-TALES OF IRELAND.




ELIN GOW, THE SWORDSMITH FROM ERIN, AND THE COW GLAS GAINACH.


Once King Under the Wave went on a visit to the King of Spain, for the
two were great friends. The King of Spain was complaining, and very sorry
that he had not butter enough. He had a great herd of cows; but for all
that, he had not what butter he wanted. He said that he’d be the richest
man in the world if he had butter in plenty for himself and his people.

“Do not trouble your mind,” said King Under the Wave. “I will give you
Glas Gainach,—a cow that is better than a thousand cows, and her milk is
nearly all butter.”

The King of Spain thanked his guest for the promise, and was very glad.
King Under the Wave kept his word; he sent Glas Gainach, and a messenger
with instructions how to care for the cow, and said that if she was
angered in any way she would not stay out at pasture. So the king took
great care of her; and the report went through all nations that the King
of Spain had the cow called Glas Gainach.

The King of Spain had an only daughter, and he was to give the cow with
the daughter; and the cow was a great fortune, the best dower in the
world at that time. The king said that the man who would do what he put
on him would get the daughter and the cow.

Champions came from every part of the world, each man to try his fortune.
In a short time hundreds and thousands of men lost their heads in combat.
The king agreed then that any man who would serve seven years, and bring
the cow safe and sound every day of that time to the castle, would have
her.

In minding the cow, the man had to follow her always, never go before
her, or stop her, or hold her. If he did, she would run home to the
castle. The man must stop with her when she wanted to get a bite or a
drink. She never travelled less than sixty miles a day, eating a good
bite here and a good bite there, and going hither and over.

The King of Spain never told men how to mind the cow; he wanted them to
lose their heads, for then he got their work without wages.

One man would mind her for a day; another would follow her to the castle
for two days; a third might go with her for a week, and sometimes a man
could not come home with her the first day. The man should be loose and
swift to keep up with Glas Gainach. The day she walked least she walked
sixty miles; some days she walked much more.

It was known in Erin that there was such a cow, and there was a smith in
Cluainte above here, three miles north of Fintra, and his name was Elin
Gow. He was the best man in Erin to make a sword or any weapon of combat.
From all parts of Erin, and from other lands also, young princes who were
going to seek their fortunes came to him to have him make swords for
them. Now what should happen but this? It came to him in a dream three
nights in succession that he was to go for Glas Gainach, the wonderful
cow. At last he said, “I will go and knock a trial out of her; I will go
toward her.”

He went to Tramor, where there were some vessels. It was to the King of
Munster that he went, and asked would he lend him a vessel. Elin Gow
had made many swords for the king. The king said that he would lend the
vessel with willingness, and that if he could do more for him he would
do it. Elin Gow got the vessel, and put stores in it for a day and a
year. He turned its prow then to sea and its stern to land, and was
ploughing the main ocean till he steered into the kingdom of Spain as
well as if he had had three pilots, and there was no one but himself in
it. He let the wind guide the ship, and she came into the very harbor of
the province where the king’s castle was.

When Elin Gow came in, he cast two anchors at the ocean side and one at
the shore side, and settled the ship in such a way that there was not a
wave to strike her, nor a wind to rock her, nor a crow to drop on her;
and he left her so that nothing would disturb her, and a fine, smooth
strand before her: he left her fixed for a day and a year, though he
might not be absent an hour.

He left the vessel about midday, and went his way walking, not knowing
where was he or in what kingdom. He met no man or beast in the place.
Late in the evening he saw, on a broad green field at a distance, a
beautiful castle, the grandest he had ever set eyes on.

When he drew near the castle, the first house he found was a cottage at
the wayside; and when he was passing, who should see him but a very old
man inside in the cottage. The old man rose up, and putting his two
hands on the jambs of the door, reached out his head and hailed him. Elin
Gow turned on his heel; then the old man beckoned to him to enter.

There were four men in front of the castle, champions of valor,
practising feats of arms. Flashes of light came from their swords. These
men were so trained that they would not let a sword-stroke touch any part
of their bodies.

“Come in,” said the old man; “maybe you would like to have dinner. You
have eaten nothing on the way.”

“That was a mistake of my own,” said Elin Gow; “for in my ship are
provisions of all kinds in plenty.”

“Never mind,” said the old man; “you will not need them in this place;”
and going to a chest, he took out a cloth which he spread on a table, and
that moment there came on it food for a king or a champion. Elin Gow had
never seen a better dinner in Erin.

“What is your name and from what place are you?” asked the old man of his
guest.

“From Erin,” said he, “and my name is Elin Gow. What country is this, and
what castle is that out before us?”

“Have you ever heard talk of the kingdom of Spain?” asked the old man.

“I have, and ’tis to find it that I left home.”

“Well, this is the kingdom of Spain, and that building beyond is the
castle of the king.”

“And is it here that Glas Gainach is?”

“It is,” said the old man. “And is it for her that you left Erin?”

“It is then,” said Elin Gow.

“I pity you,” said the old man; “it would be fitter for you to stop at
home and mind something else than to come hither for that cow. ’Tis not
hundreds but thousands of men that have lost their heads for her, and I
am in dread that you’ll meet the same luck.”

“Well, I will try my fortune,” said Elin Gow. “’Tis through dreams that I
came.”

“I pity you,” said the old man, “and moreover because you are from Erin.
I am half of your country, for my mother was from Erin. Do you know now
how this cow will be got?”

“I do not,” said Elin Gow; “I know nothing in the world about it.”

“You will not be long,” said the old man, “without knowledge. I’ll tell
you about her, and what conditions will be put on you by the king. He
will bind you for the term of seven years to bring the cow home safe and
sound to his castle every evening. If you fail to bring her, your head
will be cut off that same evening. That is one way by which many kings’
sons and champions that came from every part of the world were destroyed.
There are spikes all around behind the castle, and a head on each spike
of them. You will see for yourself to-morrow when you go to the castle,
and a dreadful sight it is, for you will not be able to count the heads
that are there on the spikes. I will give you now an advice that I have
never given any man before this, but I have heard of you from my mother.
You would be a loss to the country you came from. You are a great man to
make swords and all kinds of weapons for champions.

“The king will not tell you what to do, but I’ll tell you: you’ll be as
swift as you can when you go with the cow; keep up with her always. The
day she moves least she will travel thirty miles going and thirty miles
coming, and you will have rest only while she’ll be feeding, and she will
take only a few minutes here and a few minutes there; wherever she sees
the best place she’ll take a bite; and do not disturb her wherever she
turns or walks, and do not go before her or drive her. If you do what I
say, there will be no fear of you, if you can be so swift as to keep up
with the cow.”

“I am not in dread of falling back,” said Elin Gow.

“Then there will be no fear of you at all,” said the old man.

Elin Gow remained in the cottage that night. In the morning the old man
spread his cloth on the table; food and drink for a king or a champion
were on it that moment. Elin Gow ate and drank heartily, left good health
with the old man, and went to the castle. The king had a man called the
Tongue-speaker, who met and announced every stranger. “Who are you or why
do you come to the castle?” asked this man of Elin Gow.

“I wish to speak to the king about Glas Gainach.”

“Oh,” said the speaker, “you are badly wanted, for it is three days since
the last man that was after her lost his head. Come, and I will show it
to you on the spike, and I am in dread your own head will be in a like
place.”

“Never mind,” said Elin Gow; “misfortune cannot be avoided. We will do
our best.”

The Tongue-speaker went to the king then, and said, “There is a man
outside who has come for Glas Gainach.”

The king went out, and asked Elin Gow what he wanted or what brought him.
He told him, as he told the speaker, that it was for the cow he had come.

“And is it in combat or in peace that you want to get her?”

“’Tis in peace,” said Elin Gow.

“You can try with swords or with herding, whichever you wish.”

“We will choose the herding,” said Elin Gow.

“Well,” said the king, “this is how we will bind ourselves. You are to
bring Glas Gainach here to me every evening safe and sound during seven
years, and, if you fail, ’tis your head that you will lose. Do you see
those heads on the spikes there behind? ’Tis on account of Glas Gainach
they are there. If you come home with the cow every night, she will be
yours when seven years are spent,—I bind myself to that,” said the king.

“Well,” said Elin Gow, “I am satisfied with the conditions.”

Next morning Glas Gainach was let out, and both went together all day,
she and Elin Gow. She went so swiftly that he threw his cap from him; he
could not carry it half the day. All the rest he had was while she was
feeding in any place. He was after her then till she came home, and he
brought her back as safe and sound as in the morning. The king came out
and welcomed him, saying, “You’ve taken good care of her; many a man went
after her that did not bring her home the first day.”

“Life is sweet,” said Elin Gow; “I did the best hand I could. I know what
I have to get if I fail to bring her.”

The king gave Elin Gow good food and drink, so that he was more improving
than failing in strength, and made his way and brought the cow every day
till he had the seven years spent; then he said to the king, “My time is
up; will I get the cow?”

“Oh, why not?” said the king. “You will: you have earned her well; you
have done more than any man who walked the way before. See now how many
have lost their heads; count them. You are better than any of them. I
would not deny or break my word or agreement. You were bound to bring
her, and I am bound to give her. Now she is yours and not mine, but if
she comes back here again, don’t have any eye after her; you’ll not get
her.”

“That will do,” said Elin Gow. “I will take good care not to let her come
to you. I minded her the last seven years.”

“Well,” said the king, “I don’t doubt you.”

They gave the cow food that morning inside; did not let her out at all.
Elin Gow bound the cow in every way he wished, to bring her to the
vessel. He used all his strength, raised the two anchors on the ocean
side, pulled in the vessel to put the cow on board. When Elin Gow was
on board, he turned the stem of the ship toward the sea, and the stern
toward land. He was sailing across the wide ocean till he came to Tramor,
the port in Erin from which he had started when going to Spain. Elin Gow
brought Glas Gainach on shore, took her to Cluainte, and was minding her
as carefully as when he was with the King of Spain.

Elin Gow was the best man in Erin to make swords and all weapons for
champions; his name was in all lands. The King of Munster had four sons,
and the third from the oldest was Cian. He was neither dreaming nor
thinking of anything night or day but feats of valor; his grandfather,
Art Mac Cuin, had been a great champion, and was very fond of Cian. He
used to say, “Kind father and grandfather for him; he is not like his
three brothers.”

When twenty years old, Cian said,“I will go to try my fortune. My father
has heirs enough. I would try other kingdoms if I had a sword.”

“You may have my sword,” said the father.

Cian gave the sword a trial, and at the first turn he broke it. “No sword
will please me,” said Cian, “unless, while grasping the hilt with the
blade pointed forward, I can bend the blade till its point touches my
elbow on the upper side, then let it spring back and bend it again till
the point touches my elbow on the under side.”

“There is not a man in Erin who could make a sword like that,” said
the father, “but Elin Gow, and I am full sure that he will not make it
at this time, for he is minding Glas Gainach. He earned her well, and
he will guard her; seven years did he travel bareheaded without hat or
cap,—a thing which no man could do before him. It would be useless to go
to him, for he has never worked a stroke in the forge since he brought
Glas Gainach to Erin, and he would not let her go. He would make the
sword but for that. It’s many a sword he made for me.”

“Well, I will try him,” said Cian. “I will ask him to make the sword.”

Cian started, and never stopped till he stood before Elin Gow at
Cluainte, and told him who he was.

Elin Gow welcomed the son of the king, and said, “Your father and I were
good friends in our young years. It was often I made swords and other
weapons for him. And what is it that brought you to-day?”

“It is a sword I want. I wish to go and seek my fortune in some foreign
land. I want a good sword, and my father says you are the best man in
Erin to make one.”

“I was,” said Elin Gow; “and I am sorry that I cannot make you one now. I
am engaged in minding Glas Gainach; and I would not trust any one after
her but myself, and I have enough to do to mind her.”

Cian told how the sword was to be made.

“Oh,” said Elin Gow, “I would make it in any way you like but for the
cow, and I would not wish to let your father’s son go away without a
sword. I will direct you to five or six smiths that are making swords
now, in place of me since I went for Glas Gainach.”

He gave the names, and the king’s son went away.

None of them could make the sword in the way Cian wanted. He came back to
Elin Gow.

“You have your round made?” said Elin Gow.

“I have,” said Cian, “but in vain; for none of them would make the sword
in the way asked of him.”

“Well, I do not wish to let you go. I will take the risk.”

“Very well,” said Cian; “I will go after Glas Gainach to-morrow, while
you are making the sword, and if I don’t bring her, you may have my head
in the evening.”

“Well,” said Elin Gow, “I am afraid to trust you, for many a champion
lost his head on account of her before; but I’ll run the risk. I must
make the sword for you.”

The king’s son stopped that night with Elin Gow, who gave him the best
food and drink he had, and let out Glas Gainach before him next morning,
and told him not to come in front of her in any place where she might
want to feed or drink. He advised him in every way how to take care of
her. Away went Cian with the cow, and he was doing the right thing all
day. She moved on always, and went as far as Caorha, southwest of Tralee,
the best spot of land in Kerry for grass. When she had eaten enough,
she turned toward home, and Cian was at her tail all the day. When he
and Glas Gainach were five miles this side of Tralee, near the water
at Derrymor, where she used to drink, Cian saw her going close to deep
water; he came before her, and turned her back; and what did she do but
jump through the air like a bird, and then she went out through the sea
and left him. He walked home sad and mournful, and came to Elin Gow’s
house. The smith asked him had he the cow, and he said, “I have not. I
was doing well till I came to Derrymor, and she went so near deep water
that I was afraid she would go from me. I stopped her, and what did she
do but fly away like a bird, and go out through the sea.”

“God help us,” said Elin Gow, “but the misfortune cannot be helped.”

“I am the cause,” said Cian; “you may have my head.”

“What is done, is done. I would never take the head off you, but she is a
great loss to me.”

“I am willing and satisfied to give you my head,” said Cian. “Have you
the sword made?”

“I have,” said Elin Gow.

Cian took the blade, tested it in every way, and found that he had the
sword he wanted.

He swore an oath then to Elin Gow that he would not delay day or night,
nor rest anywhere, till he had lost his head or brought back Glas Gainach.

“I am afraid your labor will be useless,” said Elin Gow, “and that you
will never be able to bring her back. I could not have brought her myself
but for the advice of an old man that I met before I saw the King of
Spain.”

Cian went home to his father’s castle. The king saw him coming with the
sword. “I see that Elin Gow did not refuse you.”

“He did not,” said Cian. “He made the sword, and it is a sore piece of
work for him. He has parted with Glas Gainach. I promised to give my
head if I did not bring her home to him in safety while he was making the
sword. I minded her well all day till she came to a place where she used
to drink water. I did not know that; but it was my duty to know it, for
he directed me in every way needful how to mind her. I was bringing her
home in safety till I brought her to Derrymor River; and I went before
her to turn her back,—and that was foolish, for he told me not to turn
her while I was with her,—and she did nothing but spring like a bird and
out to sea and away. I promised Elin Gow in the morning if I did not
bring the cow to give him my head; and I offered it when I came, as I had
not the cow, but he said, ‘I will never take the head off a son of your
father, even for a greater loss.’ And for this reason I will never rest
nor delay till I go for Glas Gainach and bring her back to Elin Gow, or
lose my head; so make ready your best ship.”

“The best ship,” said the king, “is the one that Elin Gow took.”

The king’s son put provisions for a day and a year in the vessel. He set
sail alone and away with him through the main ocean, and he never stopped
till he reached the same place to which Elin Gow had sailed before. He
cast two anchors on the ocean side, and one next the shore, and left
the ship where there was no wind to blow on her, no waves of the ocean
to touch her, no crows of the air to drop on her. He went his way then,
and was walking always till evening, when he saw at a distance the finest
castle he had ever set eyes on. He went toward it; and when he was near,
he saw four champions at exercise near the castle. He was going on the
very same road that Elin Gow had taken, and was passing the same cottage,
when the old man saw him and hailed him. He turned toward the cottage.

“Come to my house and rest,” said the old man. “From what country are
you, and what brought you?”

“I am a son of the King of Munster in Erin; and now will you tell me what
place is this?”

“You are in Spain, and the building beyond there is the king’s castle.”

“Very well and good. It was to see the king that I left Erin,” said Cian.

“It is for Glas Gainach that you are here, I suppose,” said the old man.
“It is useless for you to try; you never can bring her from the king. It
was a hundred times easier when Elin Gow brought her; it is not that way
now, but by force and bravery she is to be taken. It is a pity to have
you lose your head, like so many kings and champions.”

“I must try,” said Cian; “for it was through me that Elin Gow lost Glas
Gainach. I wanted a sword to try my fortune, and there was not a smith in
Erin who could make it as I wanted except Elin Gow; he refused. I told
him that I would give my head if I did not bring the cow home to him in
safety. I followed her well till, on the way home, she went to drink near
the sea, and I went before her; that moment she sprang away like a bird,
and went out through the water.”

“I am afraid,” said the old man, “that to get her is more than you can
do. You see those four men? You must fight and conquer them before you
get Glas Gainach.”

The old man spread out the table-cloth, and they ate.

“I care not,” said the king’s son, “what comes. I am willing to lose my
head unless I can bring back the cow.”

“Well,” said the old man, “you can try.”

Next morning breakfast was ready for Cian; he rose, washed his hands and
face, prayed for mercy and strength, ate, and going to the pole of combat
gave the greatest blow ever given before on it.

“Run out,” said the king to the Tongue-speaker; “see who is abroad.”

“What do you want?” asked the Tongue-speaker of Cian.

“The king’s daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

The speaker hurried in and told the king. The king went out and asked,
“Are you the man who wants my daughter and Glas Gainach?”

“I am,” answered Cian.

“You will get them if you earn them,” said the king.

“If I do not earn them, I want neither the daughter nor the cow,” replied
Cian.

The king ordered out then the four knights of valor to kill Cian. He was
as well trained as they, for he had been practising from his twelfth
year, and he was more active. They were at him all day, and he at them:
he did not let one blow from them touch his body; and if a man were to go
from the Eastern to the Western World to see champions, ’tis at them he
would have to look. At last, when Cian was hungry, and late evening near,
he sprang with the strength of his limbs out of the joints of his bones,
and rose above them, and swept the heads off the four before he touched
ground.

The young champion was tired after the day, and went to the old man. The
old man asked, “What have you done?”

“I have knocked the heads off the four champions of valor.”

The old man was delighted that the first day had thriven in that way with
Cian. He looked at the sword. “Oh, there is no danger,” cried he; “you
have the best sword I have ever seen, and you’ll need it, for you’ll have
more forces against you to-morrow.”

The old man and Cian spent the night in three parts,—the first part in
eating and drinking, the second in telling tales and singing songs, the
third in sound sleep.

The old man told how he had been the champion of Spain, and at last when
he grew old the king gave him that house.

Next morning Cian washed his face and hands, prayed for help and mercy,
ate breakfast with the old man, went to the pole of combat, and gave a
greater blow still than before.

“What do you want this day?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“I want three hundred men on my right hand, three hundred on my left,
three hundred after my poll, three hundred out in front of me.” The king
sent the men out four deep through four gates. Cian went at them, and as
they came he struck the heads off them; and though they fought bravely,
in the evening he had the heads off the twelve hundred. Cian then left
the field, and went to the old man.

“What have you done after the day?” asked the old man.

“I have stretched the king’s forces.”

“You’ll do well,” said the old man.

The old champion put the cloth on the table, and there was food for a
king or a champion. They made three parts of that night,—the first for
eating and drinking, the second for telling tales and singing songs, the
third for sleep and sound rest.

Next morning, Cian gave such a blow on the pole of combat that the king
in his chamber was frightened.

“What do you want this time?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“I want the same number of men as yesterday.”

The king sent the men out; and the same fate befell them as the other
twelve hundred, and Cian went home to the old man untouched. Next morning
Cian made small bits of the king’s pole of combat.

“Well, what do you want?” asked the Tongue-speaker.

“Whatever I want, I don’t want to be losing time. Let out all your forces
against me at once.”

The king sent out all the forces he wished that morning. The battle was
more terrible than all the others put together; but Cian went through the
king’s forces, and at sunset not a man of them was living, and he let no
one nearer than the point of his sword.

“How did the day thrive with you?” asked the old man when Cian came in.

“I have killed all the king’s champions.”

“I think,” said the old man, “that you have the last of his forces down
now; but what you have done is nothing to what is before you. The king
will come out and say to-morrow that you will not get the daughter with
Glas Gainach till you eat on one biscuit what butter there is in his
storehouses, and they are all full; you are to do this in the space of
four hours. He will give you the biscuit. Take this biscuit from me, and
do you hide the one that he will give you,—never mind it; put as much as
you will eat on this, and there’ll be no tidings of what butter there is
in the king’s stores within one hour,—it will vanish and disappear.”

Cian was very glad when the old man told him what to do. They spent that
night as they had the nights before. Next morning Cian breakfasted, and
went to the castle. The king saw him coming, and was out before him.

“What do you want this morning?” asked the king.

“I want your daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

“Well,” said the king, “you will not get my daughter and Glas Gainach
unless within four hours you eat on this biscuit what butter there is in
all my storehouses in Spain; and if you do not eat the butter, your head
will be on a spike this evening.”

The king gave him the biscuit. Cian went to the first storehouse, dropped
the king’s biscuit into his pocket, took out the one the old man had
given him, buttered it, and began to eat. He went his way then, and in
one hour there was neither sign nor trace of butter in any storehouse the
king had.

That night Cian and the old man passed the time in three parts as usual.
“You will have hard work to-morrow,” said the old man, “but I will tell
you how to do it. The king will say that you cannot have his daughter and
Glas Gainach unless within four hours you tan all the hides in Spain,
dry and green, and tan them as well as a hand’s breadth of leather that
he will give you. Here is a piece of leather like the piece the king
will give. Clap this on the first hide you come to; and all the hides
in Spain will be tanned in one hour, and be as soft and smooth as the
king’s piece.”

Next morning the king saw Cian coming, and was out before him. “What do
you want now?” asked the king.

“Your daughter and Glas Gainach,” said Cian.

“You are not to get my daughter and Glas Gainach unless within four hours
you tan all the dry and green hides in Spain to be as soft and smooth as
this piece; and if you do not tan them, your head will be on one of the
spikes there behind my castle this evening.”

Cian took the leather, dropped it into his pocket, and, taking the old
man’s piece, placed it on the first hide that he touched. In one hour all
the hides in Spain were tanned, and they were as soft and fine as the
piece which the king gave to Cian.

The old man and Cian spent this night as they had the others.

“You will have the hardest task of all to-morrow,” said the old man.

“What is that?” asked the young champion.

“The king’s daughter will come to a window in the highest chamber of
the castle with a ball in her hand: she will throw the ball through the
window, and you must catch it on your hurley, and keep it up during two
hours and a half; never let it touch the ground. There will be a hundred
champions striving to take the ball from you, but follow my advice. The
champions, not knowing where the ball will come down when the king’s
daughter throws it, will gather near the front of the castle; and if
either of them should get the ball, he might keep it and spoil you. Do
you stand far outside; you will have the best chance. I don’t know,
though, what you are to do, as you have no hurley, but wait. In my youth
I was great to play at hurley, and I never met a man that could match me.
The hurley I had then must be in this house somewhere.”

The old man searched the house through, and where did he find the hurley
but up in the loft, and it full of dust; he brought it down. Cian swung
it, knocked the dust from the hurley, and it was as clean as when made.

“It is glad I am to find this, for any other hurley in the kingdom would
not do you, but only this very one. This hurley has the virtue in it, and
only for that it would not do.”

Both were very glad, and made three parts of that night, as they had of
the nights before. Next morning Cian rose, washed his hands and face, and
begged mercy and help of God for that day.

After breakfast he went to the king’s castle, and soon many champions
came around him. The king was outside before him, and asked what he
wanted that day.

“I want your daughter and Glas Gainach.”

“You will not get my daughter and Glas Gainach till you do the work I’ll
give, and I’ll give you the toughest task ever put before you. At midday,
my daughter will throw out a ball through the window, and you must keep
that ball in the air for two hours and a half: it must never touch ground
in that time, and when the two hours and a half are spent, you must drive
it in through the same window through which it went out; if not, I will
have your head on a spike this evening.”

“God help us!” said Cian.

All the champions were together to see which man would get the ball
first; but Cian, thinking of the old man’s advice, stood outside them
all. At midday the king’s daughter sent out the ball through the highest
window; and to whom should it go but to Cian, and he had the luck of
getting it first. He drove the ball with his hurley, and for two hours
and a half he kept it in the air, and did not let another man touch it.
Then he gave it a directing blow, and sent it in through the window to
the king’s daughter.

The king watched the ball closely; and when it went in, he ran to Cian,
shook his hand warmly, and never stopped till he took him to his
daughter’s high chamber. She kissed him with joy and great gladness. He
had done a thing that no other had ever done.

“I have won the daughter and Glas Gainach from you now,” said Cian.

“You have,” said the king; “and they are both yours. I give them with all
my heart. You have earned them well, and done what no other man could do.
I will give you one-half of the kingdom till my death, and all of it from
that out.”

Cian and the king’s daughter were married. A great feast was made, and
a command given out that all people of the kingdom must come to the
wedding. Every one came; and the wedding lasted seven days and nights, to
the pleasure of all, and the greatest delight of the king. Cian remained
with the king; and after a time his wife had a son, the finest and
fairest child ever born in Spain, and he was increasing so that what of
him didn’t grow in the day grew in the night, and what did not grow in
the night grew in the day, and if the sun shone on any child, it shone on
that one. The boy was called Cormac after Cian’s father, Cormac Mac Art.

Cian remained with the King of Spain till Cormac’s age was a year and
a half. Then he remembered his promise to Elin Gow to bring back Glas
Gainach.

Cian put stores in the vessel in which he had come, and placed Glas
Gainach inside, firmly fettered. He gave then the stem of his ship to
the ocean, the stern to land, raised the limber sails; and there was the
work of a hundred men on each side, though Cian did the work all alone.
He sailed through the main ocean with safety till he came to Tramor,—the
best landing-place in Erin at that time. Glas Gainach was brought to
shore carefully, and Cian went on his way with her to go to Elin Gow’s
house at Cluainte.

There was no highway from Tramor but the one; and on that one were three
brothers, three robbers, the worst at that time in Erin. These men knew
all kinds of magic, and had a rod of enchantment. Cian had brought much
gold with him on the way, coming as a present to his father.

The three brothers stopped Cian, saluted him, and asked would he play a
game. He said that he would. They played, and toward evening the robbers
had the gold won; then they said to Cian, “Now bet the cow against the
gold you have lost, and we will put twice as much with it.” He laid the
cow as a wager, and lost her.

One of the three robber brothers struck Cian with the rod of enchantment,
and made a stone pillar of him, and made an earth mound of Glas Gainach
with another blow. The two remained there, the man and the cow, by the
roadside.

Cian’s son Cormac was growing to manhood in Spain, and heard his mother
and grandfather talk of his father, and he thought to himself, “There
was no man on earth that could fight with my father; and I promise now
to travel and be walking always till I find out the place where he is,
living or dead.”

As Cormac had heard that his father was from Erin, to Erin he faced,
first of all. The mother was grieved, and advised him not to go
wandering. “Your father must be dead, or on the promise he made me he’d
be here long ago.”

“There is no use in talking; the world will not stop me till I know what
has happened to my father,” said Cormac.

The mother could not stop him; she gave her consent. He turned then to
his grandfather. “Make ready for me the best vessel you have,” said he.
The vessel was soon ready with provisions for a day and a year, and gold
two thousand pieces. He embarked, and went through the main ocean faster
than his father had gone till he sailed into Tramor. He was on his way
walking till he came to the robbers about midday.

They saluted him kindly, thinking he had gold, and asked, “Will you play
a game with us?”

“I will,” said Cormac; “I have never refused.”

They played. The robbers gained, and let him gain; they were at him the
best of the day, till they won the last piece of gold of his two thousand
pieces.

When he had lost what he had, he was like a wild man, and knew not what
to do for a while. At last Cormac said to himself, “It is an old saying
never contradicted that strength will get the upper hand of enchantment.”
He jumped then, and caught two of the three robbers, one in each hand,
and set them under his two knees. The third was coming to help the two;
but Cormac caught that one with his hand and held the three, kept them
there, and said, “I will knock the heads off every man of you.”

“Do not do that,” begged the three. “Who are you? We will do what you ask
of us.”

“I am seeking my father, Cian Mac Cormac, who left Spain eighteen years
ago with Glas Gainach.”

“Spare us,” said the three brothers; “we will give back your gold and
raise up your father with Glas Gainach.”

“How can ye do that,” asked Cormac, “or where is my father?”

“He is that pillar there opposite.”

“And where is Glas Gainach?”

They showed him the earth mound.

“How can ye bring them back to their own shapes?” asked Cormac.

“We have a rod of enchantment,” said the brothers; and they told where
the rod was. When Cormac had a true account of the rod, what he did was
to draw out his sword and cut the heads off the three brothers, saying,
“Ye will never again rob any man who walks this way.” Cormac then found
the rod of enchantment, went to the pillar, gave it a blow, and his
father came forth as well and healthy as ever.

“Who are you?” asked Cian of Cormac.

“I am your son Cormac.”

“Oh, my dear son, how old are you?”

“I’m in my twentieth year,” said Cormac. “I heard my mother and
grandfather talk of your bravery, and I made up my mind to go in search
of you, and be walking always till I found you. I said I’d face Erin
first, for ’twas there you went with Glas Gainach. I landed this morning,
met these three robbers; they won all my gold. I was like a wild man. I
caught them, and swore I would kill them. They asked who was I; I told
them. They said you were the stone pillar; that they had a rod that would
raise you up with Glas Gainach. They told where the rod was. I took the
heads off them, and raised you with the rod.”

Now Cormac struck the earth mound, and Glas Gainach rose up as well as
before. Everything was now in its own place, and they were glad. Cian
would not stop till he brought Glas Gainach to Elin Gow, so he was
walking night and day till he came here behind to Cluainte, where Elin
Gow was living. He screeched out Elin Gow’s name, told him to come. He
came out; and when he saw Cian and Glas Gainach he came near fainting
from joy. Cian put Glas Gainach’s horn in his hand, and said, “I wished
to keep the promise I made when you spared my head; and it was gentle of
you to spare it, for great was the loss that I caused you;” and he told
all that had happened,—how he had won and lost Glas Gainach, and lost her
through the robbers.

“Who is this brave youthful champion with you?” asked Elin Gow.

“This is my son, and but for him I’d be forever where the three robbers
put me. I was eighteen years where they left me; but for that, the cow
would have been with you long ago. What were you doing all this time?”
asked Cian of Elin Gow.

“Making swords and weapons, but I could not have lived without the
support of your father.”

“He promised me that,” said Cian, “before I left Erin. I knew that he
would help you.”

“Oh, he did!” said Elin Gow.

The father and son left good health with Elin Gow, and never stopped nor
stayed till they reached the castle of Cian’s father. The old king had
thought that Cian was dead, as he had received no account of him for so
many years. Great was his joy and gladness, and great was the feast that
he made.

Cian remained for a month, and then went to the house of the robbers,
took out all its treasures, locked up the place in the way that no man
could open it; then he gave one-half his wealth to his father. He took
the rest to Spain with his son, and lived there.

Elin Gow had grown old, and he was in dread that he had not the strength
to follow Glas Gainach, and sent a message to Caol na Crua, the fleetest
champion in Kerry. Caol came. Elin Gow agreed to pay him his price for
minding the cow, and was glad to get him. He told Caol carefully how to
herd the cow. She travelled as before, and was always at home before
nightfall.

Glas Gainach had milk for all; and when any one came to milk her she
would stop, and there never was a vessel that she did not fill. One
woman heard this; and once when Glas Gainach was near a river, the woman
brought a sieve and began to milk. She milked a long time. At last the
cow saw the river white with milk; then she raised her leg, gave the
woman a kick on the forehead, and killed her.

Caol na Crua was doing well, minding the cow all the time, till one
evening Glas Gainach walked between the two pillars where she used to
scratch herself; when she was full, her sides would touch both pillars.
This evening she bellowed, and Elin Gow heard her. Instead of going home
then, she went down to a place northwest of Cluainte, near a ruin; she
used to drink there at times, but not often. Caol na Crua did not know
this. He thought she was going into the sea, and caught her tail to hold
her back. With that, instead of drinking, she went straight toward the
water. Caol tried to hold her. She swept him along and went through the
ocean, he keeping the grip he had, and she going with such swiftness that
he was lying flat on the sea behind her; and she took him with her to
Spain and went to the king, and very joyful was the king, for they were
in great distress for butter while Glas Gainach was gone.




MOR’S SONS AND THE HERDER FROM UNDER THE SEA.


In old times, there was a great woman in the southwest of Erin, and she
was called Mor. This woman lived at Dun Quin; and when she came to that
place the first time with her husband Lear, she was very poor. People say
that it was by the water she came to Dun Quin. Whatever road she took,
all she had came by the sea, and went the same way.

She built a small house, and their property was increasing little by
little. After a while she had three sons, and these grew to be very fine
boys and then strong young men.

The two elder sons set out to try their fortunes; they got a vessel,
sailed away on the sea, and never stopped nor halted till they came to
the Kingdom of the White Strand, in the eastern world. There they stayed
for seven years, goaling and sporting with the people.

The king of that country wished to keep them forever, because they were
strong men, and had risen to be great champions.

The youngest son remained at home all the time, growing to be as good
a man as his brothers. One day he went out to look at a large field of
wheat which his mother had, and found it much injured.

“Well, mother,” said he when he came in, “all our field is destroyed by
something. I don’t know for the world what is it. Something comes in,
tramples the grain and eats it.”

“Watch the field to-night, my son, and see what is devouring our grain.”

“Well, mother, boil something for me to eat to give me strength and good
luck for the night.”

Mor baked a loaf, and boiled some meat for her son, and told him to watch
well till the hour of night, when perhaps the cattle would be before him.

He was watching and looking there, till all at once, a little after
midnight, he saw the field full of cattle of different colors,—beautiful
colors, blue, and red, and white. He was looking at them for a long time,
they were so beautiful. The young man wanted to drive the beasts home
with him, to show his mother the cattle that were spoiling the grain. He
had them out of the field on the road when a herder stood before him, and
said, “Leave the cattle behind you.”

“I will not,” said Mor’s son; “I will drive them home to my mother.”

“I will not let them with you,” said the herder.

“I’ll carry them in spite of you,” replied Mor’s son.

He had a good strong green stick, and so had the herder; the two faced
each other, and began to fight. The herder was too strong for Mor’s son,
and he drove off the cattle into the sea.

“Oh,” said the herder, as he was going, “your mother did not boil your
meat or bake your loaf rightly last night; she gave too much fire to the
loaf and the meat, took the strength out of them. You might do something
if your mother knew how to cook.”

When Mor’s son went home, his mother asked, “Did you see any cattle, my
son?”

“I did, mother; the field was full of them. And when I was bringing the
herd home with me to show you, a man stood there on the road to take the
beasts from me; we fought, and when he beat me and was driving the cattle
into the sea, what did he say but that you boiled the meat and baked the
loaf too much last night. To-night, when you boil my meat, do not give it
half the fire; leave all the strength in the meat and the loaf.”

“I will,” said the mother.

When night came, the dinner was ready. The young man ate twice as much
of the meat and the loaf as the evening before. About the same hour,
just after midnight, he went to the field, for he knew now what time the
cattle would be in it. The field was full of the same cattle of beautiful
colors.

Mor’s son drove the beasts out, and was going to drive them home, when
the herder, who was not visible hitherto, came before him and said, “I
will not let the cattle with you.”

“I will take them in spite of you,” replied Mor’s son.

The two began to fight, and Mor’s son was stronger this time.

“Why do you not keep your cattle out of my wheat?” asked he of the herder.

“Because I know very well that you are not able to take them with you.”

“If I am not able to take the cattle, you may have them and the wheat as
well,” said Mor’s son.

The herder was driving the cattle one way, and Mor’s son was driving them
the opposite way; and after they had done that for a while, they faced
each other and began to fight again.

Mor’s son was doubly angry at the herder this night for the short
answers that he gave. They fought two hours; then the herder got the
upper hand. Mor’s son was sorry; and the herder, as he drove the cattle
to the sea, called out, “Your mother gave too much fire to the meat and
the loaf; still you are stronger to-night than you were last night.”

Mor’s son went home.

“Well, my son,” asked the mother, “have you any news of the cattle and
the herder?”

“I have seen them, mother.”

“And what did the herder do?”

“He was too strong for me a second time, and drove the cattle into the
sea.”

“What are we to do now?” asked the mother. “If he keeps on in this way,
we’ll soon be poor, and must leave the country altogether.”

“The herder said, as he drove the cattle away, ‘Your mother gave too much
fire to the meat and the loaf; still you are stronger to-night than you
were last night.’ Well, mother, if you gave too much fire to my dinner
last night, give but little to-night, and I will leave my life outside or
have the cattle home with me this time. If I do not beat him, he may have
the wheat as well as the cattle after to-night.”

Mor prepared the dinner; and this time she barely let the water on the
meat begin to bubble, and to the bread she gave but one roast.

He ate and drank twice as much as the day before. The dinner gave him
such strength that he said, “I’ll bring the cattle to-night.”

He went to the field, and soon after midnight it was full of cattle of
the same beautiful colors; the grain was spoiled altogether. He drove
the cattle to the road, and thought he had them. He got no sight of the
herder till every beast was outside the field, and he ready to drive them
home to his mother. Then the herder stood before him, and began to drive
the cattle toward the sea.

“You’ll not take them this time,” said Mor’s son.

“I will,” said the herder.

They began to fight, caught each other, dragged, and struggled long, and
in the heel of the battle Mor’s son was getting the better of the herder.

“I think that you’ll have the upper hand of me this time,” said the
herder; “and ’tis my own advice I blame for it. You’ll take the cattle
to-night in spite of me. Let me go now, and take them away with you.”

“I will,” said Mor’s son. “I will take them to the house, and please my
mother.”

He drove the cattle home, and said to his mother, “I have the cattle here
now for you, and do whatever you wish with them.”

The herder followed Mor’s son to the house.

“Why did you destroy all my grain with your cattle?” asked Mor.

“Let the cattle go with me now, and I promise that after to-night your
field of wheat will be the best in the country.”

“What are we to do?” asked Mor of the son. “Is it to let the cattle go
with him for the promise he gives?”

“I will do what you say, mother.”

“We will give him the cattle,” said Mor.

“Well,” said the son to the herder, “my mother is going to give you the
cattle for the promise that our grain will be the best in the country
when ’tis reaped. We ought to be friends after the fighting; and now take
your cattle home with you, though you vexed and hurt me badly.”

“I am very grateful to you,” said the herder to Mor’s son, “and for your
kindness you will have plenty of cattle and plenty of wheat before you
die, and seeing that you are such a good man I will give you a chance
before I leave you. The King of Mayo has an only daughter; the fairies
will take her from him to-morrow. They will bring her through Daingean,
on the shoulders of four men, to the fairy fort at Cnoc na Hown. Be at
the cross-roads about two o’clock to-morrow night. Jump up quickly, put
your shoulder under the coffin, the four men will disappear and leave the
coffin on the road; do you bring what’s in the coffin home with you.”

Mor’s son followed the herder’s directions. He went toward Daingean in
the night, for he knew the road very well. After midnight, he was at
the cross-roads, waiting and hidden. Soon he saw the coffin coming out
against him, and the four men carrying it on their shoulders.

The young man put his shoulder under the coffin; the four dropped it that
minute, and disappeared. Mor’s son took the lid off the coffin; and what
did he find lying inside but a beautiful woman, warm and ruddy, sleeping
as if at home in her bed. He took out the young woman, knowing well that
she was alive, and placing her on his back, left the coffin behind at the
wayside.

The woman could neither walk nor speak, and he brought her home to his
mother. Mor opened the door, and he put the young woman down in the
corner.

“What’s this you brought me? What do I want with the like of her in the
house?”

“Never mind, mother; it may be our luck that will come with her.”

They gave her every kind of drink and nourishing food, for she was very
weak; when daylight came, she was growing stronger, and could speak. The
first words she said were, “I am no good to you in the way that I am now;
but if you are a brave man, you will meet with your luck to-morrow night.
All the fairies will be gathered at a feast in the fort at Cnoc na Hown;
there will be a horn of drink on the table. If you bring that horn, and I
get three sips from it (if you have the heart of a brave man you will go
to the fort, seize the horn, and bring it here), I shall be as well and
strong as ever, and you will be as rich yourself as any king in Erin.”

“I have stood in great danger before from the like of them,” replied
Mor’s son. “I will make a trial of this work, too.”

“Between one and two o’clock in the night you must go to the fort,” said
the young woman, “and you must carry a stick of green rowan wood in your
hand.”

The young man went to the fairy fort, keeping the stick carefully and
firmly in his hand. At parting, the young woman warned him, saying, “They
can do you no harm in the world while you have the stick, but without the
stick there is no telling what they might do.”

When Mor’s son came to Cnoc na Hown, and went in through the gate of the
fairy fort, he saw a house and saw many lights flashing in different
places. In the kitchen was a great table with all sorts of food and
drink, and around it a crowd of small men. When he was making toward the
table, he heard one of the men say,—

“Very little good will the girl be to Mor’s son. He may keep her in the
corner by his mother. There will be neither health nor strength in her;
but if she had three drinks out of this horn on the table here, she would
be as well as ever.”

He faced them then, and, catching the horn, said, “She will not be long
without the drink!”

All the little men looked at one another as he hurried through the door
and disappeared. He had the stick, and they could not help themselves;
but all began to scold one another for not having the courage to seize
him and take the horn from him.

Mor’s son reached home with the horn. “Well, mother,” said he, “we have
the cure now;” and he didn’t put the horn down till the young woman had
taken three drinks out of it, and then she said,—

“You are the best champion ever born in Erin, and now take the horn back
to Cnoc na Hown; I am as well and hearty as ever.”

He took the horn back to the fairy fort, placed it on the table, and
hurried home. The fairies looked at one another, but not a thing could
they do, for the stick was in his hand yet.

“The woman is as well as ever now,” said one of the fairies when Mor’s
son had gone, “and we have lost her;” and they began to scold one another
for letting the horn go with him. But that was all the good it did them;
the young woman was cured.

Next day the young woman said to Mor’s son, “I am well now, and I will
give you a token to take to my father and mother in Mayo.”

“I will not take the token,” said he; “I will go and seek out your
father, and bring back some token to you first.”

He went away, searched and inquired till he made out the king’s castle;
and when he was there, he went around all the cattle and went away home
to his mother at Tivorye with every four-footed beast that belonged to
the king.

“Well, mother,” said he, “it is the luck we have now; and we’ll have the
whole parish under stock from this out.”

The young woman was not satisfied yet, and said, “You must go and carry a
token to my father and mother.”

“Wait awhile, and be quiet,” answered Mor’s son. “Your father will send
herders to hunt for the stock, and these men will have token enough when
they come.”

Well, sure enough, the king’s men hunted over hills and valleys, found
that the cattle had been one day in such a place and another day in
another place; and they followed on till at length and at last they came
near Mor’s house, and there they saw the cattle grazing above on the
mountain.

There was no house in Dun Quin at that time but Mor’s house, and there
was not another in it for many a year after.

“We will send a man down to that house,” said the herders, “to know can
we get any account of what great champion it was that brought the cattle
all this distance.”

What did the man see when he came near the house but his own king’s
daughter. He knew the young woman, and was struck dumb when he saw her,
and she buried two months before at her father’s castle in Mayo. He had
no power to say a word, he forgot where he was, or why he was sent. At
last he turned, ran up to the men above on the mountain, and said, “The
king’s daughter is living below in that house.”

The herders would not believe a word he said, but at last three other men
went down to see for themselves. They knew the king’s daughter, and were
frightened; but they had more courage, and after a while asked, “Where is
the man that brought the cattle?”

“He is sleeping,” said the king’s daughter. “He is tired after the long
journey; if you wish, I will wake him.”

She woke Mor’s son, and he came out.

“What brought you here?” asked he of the men.

“We came looking for our master’s cattle; they are above on the mountain,
driven to this place by you, as it seems. We have travelled hither and
over till we found them.”

“Go and tell your master,” said Mor’s son, “that I brought the cattle;
that Lear is my father, and Mor is my mother, and that I have his
daughter here with me.”

“There is no use in sending them with that message,” said the young
woman; “my father would not believe them.”

“Tell your master,” said Mor’s son, “that it is I who brought the cattle,
and that I have his daughter here in good health, and ’tis by my bravery
that I saved her.”

“If they go to my father with that message, he will kill them. I will
give them a token for him.”

“What token will you give?”

“I will give them this ring with my name and my father’s name and my
mother’s name written inside on it. Do not give the ring,” said she to
the men, “till ye tell my father all ye have seen; if he will not believe
you, then give the ring.”

Away went the men, and not a foot of the cattle did they take; and if all
the men in Mayo had come, Mor’s son would not have let the cattle go with
them, for he had risen to be the best champion in Erin. The men went home
by the straightest roads; and they were not half the time going to the
king’s castle that they were in finding the cattle.

On the way home, one man said to the others, “It is a great story we have
and good news to tell; the king will make rich men of us for the tidings
we are taking him.”

When they reached the king’s castle, there was a welcome before them.

“Have ye any news for me after the long journey?” asked the king.

“We found your daughter with a man in Tivorye in the southwest of Erin,
and all your cattle are with the same man.”

“Ye may have found my cattle, but ye could not get a sight of my
daughter.”

“If you do not believe us in this way, you will, in another. We may as
well tell you all.”

“Ye may as well keep silent. I’ll not believe a word of what ye say about
my daughter.”

“I will give you a token from your daughter,” said one of the men,
pulling out a purse. He had the purse rolled carefully in linen. (And he
did well, for the fairies cannot touch linen, and it is the best guard in
the world against them. Linen thread, too, is strong against the fairies.
A man might travel all the fairy forts of the world if he had a skein of
flax thread around his neck, and a steel knife with a black handle in his
pocket.) He took out the ring, and gave it to the king. The king sent for
the queen. She came. He put the ring in her hand and said, “Look at this,
and see do you know it.”

“I do indeed,” said she; “and how did you come by this ring?”

The king told the whole story that the men had brought.

“This is our daughter’s ring. It was on her finger when we buried her,”
said the queen.

“It was,” said the king, “and what the men say must be true.” He would
have killed them but for the ring.

On the following morning, the king and queen set out with horses, and
never stopped till they came to Tivorye (Mor’s house). The king knew the
cattle the moment he saw them above on the mountain, and then he was
sure of the rest. They were sorry to find the daughter in such a small
cabin, but glad that she was alive. The guide was sent to the house to
say the king and queen were coming.

“Your father and mother are coming,” said he to the king’s daughter.

She made ready, and was standing in the door before them. The father and
mother felt weak and faint when they looked at her; but she ran out,
took them by the hands, and said, “Have courage; I am alive and well, no
ghost, and ye ought to thank the man who brought me away from my enemies.”

“Bring him to us,” said they; “we wish to see him.”

“He is asleep, but I will wake him.”

“Wake him,” said the father, “for he is the man we wish to see now.”

The king’s daughter roused Mor’s son, and said, “My father and mother are
above in the kitchen. Go quickly, and welcome them.”

He welcomed them heartily, and he was ten times gladder to see them than
they were to see him. They inquired then how he got the daughter, and
she buried at home two months before. And he told the whole story from
first to last: How the herder from the sea had told him, and how he had
saved her at Cnoc na Hown. They had a joyful night in the cabin after the
long journey, and anything that would be in any king’s castle they had
in Mor’s house that night, for the king had plenty of everything with
him from the castle. Next morning the king and queen were for taking the
daughter home with them; but she refused firmly, and said,—

“I will never leave the man who saved me from such straits. I’ll never
marry any man but him, for I’m sure that he is the best hero ever reared
in Erin, after the courage that he has shown.”

“We will never carry you away, since you like him so well; and we will
send him twice as many cattle, and money besides.”

They brought in the priest of whatever religion was in it at the time (to
be sure, it was not Catholic priests were in Erin in those days), and
Mor’s son and the king’s daughter were married. The father and mother
left her behind in Tivorye, and enjoyed themselves on the way home, they
were that glad after finding the daughter alive.

When Mor’s son was strong and rich, he could not be satisfied till he
found his two brothers, who had left home years before, and were in the
kingdom of the White Strand, though he did not know it. He made up a fine
ship then, and got provisions for a day and a year, went into it, set
sail, and went on over the wide ocean till he came to the chief port of
the King of the White Strand. He was seven days on the water; and when he
came in on the strand, the king saw him, and thought that he must be a
brave man to come alone on a ship to that kingdom.

“That must be a great hero,” said he to his men. “Let some of the best of
you go down and knock a trial out of him before he comes to the castle.”

The king was so in dread of the stranger that out of all the men he
selected Mor’s two elder sons. They were the best and strongest men he
had, and he sent them to know what activity was in the new-comer. They
took two hurleys for themselves and one for the stranger, and a ball.

The second brother challenged the stranger to play. When the day was
closing, the stranger was getting the upper hand. They invited him to the
king’s castle for the night, and the elder brother challenged him to play
a game on the following day.

“How did the trial turn out?” asked the king of the elder brother.

“I sent my brother to try him, and it was the strange champion that got
the upper hand.”

Mor’s son remained at the castle that night, and found good welcome and
cheer. He ate breakfast next morning, and a good breakfast it was. They
took three hurleys then and a ball, and went to the strand. Said the
eldest brother to the second, “Stop here and look at us, and see what the
trial will be between us.”

They gave the stranger a choice of the hurleys, and the game began. It
couldn’t be told who was the better of the two brothers. The king was in
dread that the stranger would injure himself and his men. In the middle
of the day, when it could not be determined who was the better man, the
elder brother said, “We will try wrestling now, to know which of us can
win that way.”

“I’m well satisfied,” said Mor’s son.

They began to wrestle. The elder brother gave Mor’s son several knocks,
and he made several turns on the elder.

“Well, if I live,” said the elder, “you are my brother; for when we used
to wrestle at home, I had the knocks, and you had the turns. You are my
younger brother, for no man was able to wrestle with me when I was at
Tivorye but you.”

They knew each other then, and embraced. Each told his story.

“Come home with me now,” said the youngest brother, “and see our mother.
I am as rich as any king, and can give you good entertainment.”

The three went to the King of the White Strand, and told him everything.
The eldest and second brother asked leave of him to go home to see their
father and mother. The king gave them leave, and filled their vessel with
every kind of good food, and the two promised to come back.

The three brothers set sail then, and after seven days came in on the
strand near Tivorye. The two found their brother richer than any king
in any country. They were enjoying themselves at home for a long time,
having everything that their hearts could wish, when one day above
another they saw a vessel passing Dun Quin, and it drew up at the quay in
Daingean harbor. Next day people went to the ship; but if they did, not a
man went on board, for no man was allowed to go.

There was a green cat on deck. The cat was master of the vessel, and
would not let a soul come near it. A report went out through the town
that the green cat would allow no one to go near the ship, and for three
weeks this report was spreading. No one was seen on the vessel but the
cat, and he the size of a big man.

Mor’s sons heard of the ship and the green cat at Daingean, and they
said, “Let us have a day’s pleasure, and go to the ship and see the cat.”

Mor bade them stay at home. “Don’t mind the ship or the cat,” said she,
“and follow my advice.” But the sons would not follow her advice, nor be
said by her, and away they went, in spite of all she could do.

When the cat saw them coming, he knew very well who were in it. He jumped
out on the shore, stood on two legs, and shook hands with the three
brothers. He was as tall himself as the largest man, and as friendly as
he could be. The three brothers were glad to receive an honor which no
one else could get.

“Come down now to the cabin and have a trial of my cooking,” said the cat.

He brought them to the cabin, and the finest dinner was on the table
before them,—meat and drink as good as ever they tasted either in Tivorye
or the kingdom of the White Strand.

When the cat had them below in the cabin, and they eating and drinking
with great pleasure and delight, he went on deck, screwed down the
hatches, raised the sails, and away went the vessel sailing out of the
harbor; and before the three brothers knew where they were, the ship was
miles out on the ocean, and they thought they were eating dinner at the
side of the quay in Daingean.

“We’ll go up now,” said they when their dinner was eaten, “thank the cat,
and go on shore for ourselves.”

When on deck, they saw water on all sides, and did not know in the world
where they were. The cat never stopped till he sailed to his own kingdom,
which was the kingdom of the White Strand, for who should the cat be but
the King of the White Strand. He had come for the two brothers himself,
for he knew that they would never come of their own will, and he could
not trust another to go for them. The king needed them, for they were the
best men he had. In getting back the two, he took the third, and Mor was
left without any son.

Mor heard in the evening that the ship was gone, and her own three sons
inside in it.

“This is my misfortune,” cried she. “After rearing my three sons, they
are gone from me in this way.” She began to cry and lament then, and to
screech wonderfully.

Mor never knew who the cat was, or what became of her sons. The wife of
Mor’s youngest son went away to her father in Mayo, and everything she
had went with her. Mor’s husband, Lear, had died long before, and was
buried at Dunmore Head. His grave is there to this day. Mor became half
demented, and died soon after.

If women are scolding at the present time, it happens often that one says
to another, “May your children go from you as Mor’s sons went with the
enchanted cat!”




SAUDAN OG AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF SPAIN; YOUNG CONAL AND THE
YELLOW KING’S DAUGHTER.


Ri Na Durkach (the King of the Turks) lived many years in Erin, where he
had one son, Saudan Og. When this son grew up to be twenty years old, he
was a prince whose equal was hard to be found.

The old king was anxious to find a king’s daughter as wife for his son,
and began to inquire of all wayfarers, rich and poor, high and low, where
was there a king’s daughter fit for his son, but no one could tell him.

At last the king called his old druid. “Do you know,” asked he, “where to
find a king’s daughter for Saudan Og?”

“I do not,” said the druid; “but do you order your guards to stop all
people passing your castle, and inquire of them where such a woman may
be.”

As the druid advised, the king commanded; but no man made him a bit the
wiser.

A year later, an old ship captain walked the way, and the guards brought
him to the king.

“Do you know where a fitting wife for my son might be found?” asked the
king.

“I do,” said the captain; “but my advice to you, and it may be a good
one, is to seek a wife for your son in the land where he was born, and
not go abroad for her. You can find plenty of good women in Erin.”

“Well,” said the king, “tell me first who is the woman you have in mind.”

“If you must know,” said the old captain, “the daughter of the King of
Spain is the woman.”

Straightway the king had a notice put up on the high-road to bring no
more tidings to the castle, as he had no need of them.

When Saudan Og saw this notice, he knew that his father had the tidings,
but would not give them. Next morning he went to the father and begged
him to tell. “I know,” said he, “that the old captain told you.”

The king would say nothing for he feared that his son might fall into
trouble.

“I will start to-morrow,” said Saudan Og at last, “in search of the
woman; and if I do not find her, I will never come back to you, so it is
better to tell me at once.”

“The daughter of the King of Spain is the woman,” said the father; “but
if you take my advice, you’ll stay at home.”

On the following day, Saudan Og dressed himself splendidly, mounted a
white steed, and rode away, overtaking the wind before him; but the wind
behind could not overtake him. He travelled all that was dry of Erin, and
came to the seashore; so he had nowhere else to travel on land, unless he
went back to his father. He turned toward a wood then, and saw a great
ash-tree: he grasped the tree, and tore it out with its roots; and,
stripping the earth from the roots, he threw the great ash into the sea.
Leaving the steed behind him, he sat on the tree, and never stopped nor
stayed till he came to Spain. When he landed, he sent word to the king
that Saudan Og wished to see him.

The answer that Saudan got was not to come till the king had his castle
prepared to receive such a great champion.

When the castle was ready, the King of Spain sent a bellman to give
notice that every man, woman, or child found asleep within seven days
and nights would lose their heads, for all must sing, dance, and enjoy
themselves in honor of the high guest.

The king feasted Saudan Og for seven days and nights, and never asked
him where was he going or what was his business. On the evening of the
seventh day, Saudan said to the king, “You do not ask me what brought me
this way, or what is my business.”

“Were you to stay twenty years I would not ask. I’m not surprised that a
prince of your blood and in full youthful beauty should travel the world
to see what is in it.”

“It was not to see the world that I came,” said Saudan Og, “but hearing
that you have a beautiful daughter, I wished her for wife; and if I do
not get her with your consent, I will take her in spite of you.”

“You would get my daughter with a hundred thousand welcomes,” said the
king; “but as you have boasted, you must show action.”

The king then sent a messenger to three kings—to Ri Fohin, Ri Laian,
and Conal Gulban—to help him. “If you will not come,” said he, “I am
destroyed, for Saudan Og will take my daughter in spite of me.”

The kings made ready to sail for Spain. When Conal Gulban was going, he
called up his three sons and said, “Stay here and care for the kingdom
while I am gone.”

“I will not stay,” said the eldest son. “You are old and feeble: I am
young and strong; let me go in place of you.”

The second son gave a like answer. The youngest had his father’s name,
Conal, and the king said to him, “Stay here at home and care for the
kingdom while I am gone, since your brothers will not obey me.”

“I will do what you bid me,” said Conal.

“Now I am going,” said the old king; “and if I and your brothers never
return, be not bribed by the rich to injure the poor. Do justice to all,
so that rich and poor may love you as they loved your father before you.”

He left young Conal twelve advisers, and said, “If we do not return in
a day and a year, be sure that we are killed; you may then do as you
like in the kingdom. If your twelve advisers tell you to marry a king’s
daughter of wealth and high rank, it will be of help to you in defending
the kingdom. You will be two powers instead of one.”

The day and the year passed, and no tidings came of Conal’s two brothers
and father. At the end of the day and the year, the twelve told him they
had chosen a king’s daughter for him, a very beautiful maiden. When the
twelve spoke of marriage, Conal let three screeches out of him, that
drove stones from the walls of old buildings for miles around the castle.

Now an old druid that his father had twenty years before heard the three
screeches, and said, “Young Conal is in great trouble. I will go to him
to know can I help him.”

The druid cleared a mountain at a leap, a valley at a hop, twelve miles
at a running leap, so that he passed hills, dales, and valleys; and in
the evening of the same day, he struck his back against the kitchen door
of Conal’s castle just as the sun was setting.

When the druid came to the castle, young Conal was out in the garden
thinking to himself, “My father and brothers are in Spain; perhaps they
are killed.” The dew was beginning to fall, so he turned to go, and
saw the old man at the door. The druid was the first to speak; but not
knowing Conal, he said,—

“Who are you coming here to trouble the child? It would be fitter for you
to stay in your own place than to be trying to wake young Conal with your
screeches.”

“Are you,” asked Conal, “the druid that my father had here years ago?”

“I am that old druid; but are you little Conal?”

“I am,” said Conal, and he gave the druid a hundred thousand welcomes.

“I was in the north of Erin,” said the druid, “when I heard the three
screeches, and I knew that some one was troubling you, and your father
in a foreign land. My heart was grieved, and I came hither in haste. I
hear that your twelve advisers have chosen a princess, and that you are
to marry to-morrow. Put out of your head the thought of that princess;
she is not your equal in rank or power. Be advised by me, as your father
was. The right wife for you is the daughter of the Yellow King, Haughty
and Strong. If the king will not give her, take her by force, as your
fathers before you took their queens.”

Conal was roused on the following morning by his advisers, who said,
“Make ready and go with us to the king’s daughter we have chosen.”

He mounted his steed, and rode away with the twelve till they came to
a cross-road. The twelve wished to turn to one side; and when Conal
saw this, he put spurs to his horse, took the straight road, and never
stopped till he put seven miles between himself and the twelve. Then he
turned, hurried back to the cross-road, came up to the adviser whom he
liked best, and, giving him the keys of the castle, said,—

“Go back and rule till I or my father or brothers return. I give you the
advice that I myself got: Never let the poor blame you for taking bribes
from the rich; live justly, and do good to the poor, that the rich and
the poor may like you. If you twelve had not advised me to marry, I might
be going around with a ball and a hurley, as befits my age; but now I
will go out in the world and seek my own fortune.”

He took farewell of them then, and set his face toward the Yellow King’s
castle. A long time before it was prophesied that young Conal, son of
Gulban, would cut the head off the Yellow King, so seven great walls
had been built around the castle, and a gate to each wall. At the first
gate, there were seven hundred blind men to obstruct the entrance; at the
second, seven hundred deaf men; at the third, seven hundred cripples; at
the fourth, seven hundred sensible women; at the fifth, seven hundred
idiots; at the sixth, seven hundred people of small account; at the
seventh, the seven hundred best champions that the Yellow King had in his
service.

All these walls and defenders were there to prevent any man from taking
the Yellow King’s daughter; for it had been predicted that the man who
would marry the daughter would take the king’s head, and that this man
would be Conal, son of Conal Gulban.

The only sleep that the guards at the seven gates had was half an hour
before sunrise and half an hour after sunset. During these two half
hours, a plover stood on the top of each gate; and if any one came, the
bird would scream, and wake all the people in one instant.

The Yellow King’s daughter was in the highest story of the castle, and
twelve waiting-maids serving her. She was so closely confined that she
looked on herself as a prisoner; so one morning early she said to the
twelve maids, “I am confined here as a criminal,—I am never free even
to walk in the garden; and I wish in my heart that some powerful young
king’s son would come the way to me. I would fly off with him, and no
blood would be shed for me.”

It was about this time that young Conal came, and, seeing all asleep,
put spurs to his steed, and cleared the walls at a bound. If the birds
called out, he had the gates cleared and was in before the champions were
roused; and when he was inside, they did not attack him.

He let his horse out to graze near the castle, where he saw three poles,
and on each one of two of them a skull.

“These are the heads of two king’s sons who came to win the Yellow King’s
daughter,” thought Conal, “and I suppose mine will be the third head; but
if I die, I shall have company.”

At this time the twelve waiting-maids cast lots to know who was to walk
in the yard, and see if a champion had come who was worthy of the
princess. The maid on whom the lot fell came back in a hurry, saying, “I
have seen the finest man that I ever laid eyes on. He is beautiful, but
slender and young yet. If there is a man born for you, it is that one.”

“Go again,” said the Yellow King’s daughter, “and face him. Do not speak
to him for your life till he speaks to you; say then that I sent you, and
that he is to come under my window.”

The maid went and crossed Conal’s path three times, but he spoke not; she
crossed a fourth time, and he said, “I suppose it is not for good that
you cross my path so early?”

(It is thought unlucky to meet a woman first in the morning.)

“My mistress wishes you to go under her window.”

Conal went under the window; and the king’s daughter, looking down, fell
deeply in love with him. “I am too high, and you are too low,” said the
Yellow King’s daughter. “If we speak, people will hear us all over the
castle; but I’ll take some golden cord, and try can I draw you up to me,
that we may speak a few words to each other.”

“It would be a poor case for me,” said young Conal, “to wait till you
could tie strings together to raise me.” He stuck his sword in the earth
then, and, making one bound, went in at the window. The princess embraced
him and kissed him; she knew not what to give him to eat or to drink, or
what would please him most.

“Have you seen the people at the seven gates?” asked the Yellow King’s
daughter.

“I have,” answered Conal.

“They are all awake now, and I will go down and walk through the gates
with you; seeing me, the guards will not stop us.”

“I will not do that. It will never be said of young Conal of Erin that he
stole his wife from her father. I will win you with strength, or not have
you.”

“I’m afraid there is too much against you,” said the Yellow King’s
daughter.

These words enraged Conal, and, making one bound through the window, he
went to the pole of combat, and struck a blow that roused the old hag in
the eastern world, and shook the castle with all the land around it. The
Yellow King was sleeping at the time; the shake that he got threw him out
of his bed. He fell to the floor with such force that a great lump came
out on his forehead; he was so frightened that he said to the old druid
who ran in to help him, “Many a year have I lived without hearing the
like of that blow. There must be a great champion outside the castle.”

The guard was sent to see if any one was left alive near the castle.
“For,” said the king, “such a champion must have killed all the people at
the gates.” The guard went, saw no one dead, but every one living, and a
champion walking around, sword in hand.

The guard hurried back, and said to the king, “There is a champion in
front of the castle, handsome, but slender and young.”

“Go to him,” said the king, “and ask how many men does he want for the
combat.” The guard went out and asked.

“I want seven hundred at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven
hundred behind me, and as many as all these out in front of me. Let them
come four deep through the gates: do you take no part in this battle; if
I am victorious, I will see you rewarded.”

The guard told the king how many men the champion demanded. Before the
king opened the gates for his men, he said to the chief of them, “This
youth must be mad, or a very great champion. Before I let my men out, I
must see him.”

The king walked out to young Conal, and saluted him. Conal returned the
salute. “Are you the champion who ordered out all these men of mine?”
asked the king.

“I am,” said young Conal.

“There is not one among them who would not kill a dozen like you,” said
the king. “Your bones are soft and young. It is better for you to go out
as you came in.”

“You need not mind what will happen me,” answered Conal. “Let out the
men; the more the men, the quicker the work. If one man would kill me in
a short time, many will do it in less time.”

The men were let out, and Conal went through them as a hawk goes through
a flock of birds; and when one man fell before him, he knocked the next
man, and had his head off. At sunset every head was cut from its body.
Next he made a heap of the bodies, a heap of the heads, and a heap of
the weapons. Young Conal then stretched himself on the grass, cut and
bruised, his clothes in small pieces from the blows that had struck him.

“It is a hard thing,” said Conal, “for me to have fought such a battle,
and to lie here dying without one glimpse of the woman I love; could I
see her even once, I would be satisfied.”

Crawling on his hands and knees, he dragged himself to the window to tell
her it was for her he was dying. The princess saw him, and told him to
lie there till she could draw him up to her and care for him.

“It is a hard thing if I have to wait here till strings and cords are
fastened together to raise me,” said he, and, making one bound from where
he was lying on the flat of his back, he went up to her window; she
snatched at him, and pulled him into the chamber.

There was a magic well in the castle; the Yellow King’s daughter bathed
him in the water of it, and he was made whole and sound as before he went
to battle. “Now,” said she, “you must fly with me from this castle.”

“I will not go while there is anything that may be cast on my honor in
time to come,” answered Conal.

Next day he struck the pole of combat with double the force of the first
time, so that the king got a staggering fit from the shock that it gave
him.

The Yellow King had no forces now but the deaf, the blind, the cripples,
the sensible women, the idiots, and the people of small account. So out
went the king in his own person. He and young Conal made the hills,
dales, and valleys tremble, and clear spring wells to rise out of hard,
gravelly places. Thus they fought for three days and two nights. On the
evening of the third day, the king asked Conal for a time to rest and
take food and drink.

“I have never begun any work,” said Conal, “without finishing it. Fight
to the end, then you can rest as long as you like.”

So they went at it again, and fought seven days and seven nights without
food, drink, or rest, and each trying to get the advantage of the other.
On the seventh evening, Conal swept the head off the king with one blow.

“’Tis your own skull that will be on the pole in place of mine, and I’ll
have the daughter,” said Conal.

The Yellow King’s daughter came down and asked, “Will you go with me now,
or will you take the kingdom?”

“I will go,” answered Conal.

“You did not go to the battle?” asked Conal of the guard.

“I did not.”

“Well for you that you did not. Now,” said Conal to the princess,
“whomever of the maids you like best, the guard may marry, and they will
care for this kingdom till we return.”

The guard and maid were married, and put in charge of the kingdom. The
following morning young Conal got his steed ready and set out for home
with the princess. As they were riding along near the foot of a mountain,
Conal grew very sleepy, and said to the princess, “I’ll go down now and
take a sleep.”

The place was lonely,—hardly two houses in twenty miles. The Yellow
King’s daughter advised Conal: “Take me to some habitation and sleep
there; this place is too wild.”

“I cannot wait,—I’m too drowsy and weary after the long battle; but if
I might sleep a little, I could fight for seven days and seven nights
again.” He dismounted, and she sat on a green mossy bank. Putting his
head on her lap, he fell asleep, and his steed went away on the mountain
side grazing.

Conal had slept for three days and two nights with his head in the lap
of the Yellow King’s daughter, when on the evening of the third day the
princess saw the largest man she had ever set eyes on, walking toward
her through the sea and a basket on his back. The sea did not reach to
his knees; a shield could not pass between his head and the sky. This
was the High King of the World. This big man faced up to where Conal and
his bride were; and, taking the tips of her fingers, he kissed her three
times. “Bad luck to me,” said the King of the World, “if the young woman
I am going for were beyond the ditch there I would not go to her. You
are fairer and better than she.”

“Where were you going?” asked the princess. “Don’t mind me, but go on.”

“I was going for the Yellow King’s daughter, but will not go a step
further now that I see you.”

“Go your way to her, for she is the finest princess on earth; I am a
simple woman, and another man’s wife.”

“Well, pain and torments to me if I go beyond this without taking you
with me!”

“If this man here were awake,” said the Yellow King’s daughter, “he would
put a stop to you.” She was trying all this time to rouse Conal.

“It is better for him to be as he is,” said the High King; “if he were
awake, it’s harm he’d get from me, and that would vex you.”

When she saw that he would take her surely, she bound him not to make her
his wife for a day and a year.

“This is the worst promise that ever I have made,” said the High King,
“but I will keep it.”

“If this man here were awake, he would stop you,” said the princess.

The High King of the World thrust the tip of his forefinger under the
sword-belt of Conal, and hurled him up five miles in the air. When Conal
came down, he let out three waves of blood from his mouth.

“Do you think that is enough?” asked the king of the princess.

“Throw him a second time,” said the Yellow King’s daughter.

He threw him still higher, and Conal put out three greater waves. “Is
that enough?”

“Try him a third time.” He threw him still higher this time. Conal put
out three greater waves, but waked not.

While the High King was throwing up Conal, the princess was writing a
letter telling all,—that she knew not whither she was going, that she had
bound the High King of the World not to make her his wife for a day and a
year, “and,” said she, “I’m sure that you will find me in that time.”

The king took her in his arms, and away he went walking in the sea,
throwing fish into his basket as he travelled through the water.

Conal slept a hero’s sleep of seven days and nights, and woke four days
after his bride had been stolen. He rubbed his eyes, and, glancing toward
the mountain side, saw neither steed nor wife, and said, “No wonder that
I cannot see wife nor horse when I’m so sleepy; what am I to do?”

Not far away were some small boys, and they herding cows. The boys began
to make sport of Conal for sleeping seven days and nights. “I do not
blame you for laughing,” said Conal (ever since, when there is a great
sleeper, people say that he sleeps like Conal on the side of Beann
Edain), “but have you tidings of my wife and my steed; where are they, or
has any man taken them?”

A boy older and wiser than the others said, “Your horse is on the
mountain side feeding; and every day he came hither and sniffed you, and
you sleeping, and then went away grazing for himself. Four days ago the
greatest giant ever seen by the eye of man walked in through the ocean;
he tossed you three times in the air. Every time we thought you’d be
broken to dust; and the lady you had, wrote something and put it under
your belt.”

Conal read the letter, and knew that, in spite of her, the Yellow King’s
daughter had been carried away. He then preferred battle to peace, and
asked the boys was there a ship that could take him to sea.

“There is no right ship in the place, but there is an old vessel wrecked
in a cove there beyond,” said the oldest boy.

The boys went with Conal, and showed him the vessel.

“Put your backs to her now, and help me,” said Conal.

The boys laughed, thinking that two hundred men could not move such a
vessel. Conal scowled, and then they were in dread of him, and with one
shove they and Conal put the ship in the sea; but the water was going in
and out through her. Conal knew not at first what to do, as there was no
timber near by, but he killed seven cows, fastened the hides on the ship,
and made it proof against water. When the boys saw the cows slaughtered,
they began to cry, saying, “How can we go home now, and our cows killed?”

“There is not a cow killed,” said Conal, “but you will get two cows in
place of her.” He gave two prices for each cow of the seven, and said to
the boys, “Go home now, and tell what has happened.”

Conal sailed away for himself; and when his ship was in the ocean, he let
her go with the wind. On the third afternoon, he saw three islands, and
on the middle island a fine open strand, with a great crowd of people. He
threw out three anchors, two at the ocean side and one at the shore side,
so that the ship would not stir, no matter what wind blew, and, planting
his sword in the deck, he gave one bound and went out on the strand
seven miles distant. He saluted a good-looking man, and asked, “Why are
so many people here? What is their business?”

“Where do you live? Of what nation are you that you ask such a question?”

“I am a stranger,” said Conal, “just come to this island.”

The islander showed Conal a man sitting on the beach as large as twelve
of the big men of the island. “Do you see him?”

“I do,” said Conal.

“There are three brothers of us on these three islands; that man is our
youngest brother, and he has grown so strong and terrible that we are in
dread he will drive us from our share of the islands, and that is why
we are here to-day. My eldest brother and I have come with what men we
have to this middle island, which belongs to our youngest brother. We
are to play ball against all his forces; if we beat them, we shall think
ourselves safe. Now, which side will you take, young champion?”

“If I go on your side, some may say that I fear your men; and if I go
with your younger brother, you and your elder brother may say that I fear
your strong brother’s forces. Bring all the men of the three islands. I
will play against them.”

“Well,” asked the stranger, “what wager will you lay?”

“I’ll wager,” said Conal, “those two islands out there on the ocean side.”

“They are ours already,” said the man.

“Bad luck to you! Why claim everything?” said Conal. “Well, I’ll lay
another wager. If I lose, I’ll stand in the middle of the strand, and
every man of the three islands may give me a blow of the hurley; and if I
win, I am to have a blow on every man who played against me. But first, I
must have my choice of the hurleys; all must be thrown in a heap. I will
take the one I like best.”

This was done, and Conal took the largest and strongest hurley he could
find. The ball was struck about the middle of the strand; and there was a
goal at each end of it, and these goals were fourteen miles apart. Conal
took the ball with hurley, hand and foot, and never let it touch ground
till he put it through the goal. “Is that a fair inning?” asked he of the
other side.

Some said it was foul, for he kept the ball in the air all the time.

“Well, I’ll make a second trial; I will put it through the opposite
goal.” He struck the ball in the middle of the strand, and sent it toward
the other goal with such force that whoever tipped it never drew breath
again, and every man whom it passed was driven sixty feet to one side or
the other. Conal was always within a few yards of the ball, and he put
it through the goal seven miles distant from the middle of the strand
with two blows.

“Is that a fair inning?” asked Conal.

“It would be hard to say that it is not,” said one man, and no man
gainsaid him.

“Let all stand now in ranks two deep, till I get my blow on each man of
you.”

All the men were arranged two deep; and when Conal came up, the foremost
man sprang behind the one in the rear of him, and that one behind the man
at his side, and so on throughout. None would stand to receive Conal’s
blow.

Away rushed every man, woman, and child, and never stopped till they were
inside in their houses. First of all, ran the brothers of the islands.

When they reached the castle, they began to lament because they had
insulted the champion, and knew not who he was or whence he had come.

The three brothers had one sister; and when she saw them lamenting and
grieving, she asked: “What trouble is on you?”

“We fled from the champion, and the people followed us.”

“None of you invited the champion to the castle,” said the sister; “now
he will fall into such a rage on the strand that in one hour he will not
leave a person alive on the islands. If I had some one to go with me, I
would invite him, and the people would be spared.”

“I will go with you,” said her chief maid.

Away they went, walking toward the strand; and when they had come near,
they threw themselves on their knees before Conal. He asked who they were
and what brought them.

“My brothers sent me to beg pardon for them, and invite you to the
castle.”

“I will go,” said Conal; “and if you had not come, I would not have left
a man alive on the three islands.” Conal went with the princess, and saw
at the castle a very old and large man; and the old man rose up before
him and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, young Conal from Erin.”

“Who are you who know me, and I never before on this island?” asked Conal.

“My name is Donach the Druid, from Erin. I was often in your father’s
house, and it was a good place for rich or poor to visit, for they were
alike there; and now I hope you will take me home to be buried among my
own people. It was God who drove you hither to this island to take me
home.”

“And I will do that,” said Conal, “if I go there myself. Tell me now how
you came to this place.”

“I was taken,” said Donach, “out on the wild arm of the wind, and was
thrown in on this island. I am here ever since. I am old now, and I wish
to be home in my own place in Erin.”

Now young Conal, the sister, and three brothers sat down to dinner. When
dinner was over, and they had eaten and drunk, they were as happy as if
they had lived a thousand years together. The three brothers asked Conal
where was he going, and what was his business. Conal did not say that
he was in search of his wife, but he said that he was going to his own
castle and kingdom. The old druid, two of the brothers, and the sister
said, “We will go with you, and serve you till you come to your kingdom.”

They got a boat and took him to the ship. He weighed anchor, and sailed
away. For two or three days they saw nothing wonderful. The fourth day
they came to a great island; and as they neared it, they saw three
champions inside, and the three fighting with swords and spears. Young
Conal was surprised to see three fighting at the same time.

“Well,” said he, “it is nothing to see two champions in combat, but ’tis
strange to see three. I will go in and see why they are fighting.” He
threw out his chains, and made his ship fast; then he made a rush from
the stern of the vessel to the bow, and as he ran, he caught Donach the
Druid and carried him, and with one leap was in on the strand, seven
miles from the ship.

Young Conal faced the champions, and, saluting the one he thought best,
asked the cause of their battle. The champion sat down, and began. “I
will tell you the reason,” said he. “Seven miles from this place there
stands a castle; in that castle is the most beautiful woman that the eye
of man has ever seen, and the three of us are in love with her. She says
she will take only the best man; and we are striving to know who is best,
but no man of us three can get the upper hand of another. We can kill
every man who comes to the island, but no man of us can kill another of
the three.”

When Conal heard this he sprang up, and told the champions to face him
and he would see what they could do. The three faced him, and went at
him. Soon he swept the heads off two of them, but the third man was
pressing hard on Conal. His name was the Short Dun Champion; but in the
end Conal knocked him with a blow, and no sooner had he him knocked
than Donach the Druid had him tied with strong cords and strings of
enchantment. Then young Conal spoke to Donach the Druid and said, “Come
to this champion’s breastbone and split it, take out his heart and his
liver, and give them to my young hound to eat;” and turning to the Short
Dun Champion, he asked, “Have you ever been so near a fearful death as
you are at this moment?”

“’Tis hard for me to answer you,” said he, “for ’tis firmly I am bound by
your Druid, bad luck to him.”

“Unbind the champion,” said Conal, “till he tells us at his ease was he
ever nearer a fearful death than he is at this moment.”

“I was,” said the champion to Conal. “Sit down there on that stool. I
will sit here and tell you. I did not think much of your torture, for I
knew that when my heart and liver were taken, I should be gone in that
moment. Once I had a longer torture to suffer. Not many months ago, I was
sailing on my ship in mid-ocean when I saw the biggest man ever seen on
earth, and he with a beautiful woman in his hand. The moment I saw that
woman I was in love with her, and I sailed toward the High King of the
World, for it was he that was in it; but if I did, he let my ship go out
in full sail between his two legs, and travelled on in another direction.
I turned the ship again, and went after him. I climbed to the topmast,
and stood there. I came up to the King of the World, for wind and wave
were with me, and, being almost as high as the woman in his hand, I made
a grasp at her; he let my ship out between his legs, but if he did, I
took the woman with me and kissed her three times. This enraged the High
King. He came to my ship, bound and tied me with strong hempen cords,
then, putting a finger under me, he tossed me out on the sea and let
my ship drift with the wind. I had some enchantment of my own, and the
sea did not drown me. When little fish came my way, I swallowed them,
and thus I got food. I was in this state for many days, and the hempen
cords began to rot and weaken. Through good luck or ill, I was thrown
in on this island. I pulled the cords, and struggled with them till one
hand was free; then I unbound myself. I came to shore where the island
is wildest. A bird called Nails of Daring had a nest in a high, rugged
cliff. This bird came down, and, seizing me, rose in the air. Then she
dropped me. I fell like a ball, and struck the sea close to land. I
feigned death well, and was up and down with the waves that she might not
seize me a second time, but soon she swooped down and placed her ear near
me to know was I living. I held my breath, and she, thinking me dead,
flew away. I rose up, and ran with all speed to the first house I found.
Now, was I not nearer a worse death than the one to which you condemned
me? Nails of Daring would have given me a frightful and slow death, and
you wished to give me a quick one.”

“Short Dun Champion,” said Conal, “the woman you saw with the High King
was my wife. It was luck that brought me in your way, and it was luck
that Donach the Druid tied you in such a fashion. Now you must guide me
to the castle of the High King.”

“Come, now, druid, bind my hands and feet, take my heart and liver and
give them to young Conal’s hound whelp, rather than take me to that king.
I got dread enough before from him.”

“Believe me, all I want of you now is to guide my ship; you will come
back in safety and health,” said young Conal.

“I will go with you and guide you, if you put me beneath your ship’s
ballast when you see him nearing us, for fear he will get a glimpse of
me.”

“I will do that,” said Conal.

Now they went out to the ship, and steered away, with the Short Dun
Champion as pilot. They were the fifth day at sea when he steered the
ship toward the castle of the High King. “That,” said the Short Dun
Champion, pointing to a great building on an island, “is the castle of
the High King of the World; but as good a champion as you are, you cannot
free your wife from it. That castle revolves; and as it goes around it
throws out poison, and if one drop of that poison were to fall on you the
flesh would melt from your bones. But the King of the World is not at
home now, for to-morrow the day and the year will be up since he stole
the wife from you. I have some power of enchantment and I will bring the
woman to you in the ship.”

The Short Dun Champion went with one leap from the deck of the ship
to the strand, and, caring for no man, walked straight to the castle
where the Yellow King’s daughter was held. The castle had an opening
underneath, and the Short Dun Champion, keeping the poison away by his
power, passed in, found the princess, and wrapping her in the skirt of an
enchanted cloak that he had, took her out, and running to the strand was
in on the deck of the ship with one bound.

The moment the princess set eyes on Conal, she gave such a scream that
the High King heard her, and he off in the Western World inviting all the
great people to his wedding. He started that minute for the castle, and
did not wait to throw fish in his basket as he went through the sea. When
he came home, the princess was not there before him. “Where has my bride
gone, or has some one stolen her?” asked he.

“A man who has a ship in the harbor came and stole the lady.”

“A thousand deaths! What shall I do, and all the high people on the way
to the wedding?”

He seized a great club and killed half his servants, then rushed to the
strand, and seeing the ship still at anchor, shouted for battle.

When the Short Dun Champion heard the king’s voice, he screamed to be put
under the ballast. He was put there and hidden from sight. “If I whistle
with my fingers,” asked young Conal, “will you come to me?”

“I will, if I were to die the next moment,” said the Short Dun Champion.

Conal told Donach the Druid to stand at the bows of the ship, then,
walking to the stern, he was so glad at having his wife on the vessel,
and he going to fight with the High King, that he made a run, seized the
druid, and carried him with one leap to the strand, eleven miles distant.

The High King demanded his wife.

“She is not your wife, but mine,” said young Conal. “I won her with my
sword, and you stole her away like a thief, and I sleeping. Though she
is mine, I did not flee when I took her away from you.”

“It is time for battle,” said the king, and the two closed in combat.
The king, being so tall, had the advantage. “I might as well make him
shorter,” thought Conal, and with one blow he cut the two legs off the
king at the knee joints. The king fell. No sooner was he down than the
druid had him tied with hard cords of enchantment. Conal whistled through
his finger. The Short Dun Champion, hearing the whistle, screamed to be
freed from the ballast. The men took him out. He went in on the strand
with one bound, and when he came up to where the High King was lying,
Conal said, “Cut this man at the breastbone, take out his heart with his
liver, and give them as food to my hound whelp.”

“He is well bound by your druid; but firmly as he is bound, I am in dread
to go near him to do this.”

Conal then drew his own sword, and with a blow swept the head off the
High King. Then Conal, Donach the Druid, and the Short Dun Champion went
to the ship and sailed homeward. On their way, where should they sail but
along the coast of Spain? While they were sailing, Conal espied three
great castles, and not far from them a herd of cattle grazing.

“Will one of you go and inquire why these three castles are built near
together?” asked Conal of the two island brothers.

“I will go,” said the elder.

He went on shore to the herdsman and asked, “Why are those three castles
so near one another?”

“I will tell you,” said the herdsman; “but you must come first and touch
my finger-tips.”

No sooner had the champion done this, than the man drew a rod of
enchantment, struck him a blow, and turned him to stone.

Conal saw this from the ship, and asked, “Who will go in now?”

“I will go,” said the second brother. “I have the best right.” He went
and met the same fate as his brother.

“I will go this time,” said Conal.

The Yellow King’s daughter, Donach the Druid, and the Short Dun Champion
seized Conal to keep him from going.

“If I do not live but a moment, I must go and knock satisfaction out of
the herdsman for what he has done to my men,” cried out Conal. So he
went, and walking up to the herdsman, asked the same questions as the two
brothers.

“Come here and touch my finger tips.”

Conal walked up to the herdsman, caught his fingers, then ran under the
rod and seized the herdsman; but if he did, the herdsman had him that
moment on the flat of his back. But Conal was up, and had the herdsman
down, and, drawing his sword, said, “I’ll have your head now unless you
tell me why these three castles are here close together.”

“I will tell you, but do you remember, young Conal, when in our father’s
castle how I used to get the first blow on you?”

“Are you my brother?” asked Conal.

“I am,” said the herdsman.

“Why did you kill my men?”

“If I killed them, I can raise them;” and going to the two brothers, he
struck each a blow, and they rose up as well and strong as ever.

“Well,” said the brother to Conal, “Saudan Og arrived in Spain the day
before we did, and he had one-third of the kingdom taken before us. We
went against him the following day, and kept him inside that third, and
we have neither gained nor lost since. The King of Spain had a castle
here; my father and the King of Leinster built a second castle near that;
Saudan Og built the third near the two, for himself and his men, and that
is why the three castles are here. We are ever since in battle; Saudan
has the one-third, and we the rest of Spain.”

Conal arrayed himself as a champion next morning, and went to Saudan’s
castle. He struck a blow on the pole of combat that shook the whole
kingdom, and that day he killed Saudan and every man of his forces.

Conal’s eldest brother married the daughter of the King of Spain. He
took the second brother with him, married him to the sister of the two
island brothers, and gave him the three islands. He went home then, gave
the kingdom of the Yellow King to the Short Dun Champion, and had the
two island brothers well married to king’s daughters in Erin. All lived
happily and well; if they did not, may we!




THE BLACK THIEF AND KING CONAL’S THREE HORSES.


There was a king once in Erin who had a beautiful queen, and the queen’s
heart was as good as her looks. Every one loved her, but, above all, the
poor people. There wasn’t a needy man or woman within a day’s journey of
the castle who was not blessing the beautiful queen. On a time this queen
fell ill suddenly, and said to the king, “If I die and you marry a second
wife, leave not my three sons to a strange woman’s rule. Send them away
to be reared till they come to age and maturity.”

The queen died soon after. The king mourned for her one year and a
second; then his chief men and counsellors urged him to seek out a new
queen.

The king built a castle in a distant part of his kingdom, and put his
three sons there with teachers and servants to care for them. He married
a second wife then; and the two lived on happily till the new wife had a
son. The young queen never knew that the king had other children than
her son, or that there was a queen in the kingdom before her.

On a day when the king was out hunting in the mountains, the queen went
to walk near the castle, and as she was passing the cottage of a greedy
old henwife, she stumbled and fell.

“May the like of that meet you always!” said the henwife.

“Why do you say that?” asked the queen, who overheard her.

“It is all one to you what I say. It is little you care for me or the
like of me. It wasn’t the same with the queen that was here before you.
There wasn’t a week that she did not give support to poor people, and she
showed kindness to every one always.”

“Had the king a wife before me?” asked the queen.

“He had, indeed; and I could tell enough to keep you thinking for a day
and a year, if you would pay me.”

“I will pay you well if you tell all about the queen that was in it
before me.”

“If you give me one hundred speckled goats, one hundred sheep, and one
hundred cows I will tell you.”

“I will give you all those,” said the queen, “if you tell everything.”

“The queen that was here at first had three sons; and before the king
married you, he prepared a great castle, and the sons are in that castle
now with teachers and men taking care of them. When the three are of age,
your son will be without a place for his head.”

“What am I to do to keep my son in the kingdom?” asked the queen.

“Persuade the king to bring his three sons to the castle, then play
chess with them. I will give you a board with which you can win. When
you have won of the three young men, put them under bonds to go for the
three steeds of King Conal for you to ride three times around all the
boundaries of the kingdom. Many and many is the champion and hero who
went for King Conal’s horses; but not a man of them was seen again, and
so it will be with these three. Your son will be safe at home, and will
be king himself when his time comes.”

The queen went home to the castle, and if ever she had a head full of
plans it was that time. She began the same night with the king.

“Isn’t it a shame for you to keep your children away from me, and I
waiting this long time for you to bring them home to us?”

“How am I keeping my children from you?” asked the king. “Haven’t you
your own son and mine with you always?”

“You have three sons of your own. You were married before you saw me.
Bring your children home. I will be as fond of them as you are.”

No matter what the king said, the queen kept up her complaining with
sweet words and promises, and never stopped till the king brought his
sons to the castle.

The king gave a great feast in honor of the young men. After the feast
the queen played chess for a sentence with the eldest. She played twice;
won a game and lost one. Next day she played one game with the second
son. On the third day, she played with the youngest; won one game and
lost one.

On the fourth day, the three were in the queen’s company.

“What sentence do you put on me and my brothers?” asked the eldest.

“I put you and your brothers under sentence not to sleep two nights in
the same house, nor to eat twice off the same table, till you bring me
the three steeds of King Conal, so that I may ride three times around the
kingdom.”

“Will you tell me,” asked the eldest son, “where to find King Conal?”

“There are four quarters in the world; I am sure it is in one of these
that he lives,” said the queen.

“I might as well give you sentence now,” said the eldest brother. “I put
you under bonds of enchantment to stand on the top of the castle and stay
there without coming down, and watch for us till we come back with the
horses.”

“Remove from me your sentence; I will remove mine,” said the queen.

“If a young man is relieved of the first sentence put on him, he will
never do anything good,” said the king’s son. “We will go for the horses.”

Next day the three brothers set out for the castle of King Conal. They
travelled one day after another, stopping one night in one place and the
next in another, and they were that way walking till one evening, when
whom should they meet but a limping man in a black cap. The man saluted
them, and they returned the salute.

“What brought you this road, and where are you going?” asked the stranger.

“We are going to the castle of King Conal to know can we bring his three
horses home with us.”

“Well,” said the man, “my house is nearby, and the dark night is coming;
stay with me till morning, and perhaps I can help you.”

The young men went with the stranger, and soon came to his house. After
supper the man said, “It is the most difficult feat in the world to steal
King Conal’s three horses. Many a good man went for them, and never came
back. Why do you go for those horses?”

“Our father is a king in Erin, and he married a second time. Our
stepmother bound us to bring the three horses, so she may ride three
times around our father’s kingdom.”

“I will go with you,” said the man. “Without me, you would lose your
lives; together, we may bring the horses.”

Next morning the four set out, and went their way, walking one day after
another, till at long last they reached the castle of King Conal at
nightfall.

On that night, whatever the reason was, the guards fell asleep at the
stables. The stranger and the three young men made their way to the
horses; but if they did, the moment they touched them the horses let
three screeches out of them that shook the whole castle and woke every
man in the country around it.

The guards seized the young men with the stranger, and took the four to
King Conal.

The king was in a great room on the ground-floor of his castle. In front
of him was an awfully big pot full of oil, and it boiling.

“Well,” said the king when he saw the stranger before him, “only that the
Black Thief is dead, I’d say you were that man.”

“I am the Black Thief,” said the stranger.

“We will know that in time,” said the king; “and who are these three
young men?”

“Three sons of a king in Erin.”

“We’ll begin with the youngest. But stir up the fire there, one of you,”
said King Conal to the attendants; “the oil is not hot enough.” And
turning to the Black Thief, he asked, “Isn’t that young man very near his
death at this moment?”

“I was nearer death than he is, and I escaped,” said the Black Thief.

“Tell me the story,” said the king. “If you were nearer death than he is,
I will give his life to that young man.”

“When I was young,” said the Black Thief, “I lived on my land with
ease and plenty, till three witches came the way, and destroyed all my
property. I took to the roads and deep forests then, and became the most
famous thief that ever lived in Erin. This is the story of the witches
who robbed and tried to kill me:—

“There was a king not long ago in Erin, and he had three beautiful
daughters. When they grew up to be old enough for marriage, they were
enchanted in the way that the three became brazen-faced, old-looking,
venomous hags every night, and were three beautiful, harmless young women
every day, as before.

“I was living for myself on my land, and had laid in turf enough for
seven years, and I thought it the size of a mountain. I went out at
midnight, and what did I see but the hags at my reek; and they never
stopped till they put every sod of the turf into three creels on their
backs, and made off with it.

“The following season I brought turf for another seven years, and the
next midnight the witches stole it all from me; but this time I followed
them. They went about five miles, and disappeared in a broad hole twenty
fathoms deep. I waited, then looked down, and saw a great fire under a
pot with a whole bullock in it. There was a round stone at the mouth of
the hole. I used all my strength, rolled it down, broke the pot, and
spoiled the broth on the witches.

“Away I ran then, but was not long on the road when I saw the three
racing after me. I climbed a tree to escape from them. The witches came
in a rage, stopped under the tree, and looked up at me. The eldest rested
awhile, then made a sharp axe of the second, and a venomous hound of
the third, to destroy me. She took the axe herself then, gave one blow
of it, and cut one-third of the tree; she gave a second blow, and cut
another third; she had the axe raised a third time when a cock crowed,
and there before my eyes the axe turned into a beautiful woman, the hag
who had raised it into a second, and the venomous hound into a third. The
three walked away then, harmless and innocent as any young women in Erin.
Wasn’t I nearer death that time than this young man?”

“Oh, you were,” said the king; “I give him his life, and it’s his brother
that’s near death now. He has but ten minutes to live.”

“Well, I was nearer death than that young man,” said the Black Thief.

“Tell how it was. If you convince me, I’ll give him his life, too.”

“After I broke their pot, the witches destroyed my property night after
night, and I had to leave that place and find my support on the roads and
in forests. I was faring well enough till a year of hunger and want came.
I went out once into a great wood, walked up and down to know could I
find any food to take home to my wife and my children.

“I found an old white horse and a cow without horns. I tied the tails of
the two to each other, and was driving them home for myself with great
labor; for when the white horse pulled backward, the cow would pull
forward, and when the horse tried to go on, the cow wouldn’t go with him.
They were that way in disagreement till they drew the night on themselves
and on me. I had a bit of flint in my pocket, and put down a fire. I
could not make my way out of the wood in the night-time, and sat down by
the fire. I was not long sitting when thirteen cats, wild and enormous,
stood out before me. Of these, twelve were each the bulk of a man; the
thirteenth, a red one, the master of the twelve, was much larger. They
began to purr on the opposite side of the fire, and make a noise like the
rumbling of thunder. At last the big red cat lifted his head, opened his
wide eyes, and said to me, ‘I’ll be this way no longer; give me something
to eat.’”

“I have nothing to give you,” said I, “unless you take that white horse
below there and kill him.”

“He went down then, and made two halves of the horse, left half to the
twelve, and ate the other half himself. They picked every bone, and were
not long at it.

“The thirteen came up again, sat opposite me at the fire, and were
purring. The big red cat soon spoke a second time, ‘I’ll not be long this
way. Give me more food to satisfy my hunger.’

“‘I have nothing to give unless you take the cow without horns,’ replied
I.

“He made two halves of the cow, ate one-half himself, and left the other
to the twelve. While they were eating the cow, I took off my coat, for I
knew what was coming, wrapped it around a block which I made like myself,
and then climbed a tree quickly. The red cat came up to the fire a third
time, opened his great eyes, looked toward my coat, and said, ‘I’ll not
be long this way; give me more food.’

“My coat gave no answer. The big cat sprang at it, struck the block with
his tail, and found it was wood.

“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘you are gone; but whether above ground or under ground,
we will find you.’

“He put six cats above and six under ground to find me. The twelve cats
were gone in a breath. The big red cat sat there waiting; and when the
other twelve had run through all Erin, above ground and under ground, and
come back to the fire, he looked up, saw me, and cried, ‘Ah, there you
are, you deceiver. You thought to escape, but you will not. Come, now,’
said he to the cats, ‘and gnaw down this tree.’

“The twelve sprang at the tree under me, and they were not long cutting
it through. Before it fell, I escaped to another tree near by, and they
attacked that, gnawing it down. I sprang to a third. We were that way,
I escaping and they cutting, till near daybreak, when I was on the last
tree next the open country. When the tree was half cut, what should come
the way but thirteen terrible wolves,—twelve, and a thirteenth above
them, their master. They fell upon the cats, and fought desperately a
good while. At length the twelve on each side were stretched, but the two
chiefs were fighting each other yet. At last the wolf nearly took the
head off the cat with one snap; the cat whirled in falling, struck the
wolf with the sharp hook in his tail, made two halves of his skull, and
the two fell dead, side by side.

“I slipped down then, but the tree shook in the way that I was in dread
it would tumble beneath me, but it didn’t. Now, wasn’t I nearer death
that time than this young man?”

“Oh, you were,” said King Conal. “He’s not near death at all, for I give
his life to him; but if the two have escaped, we’ll put the third man in
the pot; and have you ever seen any one nearer death than he is?”

“I was nearer myself,” said the Black Thief.

“If you were, I will give his life to this young man as well as his
brothers.”

“I had apprentices in my time,” said the Black Thief. “Among them was
one, a young man of great wit, and he pleased me. I gave no real learning
to any but this one; and in the heel of the story he was a greater man
than myself,—in his own mind. There was a giant in the other end of the
kingdom; he lived in a mountain den, and had great wealth gathered in
there. I made up my mind to go with the apprentice, and take that giant’s
treasures. We travelled many days till we reached the mountain den. We
hid, and watched the ways of the giant. He went out every day, brought
back many things, but often men’s bodies. At last we went to the place in
his absence. There was only one entrance, from the top. I was lowering
the young man with a rope, but when half-way to the bottom he called out
as if in pain. I drew him up. ‘I am in dread,’ said he, ‘to go down in
that place. Go yourself. I will do the work here for you.’

“I went down, found gold and precious things in plenty, and sent up what
one man could carry. ‘I will go out of this now,’ thought I, ‘before
the giant comes on me.’ I called to the apprentice; no answer. I called
again; not a word from him. At last he looked down and said,—

“‘You gave me good learning, and I am grateful; I will gain my own living
from this out. I hope you’ll spend a pleasant night with the giant.’

“With that, he made off with himself, and carried the treasure. Oh, but
I was in trouble then! How was I to bring my life home with me? How was
I to escape from the giant? I looked, but found no way of escape. In one
corner of the giant’s kitchen were bodies brought in from time to time.
I lay down with these, and seemed dead. I was watching. After a while I
heard a great noise at the entrance, and soon the giant came in carrying
three bodies; these he threw aside with the others. He put down a great
fire then, and placed a pot on it: he brought a basket to the bodies, and
began to fill it; me he threw in first, and put six bodies on the top
of me. He turned the basket bottom upward over the pot, and six bodies
fell in. I held firmly to my place. The giant put the basket aside in a
corner bottom upward,—I was saved that time. When the supper was ready,
the giant ate the six bodies, and then lay down and slept soundly. I
crept from under the basket, went to the entrance; a tree trunk, standing
upright in the wall at one end of it, was turned around. There were steps
in its side from bottom to top; this was the giant’s ladder. Whenever the
giant wished to go up, he turned the tree till the steps came outside;
and when on top, he turned it till the smooth side was out in the way no
one could go down in his absence. When he wished to go down, he turned
the steps out; and when at the bottom, he turned them in again in the
way no one could follow him. This time he forgot to turn the tree, and
that gave me the ladder. I went up without trouble; and, by my hand, I
was glad, for I was much nearer death at the giant’s pot than this man at
yours.”

“You were, indeed, very near death,” said King Conal, “and I give his
life to the third man. The turn is on you now; the three young men are
safe, and it’s you that will go into the pot.”

“Must I die?” asked the Black Thief.

“You must, indeed,” said King Conal, “and you are very near death.”

“Near as I am,” said the Black Thief, “I was nearer.”

“Tell me the story; and if you were ever nearer death than you are at
this minute, I will give your life to you.”

“I set out another day,” said the Black Thief, “and travelled far. I came
at last to a house, and went into it. Inside was a woman with a child on
her knee, a knife in her hand, and she crying. Twice she made an offer of
the knife at the child to kill it. The beautiful child laughed, and held
out its hands to her.

“‘Why do you raise the knife on the child,’ asked I, ‘and why are you
crying?’

“‘I was at a fair,’ said the woman, ‘last year with my father and mother;
and while the people were busy each with his own work, three giants came
in on a sudden. The man who had a bite of bread in his hand did not put
the bread to his mouth, and the man who had a bite in his mouth did not
swallow it. The giants robbed this one and that, took me from my father
and mother, and brought me to this place. I bound them, and they promised
that none of the three would marry me before I was eighteen years of age.
I’ll be that in a few days, and there is no escape for me now unless I
raise hands on myself.

“‘Yesterday the giants brought this child; they said it was the son of
some king, and told me to have it cooked and prepared in a pie for their
supper this evening.’

“‘Spare the child,’ said I. ‘I have a young pig that I brought to roast
for myself on the road; take that, and prepare it instead of the child.’

“‘The giants would know the pig, and kill me,’ said the woman.

“‘They would not,’ said I; ‘there is only a small difference between the
flesh of a young pig and a child. We will cut off the first joint of the
left little finger. If they make a remark, show them that.’

“She cooked the pie, and I watched outside for the giants. At last I saw
the three coming. She hid the child in a safe place aside; and I went to
the cellar, where I found many dead bodies. I lay down among them, and
waited. When the giants came home, the eldest ate the pie, and called
to the woman, ‘That would be very good if we had enough of it.’ Then he
turned to his second brother, and sent him down to the cellar to bring
a slice from one of the bodies. The brother came down, took hold of one
body, then another, and, catching me, cut a slice from the end of my
back, and went up with it. He was not long gone when he came down again,
raised me on his back, and turned to take me with him. He had not gone
many steps when I sent my knife to his heart, and there he fell on his
face under me. I went back, and lay in my old place.

“The chief giant, who had tasted my flesh and was anxious for more of
it, now sent the youngest brother. He came, saw the middle brother lying
there, and cried out,—

“‘Oh, but you are the lazy messenger, to be sleeping when sent on an
errand!’

“With that, he raised me on his back, and was going, when I stabbed him
and stretched him on the ground not far from his brother.

“The big giant waited and waited, grew angry, took his great iron club
with nine lumps and nine hooks on it. He hurried down to the cellar, saw
his two brothers, shook them, found them dead. I had no chance of life
but to fight for it; I rose and stood a fair distance in front of the
giant. He ran toward me, raised the club, and brought it down with what
strength there was in him. I stepped aside quickly; the club sank in the
earth to the depth of a common man’s knee. While the giant was drawing
the club with both hands, I stabbed him three times in the stomach, and
sprang away to some distance. He ran forward a second time, and came
very near hitting me; again the club sank in the ground, and I stabbed
him four times, for he was weaker from blood loss, and was a longer time
freeing the club. The third time the club grazed me, and tore my whole
side with a sharp iron hook. The giant fell to his knees, but could
neither rise nor make a cast of the club at me; soon he was on his elbow,
gnashing his teeth and raging. I was growing weaker, and knew that I was
lost unless some one assisted me. The young woman had come down, and
was present at the struggle. ‘Run now,’ said I to her, ‘for the giant’s
sword, and take the head off him.’ She ran quickly, brought the sword,
and as brave as a man took the head off the giant.

“‘Death is not far from me now,’ said I.

“‘I will carry you quickly to the giant’s caldron of cure, and give you
life,’ said the woman.

“With that, she raised me on her back, and hurried out of the cellar.
When she had me on the edge of the caldron, the death faint was on me, I
was dying; but I was not long in the pot when I revived, and soon was as
well as ever.

“We searched the whole house of the giants, found all their treasures. I
gave some to the woman, kept some myself, and hid the remainder. I took
the woman home to her father and mother. She kept the child, which was
well but for the tip of its little finger. Now wasn’t I nearer death that
time than I was when I began this story?”

“You were, indeed,” said King Conal; “and even if you were not, I would
not put you in the pot, for if you had not been in the house of the three
giants that day there would be no sign of me now in this castle. I was
that child. Look here at my left little finger. My father searched for
you, and so did I when I grew up, but we could not find you. We made out
only one thing, that it was the Black Thief who saved me. Men told me
that the Black Thief was dead, and I never hoped to see you. A hundred
thousand welcomes! Now we’ll have a feast. The three young men will get
the three horses for your sake, and take them home after we have feasted
together. You will stay with me now for the rest of your life.”

“I must go with the young men as far as my own house,” said the Black
Thief; “then I’ll come back to you.”

King Conal made a feast the like of which had never been in his kingdom.
When the feast was over, he gave the three horses to the young men, and
said at parting, “When you have done the work with the horses, let them
go, and they will run home to me; no man could stop them.”

“We will do that,” said the brothers.

They set out then with them, stopped one night with the Black Thief at
his house, and after that travelled home to their father, and stood in
front of the castle. The stepmother was above, watching for them. She was
glad when she saw them, and said, “Ye brought the horses, and I am to
have them.”

“If we were bound to bring the horses,” said the elder brother, “we were
not bound to give them to you.”

With that, he turned the horses’ heads from the castle, and let them go.
They ran home to King Conal.

“I will go down now,” said the queen, “and it is time for me.”

“You will not go yet,” said the youngest; “I have a sentence which I had
no time to give when we were going. I put you under sentence to stay
where you are till you find three sons of a king to go again to King
Conal for the horses.”

When she heard that sentence, she dropped dead from the castle.




THE KING’S SON FROM ERIN, THE SPRISAWN, AND THE DARK KING.


There was a king in Erin long ago who was called King of Lochlinn, and
his wife died. He had two sons. The elder of the two was Miach Lay; the
second was Manus. Miach Lay was a fine champion, and trained in every art
that befitted a king’s son.

One day the father called Miach Lay to his presence, and said, “It is
time for you to marry, and I have chosen for you a maiden of great beauty
and high birth.”

“I am willing to marry,” said Miach Lay.

The king and his son then left the castle, and went to the house of the
young woman’s father, and there they spent seven days and seven nights.
On their way home, the king said to his son, “How do you like the young
lady?”

“I like her well, but I’ll not marry her.”

“Oh, my shame!” said the father. “How can I ever face those people a
second time?”

“I cannot help that,” said Miach Lay.

The king was greatly confused. After another while he said to his son, “I
have another maiden chosen for you, and it is well for us to go to her
father’s, and settle the match.”

“I am willing,” said Miach Lay.

They went away together, and never stopped nor stayed till they reached
the house of the young lady’s father. They were welcomed there warmly,
and spent seven days and seven nights, and were better attended each day
than the day before.

“Well, my son,” asked the father, “how do you like this match?”

“Well, and very well,” said Miach Lay; “but I will not marry this lady
either. She is ten times better than the first; and if I had married the
first, I could not marry this one, and so I will not marry the second any
more than the first lady.”

“Oh, my shame!” said the father. “I can never show my face to these
people again.”

After another while the king told Miach Lay that he had a better lady
than ever selected, and asked him to go with him to arrange the marriage.

“I am willing,” answered the son.

The two went to the father of the maiden; they spent seven days and seven
nights at his house, and were fully satisfied with everything. They were
on the way home a third time. “Well,” said the king, “you have no reason
to refuse this time.”

“Well, and very well, do I like the match,” said Miach Lay; “but I will
not marry this lady. If I had married the first lady, I should have had
no chance of getting the second, and the second is ten times better than
the first; if I had married the second lady, I should have had no chance
of this one, and she is twenty times better than the second.”

“I have lost all patience with you,” said the king, “and I turn the back
of my hand to you from this out.”

“I’m fully satisfied,” said Miach Lay, so they came home, and passed
that night without conversation. The following morning, when Miach Lay
rose, he said to his father, “I am for leaving the house now; will you
prepare for me the best ship that you have, and put in it a good store of
provisions for a long voyage?”

The vessel was prepared, and fully provisioned for a day and a year. The
king’s son went on board, sailed out of the harbor, and off to sea. He
never stopped sailing till he entered a harbor in the kingdom of Greece.
There was a guard there on watch at the harbor with a keen eye on all
ships that were passing or coming. The King of Greece was at war in that
time with the King of Spain, and knew not what moment his kingdom would
be invaded.

The guard saw the vessel coming when she was so small to the eye that he
could not tell was it a bird or a vessel that he was looking at. He took
quick tidings to the castle; and the king ordered him to go a second time
and bring tidings. When he reached the sea, the ship was inside, in the
harbor.

“Oh,” said the king, when the guard ran to him a second time, “that is a
wonderful vessel that was so far away a few minutes ago as not to be told
from a bird, and is now sailing into harbor.”

“There is but one man to be seen on board,” said the guard.

In front of the king’s castle was the landing-place, the only one of
the harbor; and even there no one went beyond the shore without passing
through a gate where every man had to give an account of himself. There
was a chosen champion guarding the gate, who spoke to Miach Lay, and
asked, “Who are you, and from what country?”

“It is not the custom for a man of my people to answer a question like
that till he is told first what country he is in, and who asks the
question.”

“It was I asked the question,” said the champion; “and you must tell me
who you are, first of all.”

“I will not tell you,” said Miach Lay. With that, he drew his ship nearer
land till it grounded; then, taking an oar, he put the blade end in the
sand, and sprang to shore. He asked then the champion at the gate to let
him pass, but the champion refused. Miach Lay raised his hand, gave him
a blow on the ear, and sent him backward spinning like a top, till he
struck the pillar of the gate and broke his skull. As Miach Lay had no
thought to kill the man, he was grieved, and, delaying a short time, went
to the castle of the king, not knowing what country he was in or what
city.

When he came to the castle, he knelt down in front of it. The people in
the castle saw a young champion with bared head outside; the king came
out, and asked what trouble was on him. Miach Lay told of all that had
happened at the harbor, and how he had killed the champion at the gate
without wishing it.

“Never mind that,” said the king.

“I did not intend to kill or harm him at all,” said Miach Lay; “he wanted
to know who I was, and from what country. By the custom of my land, I
cannot tell that till I know where I am, and who are the people among
whom I am travelling.”

“Do you know now where you are?”

“I do not,” answered Miach Lay.

“You are in front of the castle of the King of Greece, and I am that
king.”

“I am the son of the King of Lochlinn from Erin,” said Miach Lay, “and
have come this way to seek my fortune.”

The King of Greece welcomed him then, took the young champion by the
hand, and did not stop till he brought him to where all the princes and
nobles were assembled; he was rejoiced at his coming, for, being at war,
he expected aid from this champion.

“Will you remain with me for a day and a year,” asked the king, “and
perform what service I ask of you?”

“I will,” said Miach Lay.

Manus, the second son of the King of Lochlinn, stopped going to school
when Miach Lay, his elder brother, left home, and, after a time, the
father wished him to marry. As the elder son had acted, so did the
second; he refused to marry each of the three maidens whom the king had
chosen, and left his father at last.

Manus was watching when his brother sailed away, and noticed the course
of the vessel, so now he sailed the same way.

Miach Lay was gaining favor continually; and just as the day and the year
of his service were out to a month, the king’s guard saw a vessel sailing
in swiftly. He ran with tidings to the king, and added, “There is only
one man on board.”

The king and the nobles said it was best not to let him land till he gave
an account of himself. Miach Lay was sent to the landing-place to get
account of him.

He was not long at the landing-place when the vessel came within hailing,
and Miach Lay asked the one man on board who was he and from what land he
came. The man would not tell, as it was not the custom in his country.
“But,” said he, “I want something to eat.”

“There is plenty here,” said Miach Lay; “but if there is, you will get
none of it,—you would better be sailing away.”

“I have enough of the sea; I’ll come in.”

He put down the blade of his oar, and sprang ashore. No sooner had he
touched land than he was grappled by Miach Lay. As neither man knew
the other, they were in hand grips all day. They were nearly equal in
strength, but at last Miach Lay was getting the worst of it. He asked
Manus for a truce.

“I will grant you that,” said Manus; “but you do not deserve it, for you
began the battle.”

They sat apart then, and Miach Lay asked, “How long can you hold out?”

“It is getting stronger and braver I am,” replied Manus.

“Not so with me. I could not hold out five minutes longer,” said Miach
Lay. “My bones were all falling asunder, and I thought the earth was
trembling beneath me. Till this day I thought to myself, ‘There is no
champion I cannot conquer.’ Now tell me your name and your country.”

“I am from Erin and a son of the King of Lochlinn,” said Manus.

“Oh,” said Miach Lay, “you are my brother.”

“Are you Miach Lay?” inquired Manus.

“I am.”

They embraced each other, and sat down then to eat. Miach Lay was so
tired that he could taste nothing, but Manus ate his fill. Then they went
arm in arm to the castle. The king and all the nobles of Greece had seen
the combat from the castle, and were surprised to see the men coming
toward them in such friendliness, and all went out to know the reason.
The king asked Miach Lay, “How is all this?”

“This man is my brother,” said Miach Lay. “I left him at home in Erin,
and did not know him at the harbor till after the combat.”

The king was well pleased that he had another champion. The following day
Manus saw the king’s daughter, and fell in love with her and she with
him. Then the daughter told the king if she did not get Manus as husband,
the life would leave her.

The king called Miach Lay to his presence, and asked, “Will you let your
brother marry my daughter?”

“If Manus wishes to marry her, I am willing and satisfied,” answered
Miach Lay. He asked his brother, and Manus said he would marry the king’s
daughter.

The marriage was celebrated without delay, and there was a wedding feast
for three days and three nights; and the third night, when they were
going to their own chamber, the king said, “This is the third husband
married to my daughter, and after the first night no tidings could be had
of the other two, and from that time to this no one knows where they are.”

Miach Lay was greatly enraged that the king had permitted the marriage
without mentioning this matter first.

“I will do to-night,” said the king, “what has never been done hitherto;
I will place sentries all around the grounds, and my daughter and Manus
will not lodge in the castle at all, but in one of the houses apart from
it.”

“I’ll watch myself,” said Miach Lay; “and if it is the devil that is
taking the husbands, I’ll not let him take my brother.”

Sentries were stationed in all parts; a house was prepared in the
courtyard. Miach Lay stood on guard at the entrance all the time. Soon
after midnight a gust of wind blew through the yard; it blew Miach Lay to
the ground, and he fainted. When he recovered, he rushed to search for
his brother, but he was not in his chamber. He then roused the king’s
daughter, and asked, “Where is my brother?”

“I cannot tell where he is,” said she: “it is you who were on guard; it
is you who should know where to find him.”

“I will have your head, wicked woman, unless you give tidings of my
brother.”

“Do not take my head; it would not serve you. I have no account of what
happened to your brother.”

Miach Lay then refrained from touching her, and waited till morning. The
king came in the morning to see was Manus well; and when Miach Lay saw
him, he ran at him to destroy him, but the king fled away. After a while,
when the household was roused, the king’s daughter was brought in and
asked where was her husband, or could she give any account of him.

“I cannot tell,” replied she; “but one day before I was married the first
time, something came to my chamber window in the form of a black bee,
and asked would I let it in. I said that I would not. The bee remained
outside all the day, watching to see could it enter my chamber. I did not
let it come in; before going away in the evening, the black bee said,
‘Well, I will worry the heart in you yet.’”

The king’s old druid, who was present, slapped his knee with his hand,
and said,“I know the story now; that was Ri Doracha (the Dark King). He
is a mighty magician, and it is he who has taken the husbands.”

“I will travel the world till I find my lost brother,” said Miach Lay.

“I will go with you, and take all my forces,” said Red Bow, the son of
the King of Greece.

“I need no assistance,” said Miach Lay. “If I myself cannot find him, I
think that no man can; but if you wish to come, you are welcome.”

Miach Lay went to his vessel; and Red Bow chose the best ship from all
that his father had, and went on board of it. The two ships sailed away
together. In time they neared land; and on reaching the mouth of the
harbor, they saw a third ship sailing toward them as swiftly as the wind
blew, and it was not long till it came alongside. There was only one man
on board; he hailed Miach Lay, and asked, “Where are you going?”

“It would not be the custom of my country for me to tell you what you ask
till you tell me who you are yourself, and where your own journey lies.”

“I know myself,” said the warrior, “where you are going; you are in
search of the Dark King, and I myself would like to see him.”

With that, he took a bundle of branches he had on deck, and blew them
overboard. Then every rod and twig of the bundle became an enormous log
of wood, so that the harbor was covered with one raft of timber, and then
he sailed away without waiting.

After much struggling with the logs, shoving them hither and over, Miach
Lay was able by pushing with oars to make room for his vessel, and at
last came to land. Red Bow and his men were cast into deep sleep by the
man on the vessel that had sailed away.

After Miach Lay landed, he passed through a great stretch of wild
country, and, drawing near a large forest, saw rising up a small, slender
smoke far in among trees. He made for the place where the smoke was, and
there he discovered a large, splendid castle in the depth of the forest,
but could find no sign of an entrance.

When Miach Lay had stood outside some time, a young woman looked through
the window, hailed him, and said, “You are a stranger, and will find no
lodgings in these parts; but if I could at all, I would let you come in
here.”

“Open the window if you are able,” said Miach Lay.

The window had hinges, and she opened it in the middle; he stepped
backward nine yards, and went in at one bound to the chamber.

“You are welcome,” said she, and soon she had dinner prepared for him.
When he had eaten, she inquired who was he, from what place had he come,
and what brought him that way.

He told her all that had happened to him from the first; and when he had
finished, he said, “I know not where to find my brother.”

“You are not far from him now,” said she; “’tis in this country he is
living, and the land he is in bounds our land.”

When they had talked long, she said, “You are tired and need rest, so
sleep in this chamber.” She went then to her own place. The following
morning his breakfast was ready before him; and after he had eaten, the
young woman said, “I suppose you will be thankful if I tell you where to
find the castle of the Dark King.”

“I shall, indeed,” said he. Then she gave him full directions how to
go. He took his sword then, and sprang out as he had sprung in, in the
evening, and went in the direction which she told him to take. About
midday he met a man, who hailed him, and asked, “Who are you, and from
what country?”

“’Tis not the custom for a man of my country to answer that question till
told where he is, and to whom he is speaking.”

“I know who you are and whither you are going. You are going to the
castle of the Dark King, and here he is before you; now show your daring.”

They made at each other; and if they did, they made soft ground hard and
hard ground soft, they made high places low and low places high, they
brought cold spring water through dry, gravelly places, and if any one
were to come from the Eastern to the Western World, it is to look at
these two he should come.

They were this way till evening, and neither had the better of the other.
Miach Lay was equal to the Dark King; but the Dark King, having magic,
blew a gust of wind at Miach Lay which knocked him flat on the earth,
and left him half dead. Then the Dark King took Miach Lay’s sword, and
went away. When he recovered, Miach Lay regretted his sword more than all
else, and went back to the castle where he had spent the night before. He
was barely able to go in at the window.

“How have you fared this day?” asked the young woman.

He told her of all that had happened.

“Be not grieved; you will meet him another time,” said the young woman.

“What is the use? I have no sword now.”

“If ’tis a sword you need, I will bring you a blade far better than the
one which the Dark King took from you.”

After breakfast next morning she brought him her father’s sword, which
he grasped in his hand, and shook. Miach Lay bade farewell to the young
woman, and sprang out through the window. Knowing the way better this
time, he hastened forward, and met the Dark King just where he met him
before.

“Did not yesterday tire you?” asked the king.

“No,” said Miach Lay.

“Your journey is useless,” said the king.

“We shall see,” answered Miach Lay, and they made at each other; and
terrible as the battle was on the first day, it was more terrible on the
second; but when the Dark King thought it time to go home, he blew a gust
of wind which threw Miach Lay to the earth, and left him senseless. The
Dark King did not take the sword this time.

After the Dark King had gone, another man came the way, who was called
Sprisawn Wooden Leg.[2]

“Well, my good man, you are nearly dead,” said the Sprisawn.

“I am,” said Miach Lay, rousing up.

“You are his equal but for the magic. I watched the combat these two
days, and you would have overcome him but for his magic; he will finish
you to-night if he finds you. He has three magic tricksters who are
leaving his house at this moment. They have a spear which the rear man of
the three hurls forward, the trickster in front catches the spear in the
heel of his foot, and in turn hurls it with all his force forward; those
behind rush ahead of the front man, and in turn catch the spear in their
heels. No matter how far nor how often the spear is thrown forward, there
is always a man there before it to catch it. They are rushing hither a
long distance apart.”

The Sprisawn saw the tricksters approach, and told Miach Lay that they
were coming. When they came within a spear-cast, one of them hurled the
spear at Miach Lay; it went through his heart, passed out through his
body, and killed him.

When the Sprisawn saw Miach Lay lying dead, he fell to weeping and
wailing; and so loud was his wail that every one heard it throughout the
whole kingdom. Red Bow was sleeping yet in the harbor; but so loud was
the wail of the mourning Sprisawn that it roused him from the slumber
which the Dark King had put on him. He landed at once with his forces,
and made on toward the wailing. When they came to the place, and saw
Miach Lay lying dead, they themselves began to wail; they asked the
Sprisawn then, “Are there any means by which we might raise him to life?”

“There are,” replied the Sprisawn. “The Dark King is rejoicing now in his
castle with the King of Mangling, and the Gruagach of Shields. They are
drinking each other’s health from a horn, and the Dark King is telling
the other two that Miach Lay was the best man that ever stood in front of
him; and if he could drink from that horn, he would rise up as well as he
ever was.”

“I with my men will go for that horn,” said Red Bow.

“Not you nor all the men like you living on earth could bring that horn
from the castle of the Dark King,” replied the Sprisawn. “That castle
is surrounded by three walls. Each wall is four feet in thickness and
twenty feet high. Each wall has a gate as high and as thick as the wall
is itself. How could you pass through those walls? Remain here and watch
over this body; I will bring the horn hither myself.”

Off went the Sprisawn, and he had more control over magic than even the
Dark King. When he arrived at the castle, he struck the gate with the
heel of his wooden foot and it opened before him; the second and third
gate opened too, in like manner, when he struck them. In he went to the
room where the king and his two friends were drinking. There he found
them raising toasts to each other. He was himself invisible. As soon as
they rested the horn on the table, he snatched it and made off for the
place where Miach Lay was lying dead. Then Red Bow and his men raised up
the dead man, and poured down his throat some of the wine or whatever
liquor was held in the horn.

After a time Miach Lay opened his eyes, and yawned. They were all so
delighted that they raised three shouts of joy.

“Come on with me now,” said the Sprisawn, “to the castle of the Dark
King. We will have a trial of strength with him. I will take the Dark
King in hand myself. Do you, Miach Lay, take the King of Mangling, and
you, Red Bow, take the Gruagach of Shields.”

“This will be very good for us to keep,” said Red Bow, when he saw the
virtue of the horn.

“No,” said the Sprisawn; “it is good for the man who owns it, and I will
return it.”

The Sprisawn, who could travel as swiftly as his own thought, vanished
with the horn, placed it on the table from which he had snatched it, and
came back to the others. No one had missed the horn; when they turned
to use it, it was there on the table before them, in the chamber of the
Dark King. Miach Lay and his friends went on together, and never stopped
till they stood in the chamber where the Dark King was sitting with his
friends. The gates had remained open since the Sprisawn opened them. When
the Dark King saw the dead man alive, standing in his chamber before him,
he said, “Never a welcome to you, you miserable creature with the wooden
foot. What brought you hither, or how did you come?”

“I have come to you with combat,” said the Sprisawn; “and now do you
choose the manner of fighting.”

In the castle were three chambers, in each chamber a cross-beam as high
from the floor as a man’s throat; in the middle of each cross-beam was a
hole, through this hole passed a chain, at each end of the chain was an
iron loop; above the hole and lengthwise with the beam was a sword with
a keen edge on it. Each pair of champions was to take one room of the
three, and each man of them was to place a loop on his own neck; each
then was to pull the other to the hole if he could, and then pull till
the sword cut his head off.

The Sprisawn and the Dark King took one room, Miach Lay and the King of
Mangling another, Red Bow and the Gruagach of Shields took the third.

The first pair were not long at each other, as the Sprisawn was greatly
anxious for the other two, and with the second pull that he gave he had
the head off the Dark King. He ran then to see how it fared with Miach
Lay. Miach Lay was tired and nearly beaten.

“Come out of that for me,” said the Sprisawn. “What playing is it you
have with him?”

“Fully satisfied am I to give this place to you,” said Miach Lay, raising
the loop; and the Sprisawn put it quickly on his own neck.

With the first pull the Sprisawn gave he had the head off the King of
Mangling. They ran then to Red Bow, whose head was within two feet of the
sword.

“Go on out of this,” said the Sprisawn, putting the loop on his own neck.
The Gruagach, by reason of having Red Bow so near the beam, was himself
at a distance, but at the first pull which the Sprisawn gave he drew the
Gruagach within a foot of the beam. Fearing that if he killed the third
man there would be no one to give an account of those carried off by the
Dark King, the Sprisawn offered the Gruagach his life if he told him
where Manus and the other two husbands of the king’s daughter were.

“If I tell you that,” said the Gruagach, “the Dark King will knock the
head off me.”

“If you saw the head of the Dark King would you tell me?”

“I would.”

The Sprisawn sent Miach Lay for the head of the Dark King; he brought it.

“Is that his head?” asked the Sprisawn.

“It is,” said the Gruagach.

“Well, tell me now.”

“Were I to tell you,” said the Gruagach, “the King of Mangling would
knock the head off me.”

“If you saw his head would you tell me?”

“I would.”

The head of the King of Mangling was brought.

“Is this the head?”

“It is.”

“Well, tell me, or you’ll lose your own head.”

“Near this castle is a lake,” said the Gruagach, “and under its water is
an enchanted steel tower, with high walls three feet in thickness; around
that tower on the outside a long serpent has wound herself closely from
the bottom to the top. This serpent is called the Worm of Nine Eyes.
Inside in the tower are the three men.”

“And how can we come at them?” asked the Sprisawn.

“Whoever wants to free them,” said the Gruagach, “must stand on the shore
of the lake and shout to the serpent, calling her the Worm of Nine Eyes.
Hearing this, the serpent will unwind, and with lashing will drive all
the water of the lake in showers through the country and flood the whole
land. The basin of the lake will be dry then, and the serpent will rush
at the man who uttered the insult and try to devour him. The serpent must
be killed, and the champion must run to the tower; if he can break in, he
will rescue the three men.”

“Is that all?” asked the Sprisawn.

“It is,” said the Gruagach. “I have no further account of the matter;
that is all I know.”

“Then you’ll lose your head, too,” said the Sprisawn; and with one pull
of the chain he swept the head off the Gruagach. The three champions went
to the lake then. Miach Lay and Red Bow wished to help the Sprisawn, but
he forced them to remain behind, saying that they would be swept away by
the waters if they went.

The Sprisawn, coming to the bank of the lake, shouted: “Worm of Nine
Eyes!” No sooner did the serpent hear the name than she uncoiled from the
tower, lashed the lake, and sent the water over the country. When the
lake bed was dry the serpent rushed toward the Sprisawn with open mouth.
When the Sprisawn saw the serpent he took his sword in both hands and
held it crosswise in front of his face, and when the serpent was coming
to swallow him so great was the force with which she rushed forward and
sucked the air to draw him in, that the Sprisawn split her in two from
the mouth to the tail, dividing the back from the belly, and the two
pieces fell apart like the two halves of a split log of timber.

Miach Lay and Red Bow came then to the Sprisawn and went to the tower,
but if they did, they could not go in.

“Oh,” said the Sprisawn, “if you had all the arms in the world you could
not break through that tower.” He went himself to the door then, and
striking it slightly with his wooden foot, for fear of killing the men
inside by too hard a blow, he burst in the door. The three men inside
came out, and Miach Lay embraced his own brother. All were glad, and
all started for home, but had not gone far when the other two men began
to dispute whose would the king’s daughter be. The first husband said
his claim was strongest; the second said his was. The Sprisawn tried to
settle the quarrel, but could not. “I would advise you,” said he, “to
leave the matter to the first man you meet.”

All agreed to do this.

The Sprisawn now left them and vanished as if he had never been with
them. They had not gone far when they met a man. “Well met,” said they;
“we are glad to see you.”

“What is the trouble that is on you?” asked the man.

“So and so,” said they, telling him the whole story; “and now you are to
be our judge.”

“I will do my best,” said the man, “if each one will be satisfied with my
decision.”

“We will,” said they.

“Now let each man tell his story.”

Each man told his story to the end.

“Who rescued you?” asked he.

“Miach Lay and his forces,” said they.

“Had not this man and his forces come, you would have been there till
this time?”

“We should,” said the three.

“If so,” said the man, “my decision is that the first and second husband
should each be thankful, go to his own people, and get another wife for
himself; and that the daughter of the King of Greece belongs to the
brother of the man who rescued all three.”

The two princes went away toward their own homes, and the man remained,
and who was he when he took his own form again but the Sprisawn. They
went then to the castle where the young lady had entertained Miach Lay,
and whose castle was it but the Sprisawn’s; the young woman was his
daughter. After resting there for some days, the Sprisawn asked Miach Lay
would he marry his daughter. Miach Lay was willing and glad, and remained
there.

Manus and Red Bow returned to the King of Greece. Manus lived in Greece
happily, and so did his children.

The two brothers did well not to marry any woman their father found for
them, for they would not have had the grand ladies that they had in the
end, and Miach Lay had the dominions of the Dark King, as well as those
of the Sprisawn, and they were very rich kingdoms.




THE AMADAN MOR AND THE GRUAGACH OF THE CASTLE OF GOLD.


On a time in Erin the King of Leinster resolved to make war on the King
of Munster, and sent him a message to be ready for battle on a day
mentioned. They raised flags for combat when the day came, and stood face
to face. The forces closed in battle, and were at one another then till
the King of Leinster and his men killed all the warriors of the King of
Munster and the king himself.

After the King of Munster and all his champions were slain, the King of
Leinster thought it better to live in Munster than in his own kingdom, so
he took possession of Munster and went to live in the king’s castle.

The wife of the King of Munster fled in haste to a forest, a thing easily
done, for all Erin was under forests in that time. The queen had a son in
the forest, and after a time she had no clothes for herself or the child.
Hair came out on them as on wild beasts of the wilderness. The child was
thriving and growing; what of him did not grow in the day grew threefold
at night, till at last there was no knowing what size was he.

The queen was seven years without leaving the place around her hut in the
forest. In the eighth year she went forth from the forest and saw her
husband’s castle and open kingdom, and began to weep and lament. There
was a great crowd of people around the castle where she had herself lived
in past years. She went to see what was happening. It was a summer of
great want, and the king was giving out doles of meal to people daily,
and the man who was giving the meal gave her a dole also. He was greatly
surprised when he saw her, and in the evening he was telling the king
that he had never seen such a sight in his life; she was all covered with
hair like a beast of the forest.

“She will come again to-morrow,” said the king; “then do you inquire what
sort is she, and where is her place of abode.”

She went next day to the castle; the man in charge gave her meal. After
she had gone he followed her, and when he was coming near she sat down at
the roadside from shame.

“Fear me not,” said the man. “I wish to know if you are of the dead or
the living, and what sort are you.”

“I am a living person, though I may seem like one from the dead.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have no house or home save a small hut in the forest, and I have the
look of a beast because I eat fruits and leaves of trees and grass of the
earth.”

The man told the king, and the king said, “Tell the woman to-morrow that
I will give her a house of some kind to live in.”

The king gave the strange woman a house, and she went to live with her
son in it. The son was seven years old at that time, and not able to walk
or speak, although he was larger than any giant. His mother had called
him Micky, and soon he was known as Micky Mor (Big Micky).

She was there for awhile in the house with her son, and she taking doles
of food like any poor person. One fine summer day she was sitting at the
doorstep, and she began to weep and lament.

“What is the cause of your crying?” asked the boy, who had never spoken
before till that moment.

“God’s help be with us,” said the mother. “It is time for you to get
speech. Thank God you are able to talk now.”

“It is never too late, mother.”

“That is right, my child,” said she, “it is better late than never.”

“Tell me, mother, why do you cry in this way and lament?”

“It is no use for me to tell you, my child; three men have just gone back
to the strand, and once I was able to give the like of them a good warm
dinner.”

“Well, mother, you must go and invite them to dinner this time.”

“What have I to give them to eat, my poor child?”

“If you have nothing to give them but only to be talking till morning,
you will have to go and invite them.”

When she was ready he said: “Mother, before you go tie my two hands to
the beam that is here in the house above the hearth, that I may not fall
in the fire while you are absent.”

Before the mother went out she passed a rope under his arms, tied him to
the cross-beam, and put a stool under his feet. He kicked the stool away;
he had to pull and drag himself to swing, the fire was catching his feet,
the beam was cracking from his weight and the swinging. The sinews of his
legs stretched, he got his footing then, and walked to the door.

“Thanks be to God,” said the mother, when she came back. “It is curious
how your talk and your walk came to you on the one day.”

“It is nearly always the case that ’tis together talk and walk come to
a child; but now it is time for us to be providing something for the
friends that are coming to-night.”

He went away then and asked the man who brought turf out of the reeks to
the king’s castle to give him as much as would make fire for himself and
his mother for the night.

“Go away,” said the man; “I will not give you a sod of turf. Go to the
king and get an order; then I will give you turf in plenty.”

“I would not be tiring myself going for an order, but I will have plenty
in spite of you.”

Micky took away then a great basket of turf and no thanks to the man.

“Well, mother,” said he, “here is turf enough for you, and make down a
good fire.”

He went to the mill and said to the miller: “My mother sent me for flour.
There will be three at the house to-night, and what will not be used will
be brought to you in the morning.”

“You stump of a fool, why should I give you flour? Go to my master, the
king; if he gives an order, I will give you flour in plenty.”

Micky caught the miller. “I will put you,” said he, “in one of the
hoppers of the mill unless you make away with yourself out of this.”

The miller ran away in dread that Micky would kill him. Micky laid hold
of a strong, weighty chain, and tied a great sack of flour and put it on
his back. When the sack was across his back he could not pass through the
doorway, and knew not what to do.

“It would be a shame for me to say of the first load I put on my back
that I left that same after me.” He stepped backward some paces and made
such a rush that he carried out the frame of the door with him.

“Well, mother,” said he, “we have fire and flour enough now, and let you
be making loaves for the visitors.”

He went next to the woman in charge of the milk-house. “It is hither my
mother sent me for a firkin of butter. There are three strangers above
in our house. What will be left of the butter I will bring back in the
morning, and all my own help and assistance to you for a week to come.”

“Be out of my milk-house, you stump of a fool,” said the woman. “What
assistance can you give to pay for my milk and butter?”

“Let you be out of this, my good woman,” said Micky, “or I will not
leave much life in you from this day out.”

She went away in a hurry, and he carried a firkin of butter home on his
shoulder.

“Now, mother,” said he, “you have bread, fire, butter, and all things you
need. If we had a bit of meat, that would be all that we care for.”

He went away then and never stopped nor stayed till he reached the place
where all the king’s fine fat sheep were. He caught up one and brought it
home on his shoulder.

Next day the turf-keeper, the miller, the dairywoman, and the shepherd
went to complain to the king of what Micky had done.

“It is not luck we asked for the first day we drew him on us,” said the
king.

The king started and never stopped nor stayed till he went to his old
druid. “Such a man as we have brought on us,” said the king. “Tell me now
how to put an end to him.”

“There is,” said the druid, “a black mad hound in a wood beyond the
mountain. Tell Micky that you lost that hound one day in the hunt, and to
bring her and he will be well paid for his trouble.”

The king sent for Micky, and told him all as the druid advised.

“Will you send any man with me to show me the road?”

“I will,” said the king.

Micky and the man were soon travelling along the road toward the
mountain. When Micky thought it too slow the man was walking, he asked,
“Have you any walk better than that?”

“Why, then, I have not,” said the man, “and I am tired, and it is because
I have such a good walk that I was sent with you.”

Micky took up his guide, put him under his arm, with the man’s head near
his own breast, and they began to talk as Micky moved forward. When they
came near the wood, the man said, “Put me down, and beware of the hound.
Be not rash with her, or she may harm you.”

“If she is a hound belonging to a king or a man of high degree, it must
be that she has training and will come with me quietly. If she will not
come gently, I will make her come in spite of her.”

When he went into the wood the hound smelt him and rushed at his throat
to tear him to pieces. He hurled her off quickly, and then she made a
second drive at him, and a fierce one.

“Indeed,” said Micky, “you are an impudent hound to belong to a king;”
and, taking a long, strong tree branch, he gave her a blow on the flank
that raised her high in the air.

After that blow the hound ran away as fast as her legs could carry her,
and Micky made after her with all the speed of his own legs to catch
her. On account of the blow she was losing breath fast, and he was
coming nearer and nearer, till at length he ran before her and drove her
in against the ditch. When she tried to go one way he shook the branch
before her, and when she tried to rush off in another direction, he shook
it there too, till he forced her into the road, and then she was mild and
quiet and came with him as gently as any dog.

When he was near home some one saw Micky and the mad hound with him. A
messenger ran and told the king he was coming and the mad hound walking
with him. The king gave orders to close every door in the castle. He was
in dread that the hound would devour every one living.

When the hound was brought before the closed door of the castle the king
put his head out the window and said, “That hound has been so long astray
that she is of no use to me now; take her to your mother, and she will
mind the house for her.”

Micky took the hound home, and she was that tame and watchful that not a
hen, nor a duck, nor a goose belonging to the king’s castle could come
near the house.

The king went to the druid a second time, and asked, “What can I do to
kill Micky Mor?”

“There is a raging wild boar in the woods there beyond that will tear him
to pieces,” said the druid. “Tell Micky Mor that one of the servants,
when coming from the town, lost a young pig, that the pig is in that
wood, and to bring him.”

The king sent for the boy, and said, “One of my men lost a young pig
while coming from the town; it is in that wood there beyond. If you’ll go
to the wood and bring the pig hither, I’ll pay you well when you come.”

“I will go,” said the boy, “if you will send some one to show me the wood
where the pig is.”

The king sent a man, but not the man who went the first time with Micky
Mor, for that man said, “I am tired, and haven’t the strength to go.”
They went on then, walking toward the wood. This guide grew tired like
the first man, for the wood was far distant from the castle of the king.
When he was tired, the boy put him under his arm, and the two began to
chat away as they journeyed. When near the wood, the man begged and said,
“Micky Mor, put me down now: it is a mad boar that is in the wood; and if
you are not careful, he will tear you to pieces.”

“God help you!” said Micky; “’tis the innocent man you are to let such a
small thing put dread on you.”

“I will leave you,” said the guide: “I cannot help you; you are able to
fight the battle yourself.”

Away went the man; and when Micky Mor entered the wood, the wild boar was
facing him, and the beast foaming from both sides of the mouth. As the
guide had warned him to be on his guard, Micky gave one spring out of
his body, and came to the boar with such a kick that his leg went right
into the mouth of the beast, and split his jaw back to the breast. The
wild boar dropped lifeless, and the boy was going home, leaving the great
beast behind him. He stopped then, and said to himself, “If I go back
without the boar, the king will not believe that I met him at all.” He
turned back, caught the wild boar by the hind legs, and threw him across
his shoulders.

The king thought, “As he brought the mad hound the first day, he may
bring the wild boar to me this time.” He placed guards on all roads
leading to the castle.

The guards saw Micky coming with the boar on his back. Thinking the boar
alive, they ran hither and over, closed every door, window, hole, or
place that a mouse might pass through, for fear the wild boar would tear
them to pieces.

The youth went up to the castle, and struck the door; the king put his
head out the window, and asked, “Can it be that you have the wild boar?”

“I have him; but if I have, he is dead.”

“As he is dead, you might take him home to your mother; and, believe me,
he will keep you in meat for a long while.”

The king went to the druid again.

“I have no advice for you this time,” said the druid, “but one: he is of
as good blood as yourself; and the best thing you can do is to give him
your daughter to marry.”

This daughter was the king’s only child, and her name was Eilin Og. The
king sent for the youth then, and said, “I will give you my daughter to
marry.”

“It is well,” said Micky Mor; “if you give her in friendship, I will take
her.”

Micky Mor made himself ready; they gave him fine clothes, and he seemed
fit to marry any king’s daughter. After the marriage he was a full week
without going to see his own mother.

When he went to her at the end of the week, she cried out, “What is
keeping you away from me a whole week?”

“Dear mother,” said he, “it is I that have met with the luck. I got the
king’s daughter to marry.”

“Go away out of my sight, and never come near me again!”

“Why so, mother, what ails you? Could I get a better wife than a king’s
daughter?”

“My dear son, if she is a king’s daughter, you are a king’s son, so you
are as high as she.”

“If I am a king’s son, why have you and I been so poor?”

She told him then that the king had killed his father and all his forces,
and that the whole castle and kingdom had belonged to his father.

“Why did you not tell me that long ago?”

“I would never have told you,” said she, “but that you have married the
murderer’s daughter.”

Away went the son when he heard what his mother said, and the eyes
going out of his head with wild rage, and he saying that he would kill
every one living about the king’s castle. The people in the castle saw
him coming, and thought from his looks that his mother had said some
strong words to him, and they closed every door and window against him.
The young man put his shoulder to the door of the castle, and it flew
in before him. He never stopped nor stayed till he went to the highest
chamber of the castle to the king and queen, killing every one that came
in his way. “Pardon me! Spare me!” cried the king.

“I will never kill you between my own two hands; but I’ll give you the
chance that you gave my own father while the spear was going from the
hand to his breast.” With that, he caught the king, and threw him out
through the window. When he had all killed who did not flee before
him, he could find no sight of his own wife, though he looked for her
everywhere.

“Well, mother,” said he when he went home, “I have all killed before me,
but I cannot find my own wife.”

The mother went with him to search for the wife, and they found her in a
box. When they opened the box, she screamed wildly.

“Sure, you know well that I did not marry you to kill you; have no fear.”

She was glad to have her life. Micky Mor then moved into the castle, and
had his father’s kingdom and property back again. After awhile he went to
walk one day with his wife, Eilin Og. While he was walking for himself,
the sky grew so dark that it seemed like night, and he knew not where to
go; but he went on till he came at last to a roomy dark glen. When he was
inside in the glen, the greatest drowsiness that ever came over a man
came over him.

“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for sleep is coming on
me.”

“It is not sleep that is troubling you, but something in this great
gloomy glen, where you were never before in your life.”

“Oh, Eilin Og, come quickly under my head.”

She came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. When he woke,
hunger and thirst came on him greater than ever came upon any man ever
born. Then a vessel came to him filled with food, and one with drink.

“Taste not the drink, take not a bite of the food, in this dark glen,
till you know what kind of a place is it.”

“Eilin Og, I must take one drink. I’ll drink it whomsoever it vexes.”

He took a draught hard and strong from the vessel; and that moment the
two legs dropped off Micky Mor from the knees down.

When Eilin Og saw this, she fell to wailing and weeping.

“Hold, hold, Eilin Og! silence your grief; a head or a leg will not be in
the country unless I get my two legs again.”

The fog now dispersed, and the sky became clear. When he saw the sky
clear, he knew where to go; and he put his knife and spear and wife on
the point of his shoulder. Then his strength and activity were greater,
and he was swifter on his two knees than nine times nine other men that
had the use of their whole legs.

While he was going on, he saw huntsmen coming toward him. A deer passed
him. He threw the spear that he had in his hand; it went through
the deer, in one side and out through the other. A white dog rushed
straightway after the deer. Micky Mor caught the deer and the dog, and
kept them.

Now a young Gruagach, light and loose, was the first of the huntsmen to
follow the white dog. “Micky Mor,” said he, “give me the white dog and
the deer.”

“I will not,” said Micky. “For it is myself that did the slaughter,
strong and fierce, that threw the spear out of my right hand and put it
through the two sides of the deer; and whoever it be, you or I, who has
the strongest hand, let him have the white dog and the deer.”

“Micky Mor,” said Eilin Og, “yield up the white dog and the deer.”

“I will,” said he, “and more if you ask; for had I obeyed you in the
glen, the two legs from the knees down would not have gone from me.”

The hunter, who was the Gruagach of Dun an Oir, was so glad to get his
white dog and deer that he said, “Come with me, Micky Mor, to my castle
to dinner.”

The three were then passing along by the strand of Ard na Conye to the
Gruagach’s castle, when whom should they meet but a champion who began to
talk with the men; but, seeing Eilin Og, he stopped on a sudden and asked
Micky Mor, “Who is this woman with you? I think there is not another of
such beauty in all the great world.”

“That is my wife, Eilin Og,” said Micky Mor.

“It is to find her that I am here, and to take her in spite of herself or
her father,” said the champion.

“If you take her, you will take her in spite of me,” said Micky Mor; “but
what champion are you with such words?”

“I am Maragach of the Green Gloves from Great Island. I have travelled
the world twice, and have met no man to match me. No weapons have hurt my
skin yet or my body. Where are your arms of defence in this great world,
Micky Mor?”

“I have never wished for a weapon but my own two fists that were born
with me.”

“I name you now and forever,” said Maragach, “the Big Fool (Amadan Mor).”

“Not talk of the mouth performs deeds of valor, but active, strong bones.
Let us draw back now, and close with each other. We shall know then who
is the best man; and if there is valor in you, as you say, you dirty
little Maragach, I will give you a blow with strength that will open your
mouth to the bone.”

They went toward each other then threateningly, and closed like two
striking Balors or two wild boars in the days of the Fenians, or two
hawks of Cold Cliff, or two otters of Blue Pool. They met in close,
mighty struggle, with more screeching than comes from a thousand. They
made high places low, and low places high. The clods that were shot away
by them, as they wrestled, struck out the eye of the hag in the Eastern
World, and she spinning thread at her wheel.

Now Maragach drew his sword strong, keen-edged, and flawless; this sword
always took with the second blow what it did not cut with the first; but
there was no blow of it that time which the Big Fool did not dodge, and
when the sun was yellow at setting, the sword was in small bits, save
what remained in the hand of the champion. That moment the Fool struck
the champion a blow ’twixt neck and skull, and took the head off his body.

The three went on then to the castle of Dun an Oir (Castle of Gold), and
had a fine dinner. During the dinner they were discoursing and telling
tales; and the Gruagach’s wife took greatly to heart the looks that her
husband was giving Eilin Og, and asked, “Which is it that you will have,
Negil Og’s daughter or the wife of the Big Fool?”

Said Eilin Og to the Gruagach’s wife, “This man’s name is not the Big
Fool in truth or in justice, for he is a hero strong and active; he
is master of all alive and of every place. All the world is under his
command, and I with the rest.”

“If he is all this, why did he let the legs go from him?” asked the
Gruagach’s wife.

Eilin Og answered, “I have said that he has high virtues and powers; and
only for the drink that was brought him in the dark lonely glen, he would
not have let the legs go from him.”

The Gruagach was in dread that the Big Fool might grow angry over their
talks, and that enchantment would not get the upper hand of strength, and
said, “Give no heed to woman’s talk, Micky Mor, but guard my castle, my
property, and my wife, while I go to the Dun of the Hunt and return.”

“If any man comes in in spite of me,” said Micky Mor, “while you are
absent, believe me, he will not go out in spite of me till you return.”

The Gruagach went off then, and with the power of his enchantment put a
heavy sleep on Micky Mor.

“Eilin Og,” said he, “come quickly under my head, for over-strong sleep
has come on me.”

Eilin Og came under his head, and he got a short nap of sleep. The
Gruagach returned soon in a different form altogether, and he took a kiss
from his own wife.

“Oh,” said Eilin Og to her husband, “you are in your sleep, and it is to
my grief that you are in it, and not at the right time.”

Micky Mor heard her, and he, between sleeping and waking, gave one leap
from his body when he heard Eilin Og’s words, and stopped at the door.
It would have been a greater task to break any anvil or block made by
blacksmith or wood-worker, than to force the Big Fool from the door.

“Micky Mor,” said the Gruagach, disguised, “let me out.”

“I will not let you out till the Gruagach of Dun an Oir comes home, and
then you will pay for the kiss that you took from his wife.”

“I will give you a leg swift and strong as your own was; it is a leg I
took from the Knight of the Cross when he was entering his ship.”

“If you give me one of my legs swift and strong as ever, perhaps I may
let you go out.”

That moment the Fool got the leg. He jumped up then, and said, “This is
my own leg, as strong and as active as ever.

“The other leg now, or your head!” said Micky Mor.

The Gruagach gave him the other leg, blew it under him with power of
enchantment. Micky Mor jumped up. “These are my own legs in strength and
activity. You’ll not go out of this now till the Gruagach comes, and you
pay for the kiss you took from his wife.”

“I have no wish to knock a trial out of you,” said the Gruagach, and he
changed himself into his own form again. “You see who I am; and I am the
huntsman who took your legs with the drink that you got from the cup, and
I am your own brother born and bred.”

“Where were you,” asked the Big Fool, “when my father was killed with all
his men?”

“I was in the Eastern World at that time, learning enchantment and magic.”

“If you are my brother,” said the Big Fool, “we will go with each other
forevermore. Come with me now to such a wood. We will fight there four
giants who are doing great harm to our people these many years.”

“Dear brother,” said the Gruagach, “there is no use for us to go against
the four giants; they are too powerful and strong for us, they will kill
us.”

“Let me fight with three of them,” said Micky Mor, “and I’ll not leave a
foot or a hand of them living on earth; you can settle one.”

The Gruagach had his great stallion of the road brought from the stable
for himself and his brother to ride. When they led him out, the stallion
gave three neighs,—a neigh of lamentation, a neigh of loyalty, and a
neigh of gladness.

This stallion had the three qualities of Fin MacCool’s slim bay steed,—a
keen rush against a hill, a swift run on the level, a high running leap;
three qualities of the fox,—the gait of a fox gay and proud, a look
straight ahead taking in both sides and turning to no side, neat in his
tread on the road; three qualities of a bull,—a full eye, a thick neck, a
bold forehead.

They rode to the forest of the giants; and the moment they entered, the
giants sniffed them, and one of them cried out, “I find the smell of men
from Erin, their livers and lights for my supper of nights, their blood
for my morning dram, their jawbones for stepping-stones, and their shins
for hurleys. We think you are too big for one bite and too small for two
bites, and sooner or later we’ll have you out of the way.”

The Big Fool and three of the giants made at one another then; and he
didn’t leave a hand nor a foot of the three alive. He stood looking then
at his brother and the other giant. The young Gruagach was getting too
much from the giant; and he called out, “Dear born brother, give me some
aid, or the giant will put me out of the world.”

“I will give him,” said the Big Fool, “a blow of my fist that will drive
his head through the air.”

He ran to him then, gave the giant one blow under the jawbone, and sent
his head through the air. It is not known to man, woman, or child to this
day where the head stopped, or did it stop in any place.




THE KING’S SON AND THE WHITE-BEARDED SCOLOG.


Not in our time, nor the time of our fathers, but long ago, there lived
an old king in Erin. This king had but the one son, and the son had risen
up to be a fine strong hero; no man in the kingdom could stand before him
in combat.

The queen was dead, and the king was gloomy and bitter in himself because
old age was on him. The strength had gone from his limbs, and gladness
from his heart. No matter what people said, they could not drive sorrow
from him.

One day the king called up his son, and this is what he said to him, “You
are of age to marry. We cannot tell how long I’ll be here, and it would
cheer and delight me to see your wife; she might be a daughter to me in
my last days.”

“I am willing to obey you,” said the son; “but I know no woman that I
care for. I have never seen any one that I would marry.”

With that, the old king sent for a druid, and said, “You must tell where
my son can find the right bride for himself. You must tell us what woman
he should marry.”

“There is but one woman,” said the druid, “who can be the right wife for
your son, and she is the youngest daughter of the white-bearded scolog;
she is the wisest young woman in the world, and has the most power.”

“Where does her father live, and how are we to settle it?” asked the king
of the druid.

“I have no knowledge of the place where that scolog lives,” said the
druid, “and there is no one here who knows. Your son must go himself, and
walk the world till he finds the young woman. If he finds her and gets
her, he’ll have the best bride that ever came to a king’s son.”

“I am willing to go in search of the scolog’s daughter,” said the young
man, “and I’ll never stop till I find her.”

With that, he left his father and the druid, and never stopped till he
went to his foster-mother and told her the whole story,—told her the wish
of his father, and the advice the old druid had given him.

“My three brothers live on the road you must travel,” said the
foster-mother; “and the eldest one knows how to find that scolog, but
without the friendship of all of them, you’ll not be able to make the
journey. I’ll give you something that will gain their good-will for you.”

With that, she went to an inner room, and made three cakes of flour and
baked them. When the three were ready, she brought them out, and gave
them to the young man.

“When you come to my youngest brother’s castle,” said she, “he will rush
at you to kill you, but do you strike him on the breast with one of the
cakes; that minute he’ll be friendly, and give you good entertainment.
The second brother and the eldest will meet you like the youngest.”

On the following morning, the king’s son left a blessing with his
foster-mother, took one for the road from her, and went away carrying the
three cakes with him. He travelled that day with great swiftness over
hills and through valleys, past great towns and small villages, and never
stopped nor stayed till he came in the evening to a very large castle. In
he went, and inside was a woman before him.

“God save you!” said he to the woman.

“God save yourself!” said she; “and will you tell me what brought you the
way, and where are you going?”

“I came here,” said the king’s son, “to see the giant of this castle, and
to speak with him.”

“Be said by me,” replied the woman, “and go away out of this without
waiting for the giant.”

“I will not go without seeing him,” said the king’s son. “I have never
set eyes on a giant, and I’ll see this one.”

“I pity you,” said the woman; “your time is short in this life. You’ll
not be long without seeing the giant, and it’s not much you’ll see in
this world after setting eyes on him; and it would be better for you to
take a drink of wine to give you strength before he comes.”

The king’s son had barely swallowed the wine when he heard a great noise
beyond the castle.

“Fee, faw, foh!” roared some one, in a thundering voice.

The king’s son looked out; and what should he see but the giant with a
shaggy goat going out in front of him and another coming on behind, a
dead hag above on his shoulder, a great hog of a wild boar under his left
arm, and a yellow flea on the club which he held in his right hand before
him.

“I don’t know will I blow you into the air or put my foot on you,” said
the giant, when he set eyes on the king’s son. With that, he threw his
load to the ground, and was making at his visitor to kill him when the
young man struck the giant on the breast with one of the three cakes
which he had from the foster-mother.

That minute the giant knew who was before him, and called out, “Isn’t it
the fine welcome I was giving my sister’s son from Erin?”

With that, he changed entirely, and was so glad to see the king’s son
that he didn’t know what to do for him or where to put him. He made a
great feast that evening; the two ate and drank with contentment and
delight. The giant was so pleased with the king’s son that he took him
to his own bed. He wasn’t three minutes in the bed when he was sound
asleep and snoring. With every breath that the giant took in, he drew
the king’s son into his mouth and as far as the butt of his tongue; with
every breath that he sent out, he drove him to the rafters of the castle,
and the king’s son was that way going up and down between the bed and the
roof until daybreak, when the giant let a breath out of him, and closed
his mouth; next moment the king’s son was down on his lips.

“What are you doing to me?” cried the giant.

“Nothing,” said the king’s son; “but you didn’t let me close an eye all
the night. With every breath you let out of you, you drove me up to the
rafters; and with every breath you took in, you drew me into your mouth
and as far as the butt of your tongue.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“How could I wake you when time failed me to do it?”

“Oh, then, sister’s son from Erin,” said the giant, “it’s the poor
night’s rest I gave you; but if you had a bad bed, you must have a good
breakfast.”

With that, the giant rose, and the two ate the best breakfast that could
be had out of Erin.

After breakfast, the king’s son took the giant’s blessing with him, and
left his own behind. He travelled all that day with great speed and
without halt or rest, till he came in the evening to the castle of the
second giant. In front of the door was a pavement of sharp razors, edges
upward, a pavement which no man could walk on. Long, poisonous needles,
set as thickly as bristles in a brush, were fixed, points downward, under
the lintel of the door, and the door was low.

The king’s son went in with one start over the razors and under the
needles, without grazing his head or cutting his feet. When inside, he
saw a woman before him.

“God save you!” said the king’s son.

“God save yourself!” said the woman.

The same conversation passed between them then as passed between himself
and the woman in the first castle.

“God help you!” said the woman, when she heard his story. “’Tis not
long you’ll be alive after the giant comes. Here’s a drink of wine to
strengthen you.”

Barely had he the wine swallowed when there was a great noise behind
the castle, and the next moment the giant came in with a thundering and
rattling.

“Who is this that I see?” asked he, and with that, he sprang at the
stranger to put the life out of him; but the king’s son struck him on the
breast with the second cake which he got from his foster-mother. That
moment the giant knew him, and called out, “A strange welcome I had for
you, sister’s son from Erin, but you’ll get good treatment from me now.”

The giant and the king’s son made three parts of that night. One part
they spent in telling tales, the second in eating and drinking, and the
third in sound, sweet slumber.

Next morning the young man went away after breakfast, and never stopped
till he came to the castle of the third giant; and a beautiful castle
it was, thatched with the down of cotton grass, the roof was as white
as milk, beautiful to look at from afar or near by. The third giant was
as angry at meeting him as the other two; but when he was struck in the
breast with the third cake, he was as kind as the best man could be.

When they had taken supper together, the giant said to his sister’s son,
“Will you tell me what journey you are on?”

“I will, indeed,” said the king’s son; and he told his whole story from
beginning to end.

“It is well that you told me,” said the giant, “for I can help you; and
if you do what I tell, you’ll finish your journey in safety. At midday
to-morrow you’ll come to a lake; hide in the rushes that are growing
at one side of the water. You’ll not be long there when twelve swans
will alight near the rushes and take the crests from their heads; with
that, the swan skins will fall from them, and they will rise up the most
beautiful women that you have ever set eyes on. When they go in to bathe,
take the crest of the youngest, put it in your bosom next the skin, take
the eleven others and hold them in your hand. When the young women come
out, give the eleven crests to their owners; but when the twelfth comes,
you’ll not give her the crest unless she carries you to her father’s
castle in Ardilawn Dreeachta (High Island of Enchantment). She will
refuse, and say that strength fails her to carry you, and she will beg
for the crest. Be firm, and keep it in your bosom; never give it up till
she promises to take you. She will do that when she sees there is no help
for it.”

Next morning the king’s son set out after breakfast, and at midday he was
hidden in the rushes. He was barely there when the swans came. Everything
happened as the giant had said, and the king’s son followed his counsels.

When the twelve swans came out of the lake, he gave the eleven crests
to the older ones, but kept the twelfth, the crest of the youngest, and
gave it only when she promised to carry him to her father’s. The moment
she put the crest on her head, she was in love with the king’s son. When
she came in sight of the island, however much she loved him when they
started from the lakeside, she loved him twice as much now. She came to
the ground at some distance from the castle, and said to the young man at
parting,—

“Thousands of kings’ sons and champions have come to give greeting to
my father at the door of his castle, but every man of them perished.
You will be saved if you obey me. Stand with your right foot inside the
threshold and your left foot outside; put your head under the lintel. If
your head is inside, my father will cut it from your shoulders; if it is
outside, he will cut it off also. If it is under the lintel when you cry
‘God save you!’ he’ll let you go in safety.”

They parted there; she went to her own place and he went to the scolog’s
castle, put his right foot inside the threshold, his left foot outside,
and his head under the lintel. “God save you!” called he to the scolog.

“A blessing on you!” cried the scolog, “but my curse on your teacher.
I’ll give you lodgings to-night, and I’ll come to you myself in the
morning;” and with that he sent a servant with the king’s son to a
building outside. The servant took a bundle of straw with some turf and
potatoes, and, putting these down inside the door, said, “Here are bed,
supper, and fire for you.”

The king’s son made no use of food or bed, and he had no need of them,
for the scolog’s daughter came soon after, spread a cloth, took a small
bundle from her pocket, and opened it. That moment the finest food and
drink were there before them.

The king’s son ate and drank with relish, and good reason he had after
the long journey. When supper was over, the young woman whittled a small
shaving from a staff which she brought with her; and that moment the
finest bed that any man could have was there in the room.

“I will leave you now,” said she; “my father will come early in the
morning to give you a task. Before he comes, turn the bed over; ’twill be
a shaving again, and then you can throw it into the fire. I will make you
a new bed to-morrow.”

With that, she went away, and the young man slept till daybreak. Up he
sprang, then turned the bed over, made a shaving of it, and burned it.
It was not long till the scolog came, and this is what he said to the
king’s son, “I have a task for you to-day, and I hope you will be able to
do it. There is a lake on my land not far from this, and a swamp at one
side of it. You are to drain that lake and dry the swamp for me, and have
the work finished this evening; if not, I will take the head from you
at sunset. To drain the lake, you are to dig through a neck of land two
miles in width; here is a good spade, and I’ll show you the place where
you’re to use it.”

The king’s son went with the scolog, who showed the ground, and then left
him.

“What am I to do?” said the king’s son. “Sure, a thousand men couldn’t
dig that land out in ten years, and they working night and day; how am I
to do it between this and sunset?”

However it was, he began to dig; but if he did, for every sod he threw
out, seven sods came in, and soon he saw that, in place of mending his
trouble, ’twas making it worse he was. He cast aside the spade then, sat
down on the sod heap, and began to lament. He wasn’t long there when the
scolog’s daughter came with a cloth in her hand and the small bundle in
her pocket.

“Why are you lamenting there like a child?” asked she of the king’s son.

“Why shouldn’t I lament when the head will be taken from me at sunset?”

“’Tis a long time from this to sunset. Eat your breakfast first of all;
see what will happen then,” said she. Taking out the little bundle, she
put down before him the best breakfast a man could have. While he was
eating, she took the spade, cut out one sod, and threw it away. When she
did that, every spadeful of earth in the neck of land followed the first
spadeful; the whole neck of land was gone, and before midday there wasn’t
a spoonful of water in the lake or the swamp,—the whole place was dry.

“You have your head saved to-day, whatever you’ll do to-morrow,” said
she, and she left him.

Toward evening the scolog came, and, meeting the king’s son, cried out,
“You are the best man that ever came the way, or that ever I expected to
look at.”

The king’s son went to his lodging. In the evening the scolog’s daughter
came with supper, and made a bed for him as good as the first one. Next
morning the king’s son rose at daybreak, destroyed his bed, and waited to
see what would happen.

The scolog came early, and said, “I have a field outside, a mile long
and a mile wide, with a very tall tree in the middle of it. Here are two
wedges, a sharp axe, and a fine new drawing knife. You are to cut down
the tree, and make from it barrels to cover the whole field. You are to
make the barrels and fill them with water before sunset, or the head will
be taken from you.”

The king’s son went to the field, faced the tree, and gave it a blow with
his axe; but if he did, the axe bounded back from the trunk, struck him
on the forehead, stretched him on the flat of his back, and raised a lump
on the place where it hit him. He gave three blows, was served each time
in the same way, and had three lumps on his forehead. He was rising from
the third blow, the life almost gone from him, and he crying bitterly,
when the scolog’s daughter came with his breakfast. While he was eating
the breakfast, she struck one little chip from the tree; that chip became
a barrel, and then the whole tree turned into barrels, which took their
places in rows, and covered the field. Between the rows there was just
room for a man to walk. Not a barrel but was filled with water. From a
chip she had in her hand, the young woman made a wooden dipper, from
another chip she made a pail, and said to the king’s son,—

“You’ll have these in your two hands, and be walking up and down between
the rows of barrels, putting a little water into this and a little into
that barrel. When my father comes, he will see you at the work and invite
you to the castle to-night, but you are not to go with him. You will
say that you are content to lodge to-night where you lodged the other
nights.” With that, she went away, and the king’s son was going around
among the barrels pouring a little water into one and another of them,
when the scolog came.

“You have the work done,” said he, “and you must come to the castle for
the night.”

“I am well satisfied to lodge where I am, and to sleep as I slept since I
came here,” said the young man, and the scolog left him.

The young woman brought the supper, and gave a fresh bed. Next morning
the scolog came the third time, and said, “Come with me now; I have a
third task for you.” With that, the two went to a quarry.

“Here are tools,” said the scolog, pointing to a crowbar, a pickaxe, a
trowel, and every implement used in quarrying and building. “You are to
quarry stones to-day, and build between this and sunset the finest and
largest castle in the world, with outhouses and stables, with cellars and
kitchens. There must be cooks, with men and women to serve; there must
be dishes and utensils of every kind and furniture of every description;
not a thing is to be lacking, or the head will go from you this evening
at sunset.”

The scolog went home; and the king’s son began to quarry with crowbar and
pickaxe, and though he worked hard, the morning was far gone when he had
three small pieces of stone quarried. He sat down to lament.

“Why are you lamenting this morning?” asked the scolog’s daughter, who
came now with his breakfast.

“Why shouldn’t I lament when the head will be gone from me this evening?
I am to quarry stones, and build the finest castle in the world before
sunset. Ten thousand men couldn’t do the work in ten years.”

“Take your breakfast,” said the young woman; “you’ll see what to do after
that.”

While he was eating, she quarried one stone; and the next moment every
stone in the quarry that was needed took its place in the finest and
largest castle ever built, with outhouses and cellars and kitchens. A
moment later, all the people were there, men and women, with utensils
of all kinds. Everything was finished but a small spot at the principal
fireplace.

“The castle is ready,” said the scolog’s daughter; “your head will stay
with you to-day, and there are no more tasks before you at present. Here
is a trowel and mortar; you will be finishing this small spot at the fire
when my father comes. He will invite you to his castle to-night, and you
are to go with him this time. After dinner, he will seat you at a table,
and throw red wheat on it from his pocket. I have two sisters older than
I am; they and I will fly in and alight on the table in the form of three
pigeons, and we’ll be eating the wheat; my father will tell you to choose
one of his three daughters to marry. You’ll know me by this: there will
be a black quill in one of my wings. I’ll show it; choose me.”

All happened as the scolog’s daughter said; and when the king’s son was
told to make his choice in the evening, he chose the pigeon that he
wanted. The three sprang from the table, and when they touched the floor,
they were three beautiful women. A dish priest and a wooden clerk were
brought to the castle, and the two were married that evening.

A month passed in peace and enjoyment; but the king’s son wished to go
back now to Erin to his father. He told the wife what he wanted; and this
is what she said to him, “My father will refuse you nothing. He will
tell you to go, though he doesn’t wish to part with you. He will give you
his blessing; but this is all pretence, for he will follow us to kill us.
You must have a horse for the journey, and the right horse. He will send
a man with you to three fields. In the first field are the finest horses
that you have ever laid eyes on; take none of them. In the second field
are splendid horses, but not so fine as in the first field; take none of
these either. In the third field, in the farthest corner, near the river,
is a long-haired, shaggy, poor little old mare; take that one. The old
mare is my mother. She has great power, but not so much as my father, who
made her what she is, because she opposed him. I will meet you beyond the
hill, and we shall not be seen from the castle.”

The king’s son brought the mare; and when they mounted her, wings came
from her sides, and she was the grandest steed ever seen. Away she flew
over mountains, hills, and valleys, till they came to the seashore, and
then they flew over the sea.

When the servant man went home, and the scolog knew what horse they had
chosen, he turned himself and his two daughters into red fire, and shot
after the couple. No matter how swiftly the mare moved, the scolog
travelled faster, and was coming up. When the three reached the opposite
shore of the sea, the daughter saw her father coming, and turned the
mare into a small boat, the king’s son into a fisherman, and made a
fishing-rod of herself. Soon the scolog came, and his two daughters with
him.

“Have you seen a man and a woman passing the way riding on a mare?” asked
he of the fisherman.

“I have,” said the fisherman. “You’ll soon overtake them.”

On went the scolog; and he never stopped till he raced around the whole
world, and came back to his own castle.

“Oh, then, we were the fools,” said the scolog to his daughters. “Sure,
they were the fisherman, the boat, and the rod.”

Off they went a second time in three balls of red fire; and they
were coming near again when the scolog’s youngest daughter made a
spinning-wheel of her mother, a bundle of flax of herself, and an old
woman of her husband. Up rushed the scolog, and spoke to the spinner,
“Have you seen a mare pass the way and two on her back?” asked he.

“I have, indeed,” said the old woman; “and she is not far ahead of you.”

Away rushed the scolog; and he never stopped till he raced around the
whole world, and came back to his own castle a second time.

“Oh, but we were the fools!” said the scolog. “Sure, they were the old
woman with the spinning-wheel and the flax, and they are gone from us
now; for they are in Erin, and we cannot take our power over the border,
nor work against them unless they are outside of Erin. There is no use in
our following them; we might as well stay where we are.”

The scolog and his daughters remained in the castle at Ardilawn of
Enchantment; but the king’s son rode home on the winged mare, with his
wife on a pillion behind him.

When near the castle of the old king in Erin, the couple dismounted, and
the mare took her own form of a woman. She could do that in Erin. The
three never stopped till they went to the old king. Great was the welcome
before them; and if ever there was joy in a castle, there was joy then in
that one.




DYEERMUD ULTA AND THE KING IN SOUTH ERIN.


There was a king in South Erin once, and he had an only daughter of
great beauty. The daughter said that she would marry no man but the man
who would sail to her father’s castle in a three-masted ship, and the
castle was twenty miles from deep water. The father said that even if
the daughter was willing, he’d never give her to any man but the man who
would come in a ship.

Dyeermud Ulta was the grandson of a great man from Spain who had settled
in Erin, and he lived near Kilcar. Dyeermud heard of the daughter of the
king in South Erin, and fixed in his mind to provide such a ship and go
to the castle of the king.

Dyeermud left home one day, and was walking toward Killybegs, thinking
how to find such a ship, or the man who would make it. When he had gone
as far as Buttermilk Cliff, he saw a red champion coming against him in a
ship that was sailing along over the country like any ship on the sea.

“What journey are you on?” asked the red champion of Dyeermud; “and where
are you going?”

“I am going,” answered Dyeermud, “to the castle of a king in South
Erin to know will he give me his daughter in marriage, and to know if
the daughter herself is willing to marry me. The daughter will have no
husband unless a man who brings a ship to her father’s castle, and the
king will give her to no other.”

“Come with me,” said the red man. “Take me as comrade, and what will you
give me.”

“I will give you what is right,” said Dyeermud.

“What will you give me?”

“I will give you the worth of your trouble.”

Dyeermud went in the ship, and they sailed on till they came to Conlun,
a mile above Killybegs. There they saw twelve men cutting sods, and a
thirteenth eating every sod that they cut.

“You must be a strange man to eat what sods twelve others can cut for
you,” said Dyeermud; “what is your name?”

“Sod-eater.”

“We are going,” said the red man, “to the castle of a king in South Erin.
Will you come with us?”

“What wages will you give me?”

“Five gold-pieces,” said the red man.

“I will go with you.”

The three sailed on till they came to the river Kinvara, one mile below
Killybegs, and saw a man with one foot on each bank, with his back toward
the sea and his face to the current. The man did not let one drop of
water in the river pass him, but drank every drop of it.

“Oh,” said the red man, “what a thirst there is on you to drink a whole
river! How are you so thirsty?”

“When I was a boy, my mother used to send me to school, and I did not
wish to go there. She flogged and beat me every day, and I cried and
lamented so much that a black spot rose on my heart from the beating;
that is why there is such thirst on me now.”

“What is your name, and will you go with us?”

“My name is Gulping-a-River. I will go with you if you give me wages.”

“I will give you five gold-pieces,” said the red man.

“I will go with you,” said Gulping-a-River.

They sailed on then to Howling River, within one mile of Dun Kinealy.
There they saw a man blowing up stream with one nostril, and the other
stopped with a plug.

“Why blow with one nostril?” asked the red man.

“If I were to blow with the two,” replied the stranger, “I would send you
with your ship and all that are in it up into the sky and so far away
that you would never come back again.”

“Who are you, and will you take service with me?”

“My name is Greedy-of-Blowing, and I will go with you for wages.”

“You will have five gold-pieces.”

“I am your man,” said Greedy-of-Blowing.

They sailed away after that to Bunlaky, a place one mile beyond Dun
Kinealy; and there they found a man crushing stones with the end of his
back, by sitting down on them suddenly.

“What are you doing there?” asked the red man.

“My name is Ironback,” answered the stranger. “I am breaking stones with
the end of my back to make a mill, a bridge, and a road.”

“Will you come with us?” asked the red man.

“I will for just wages,” said Ironback.

“You will get five gold-pieces.”

“I will go in your company,” said Ironback.

They went on sailing, and were a half a mile below Mount Charles when
they saw a man running up against them faster than any wind, and one leg
tied to his shoulder.

“Where are you going, and what is your hurry? Why are you travelling on
one leg?” asked the red man.

“I am running to find a master,” said the other. “If I were to go on my
two legs, no man could see me or set eyes on me.”

“What can you do? I may take you in service.”

“I am a very good messenger. My name is Foot-on-Shoulder.”

“I will give you five gold pieces.”

“I will go with you,” said the other.

The ship moved on now, and never stopped till within one mile of Donegal
they saw, at a place called Kilemard, a man lying in a grass field with
his cheek to the earth.

“What are you doing there?” asked the red man.

“Holding my ear to the ground, and hearing the grass grow.”

“You must have good ears. What is your name; and will you take service
with me?”

“My name is Hearing Ear. I will go with you for good wages.”

“You will have five gold-pieces.”

“I am your man,” said Hearing Ear.

They went next to Laihy, where they found a man named Fis Wacfis (Wise
man, Son of Knowledge), and he sitting at the roadside chewing his thumb.

“What are you doing there?” asked the red man.

“I am learning whatever I wish to know by chewing my thumb.”

“Take service with me, and come on the ship.”

He went on the same terms as the others, and they never stopped nor
halted till they came to the castle of the king. They were outside the
walls three days and three nights before any man spoke a word to them. At
last the king sent a messenger to ask who were they and what brought them.

“I have come in a ship for your daughter, and my name is Dyeermud Ulta,”
was the answer the king got.

The king was frightened at the answer, though he knew himself well enough
that it was for the daughter Dyeermud had come in the ship, and was
greatly in dread that she would be taken from him. He went then to an old
henwife that lived near the castle to know could he save the daughter,
and how could he save her.

“If you’ll be said by me,” said the henwife, “you’ll bid them all come to
a feast in the castle. Before they come, let your men put sharp poisoned
spikes under the cushions of the seats set apart for the company. They
will sit on the spikes, swell up to the size of a horse, and die before
the day is out, every man of them.”

Hearing Ear was listening, heard all the talk between the king and the
henwife, and told it.

“Now,” said Fis Wacfis to Dyeermud, “the king will invite us all to a
feast to-morrow, and you will go there and take us. It is better to send
Ironback to try our seats, and sit on them, for under the cushion of each
one will be poisoned spikes to kill us.”

That day the king sent a message to Dyeermud. “Will you come,” said he,
“with your men, to a feast in my castle to-morrow? I am glad to have such
guests, and you are welcome.”

“Very thankful am I,” said Dyeermud. “We will come to the feast.”

Before the company came, Ironback went into the hall of feasting, looked
at everything, sat down on each place, and made splinters of the seats.

“Those seats are of no use,” said Ironback; “they are no better than so
many cabbage stalks.”

The king had iron seats brought in, strong ones. There was no harm to
Dyeermud and his company from that feast.

Away went the king to the henwife, and told how the seats had been
broken. “What am I to do now?” asked he.

“Say that to get your daughter they must eat what food is in your castle
at one meal.”

Next day Dyeermud went to the castle, and asked, “Am I to have your
daughter now?”

“You are not,” said the king, “unless your company will eat what food is
in my castle at one meal.”

“Very well,” said Dyeermud; “have the meal ready.”

The king gave command to bring out the hundred and fifty tons of
provisions in the castle all prepared and ready for eating.

Dyeermud came with his men, and Sod-eater began; and it was as much as
all the king’s servants could do to bring food as fast as he ate it, and
he never stopped till there wasn’t a pound of the hundred and fifty tons
left.

“Is this all you have to give me?” asked Sod-eater. “I could eat three
times as much.”

“Oh, we have no more,” said the servants.

“Where is our dinner?” asked Dyeermud.

The king had nothing for the others, and he had nothing for himself.
All had to go away hungry, and there was great dissatisfaction in the
castle, and complaining.

The king had nothing to do now but to go to the henwife a third time for
advice in his trouble.

“You have,” said she, “three hundred and fifty pipes of wine. If his
company cannot drink every drop of the wine, don’t give him the daughter.”

Next day Dyeermud went to the castle. “Am I to have the daughter now?”
asked he of the king.

“I will not give my daughter,” said the king, “unless you and your
company will drink the three hundred and fifty pipes of wine that are in
my castle.”

“Bring out the wine,” said Dyeermud; “we’ll come to-morrow, and do the
best we can to drink it.”

Dyeermud and his men went next day to where the wine was. Gulping-a-River
was the man for drinking, and they let him at it. After he got a taste,
he was that anxious that he broke in the head of one pipe after another,
and drank till there wasn’t a drop left in the three hundred and fifty
pipes. All the wine did was to put thirst on Gulping-a-River; and he was
that mad with thirst that he drank up the spring well at the castle, and
all the springs in the neighborhood, and a loch three miles distant, so
that in the evening there wasn’t a drop of water for man or beast in the
whole place.

What did the king do but go to the henwife the fourth time.

“Oh,” said she, “there is no use in trying to get rid of him this way;
you can make no hand of Dyeermud by eating or drinking. Do you send him
now to the Eastern World to get the bottle of cure from the three sons
of Sean [pronounced Shawn,—John] Mac Glinn, and to have it at the castle
before noon to-morrow.”

“Am I to get the daughter now?” asked Dyeermud of the king.

“You’ll not get my daughter,” said the king, “unless you have for me here
to-morrow the bottle of cure which the three sons of Sean Mac Glinn have
in the Eastern World.”

Dyeermud went to his ship with the king’s answer.

“Let me go,” said Foot-on-Shoulder. “I will bring you the bottle in
season.”

“You may go,” said Dyeermud.

Away went Foot-on-Shoulder, and was at the sea in a minute. He made a
ship of his cap, a mast of his stick, a sail of his shirt, and away with
him sailing over the sea, never stopping nor halting till he reached the
Eastern World.

In five hours, he came to a castle where the walls of defence were
sixty-six feet high and fifty-five feet thick. Sean Mac Glinn’s three
sons were playing football on the top of the wall.

“Send down the bottle of cure to me,” said Foot-on-Shoulder, “or I’ll
have your lives.”

“We will not give you the bottle of cure; and if you come up, it will be
as hard to find your brains five minutes after as to find the clay of a
cabin broken down a hundred years ago.”

Foot-on-Shoulder made one spring, and rose six feet above the wall. They
were so frightened at the sight of what he did, and were so in dread of
him that they cried, “You’ll get what you want, only spare us,—leave us
our lives. You are the best man that we have ever seen coming from any
part; you have done what no man could ever do before this. You’ll get the
bottle of cure; but will you send it back again?”

“I will not promise that,” said Foot-on-Shoulder; “I may send it, and I
may not.”

They gave him the bottle, he went his way to his ship, and sailed home
to Erin. Next morning the henwife dressed herself up as a piper, and,
taking a rod of enchantment with her, went away, piping on a hill which
Foot-on-Shoulder had to cross in coming to the castle. She thought he
would stop to listen to the music she was making, and then she would
strike him with the rod, and make a stone of him. She was piping away
for herself on the hill like any poor piper making his living. Hearing
Ear heard the music, and told Dyeermud. Fis Wacfis chewed his thumb at
Dyeermud’s command, and found out that the piper was the king’s henwife,
and discovered her plans.

“Oh,” said Fis Wacfis to Dyeermud, “unless you take her out of that, she
will make trouble for us.”

“Greedy-of-Blowing, can you make away with that old woman on the hill?”
asked Dyeermud.

“I can indeed,” said Greedy-of-Blowing.

With that, he ran to the foot of the hill; and with one blast from both
nostrils, he sent the old hag up into the sky, and away she went sailing
so that neither tale nor word of her ever came back.

Foot-on-Shoulder was at the ship outside the castle walls half an hour
before noon, and gave the bottle of cure to Dyeermud. Dyeermud went that
minute to the castle, and stood before the king.

“Here is the bottle of cure which I got from the three sons of Sean Mac
Glinn in the Eastern World. Am I to get the daughter now?”

“I’ll send you my answer to the ship,” said the king.

Where should the king go now in his trouble but to find the henwife.
She was not at home. He sent men to look for the old woman; no tidings
of her that day. They waited till the next day; not a sight of her. The
following morning the king sent servants and messengers to look for the
henwife. They searched the whole neighborhood; could not find her. He
sent all his warriors and forces. They looked up and down, searched the
whole kingdom, searched for nine days and nights, but found no trace of
the henwife.

The king consented at last to give the daughter to Dyeermud, and he had
to consent, and no thanks to him, for he couldn’t help himself. The
daughter was glad and willing; she loved Dyeermud from the first, but the
father would not part with her.

The wedding lasted a day and a year, and when that time was over,
Dyeermud went home on the ship to Kilcar, and there he paid all his men
their wages, and they went each to his own place.

The red man stayed sometime in the neighborhood, and what should he do
one day but seize Dyeermud’s wife, put her in the ship, and sail away
with her. When going, she put him under injunction not to marry her for a
day and a year.

Now Dyeermud, who was hunting when the red man stole his wife, was in
great grief and misery, for he knew not where the red man lived nor where
he should travel to find him. At last he sent a message of inquiry to the
King of Spain; and the king’s answer was, “Only two persons in the whole
world know where that man lives, Great Limper, King of Light, and Black
Thorn of Darkness. I have written to these two, and told them to go to
you.”

The two men came in their own ship through the air to Kilcar, to
Dyeermud, and talked and took counsel.

“I do not know where the red man can be,” said Black Thorn, “unless in
Kilchroti; let us go to that place.”

They sailed away in their ship, and it went straight to the place they
wanted. They had more power than the red man, and could send their ship
anywhere.

In five days and nights they were at Kilchroti. They went straight to the
house, and no one in the world could see the red man’s house there but
these two. Black Thorn struck the door, and it flew open. The red man,
who was inside, took their hands, welcomed them heartily, and said, “I
hope it is not to do me harm that ye are here.”

“It is not to harm you or any one that we are here,” replied they. “We
are here only to get what is right and just, but without that, we will
not go from this.”

“What is the right and just that ye are here for?” asked the red man.

“Dyeermud’s wife,” replied Black Thorn, “and it was wrong in you to take
her; you must give her up.”

“I will fight rather than give her,” said the red man.

“Fighting will not serve you,” said Black Thorn, “it is better for you to
give her to us.”

“Ye will not get her without seven tons of gold,” said the red man. “If
ye bring me the gold, I will give her to you. If ye come without it,
ye’ll get fight from me.”

“We will give you the gold,” said Great Limper, “within seven days.”

“Agreed,” said the red man.

“Come to the ship,” said Great Limper to Black Thorn.

They went on board, and sailed away.

“I was once on a ship which was wrecked on the coast of Spain with
forty-five tons of gold. I know where that gold is; we will get it,” said
Great Limper.

The two sailed to where the gold was, took seven tons of it, and on the
sixth day they had it in Kilchroti, in front of the red man’s house. They
weighed out the gold to him. They went then to find Dyeermud’s wife. She
was behind nine doors; each door was nine planks in thickness, and bolted
with nine bars of iron. The red man opened the doors; all went in, and
looked at the chamber. The woman went out first, next the red man; and,
seizing the door, he thought to close it on Great Limper and Black Thorn,
but Black Thorn was too quick for him, and before the red man could close
the door he shot him, first with a gold and then with a silver bullet.

The red man fell dead on the threshold.

“I knew he was preparing some treachery,” said Black Thorn. “When we
weighed the gold to him, he let such a loud laugh of delight out of him.”

They took the woman and the gold to Dyeermud; they stayed nine days and
nights with him in Kilcar, eating, drinking, and making merry. They
drank to the King of Spain, to all Erin, to themselves, and to their
well-wishers. You see, I had great work to keep up with them these nine
days and nights. I hope they will do well hereafter.




CUD, CAD, AND MICAD, THREE SONS OF THE KING OF URHU.


There was a king once in Urhu, and he had three sons. The eldest was
three, the second two, the youngest one year old. Their names were Cud,
Cad, and Micad. The three brothers were playing one day near the castle,
which was hard by the seashore; and Cud ran in to his father, and said,
“I hope you will give me what I ask.”

“Anything you ask that I can give you will get,” said the father.

“’Tis all I ask,” said Cud, “that you will give me and my brothers one of
your ships to sail in till evening.”

“I will give you that and welcome, but I think you and they are too weak
to go on a ship.”

“Let us be as we are; we’ll never go younger,” said Cud.

The king gave the ship. Cud hurried out, and, catching Cad and Micad,
one under each of his arms, went with one spring to the best ship in
the roadstead. They raised the sails then, and the three brothers did
as good work as the best and largest crew. They left the harbor with
the fairest wind a ship ever had. The wind blew in a way that not a
cable was left without stretching, an oar without breaking, nor a helm
without cracking with all the speed the ship had. The water rose in three
terrible ridges, so that the rough gravel of the bottom was brought to
the top, and the froth of the top was driven down to the bottom of the
sea. The sight of the kingdom of the world soon sank from the eyes of the
brothers; and when they saw nothing but blue sea around them, a calm fell
on the water.

Cud was going back and forth on the deck, sorry for what was done; and a
good right he had to be sorry, but he was not sorry long. He saw a small
currachan (boat) a mile away, and went with one spring from his ship to
the currachan. The finest woman in the world was sleeping in the bottom
of the boat. He put a finger under her girdle, and went back with a
spring to the ship. When he touched his own deck, she woke.

“I put you under bonds and the misfortune of the world,” cried she, “to
leave me where you saw me first, and to be going ever and always till you
find me again.”

“What name am I to call you when I go in search of you?”

“The Cat of Fermalye, or the Swan of Endless Tales,” said the woman.

He took her with one spring to the little boat, and with another spring
went back to his own ship. Whatever good wind they had coming, they had
it twice better going home. In the evening the ship was anchored among
the others again. The brothers went ashore in a boat. When Cud came in,
his father put out a chair for him, and gave him great welcome. Cud sat
down; but as he did, he broke three rungs in the chair, two ribs in
himself, and a rafter in the roof of the castle.

“You were put under bonds to-day,” said the father.

“I was,” said Cud.

“What bonds?”

“To be going ever and always till I find the Cat of Fermalye, or the Swan
of Endless Tales.”

Himself and his father spent that night together, and they were very
sad and downhearted. As early as the dawn came, Cud rose and ate his
breakfast.

“Stay with me; I’ll give you half my kingdom now, and all when I die,”
said the father.

“I cannot stay under bonds; I must go,” replied Cud.

Cud took the ship he liked best, and put supplies for a day and seven
years in her.

“Now,” said the father, “ask for something else; anything in the world I
can give, I will give you.”

“I want nothing but my two brothers to go with me.”

“I care not where they go if yourself leaves me,” said the king.

The three brothers went aboard the ship; and if the wind was good the
first day, it was better this time. They never stopped nor rested till
they sailed to Fermalye. The three went on shore, and were walking the
kingdom. They had walked only a short piece of it when they saw a grand
castle. They went to the gate; Cud was just opening it when a cat came
out. The cat looked at Cud, bowed to him, and went her way. They saw
neither beast nor man in the castle, or near it; only a woman at the
highest window, and she sewing.

“We’ll not stop till we go as far as the woman,” said Cud.

The woman welcomed them when they came to her, put out a gold chair to
Cud and a wooden chair to each of his brothers.

“’Tis strange,” said Micad, “to show so much greater respect to one than
the other two.”

“No cause for wonder in that,” said the woman. “I show respect to this
one, for he is my brother-in-law.”

“We do not wonder now, but where is his wife?”

“She went out a cat when ye came in.”

“Oh, was that she?” cried Cud.

They spent the night with good cheer and plenty of food, the taste of
honey in every bit they ate, and no bit dry. As early as the day dawned,
the three rose, and the sister-in-law had their breakfast before them.

“Grief and sorrow, I’m in dread ’tis bad cooking ye have on the ship.
Take me with you; you’ll have better food.”

“Welcome,” said Cud. “Come with us.”

Each of the others welcomed her more than Cud. The four went on board;
the brothers raised sails, and were five days going when they saw a ship
shining like gold and coming from Western waters.

“That ship has no good appearance,” said Cud. “We must keep out of
danger;” and he took another course. Whatever course he took, the other
ship was before him always, and crossing him.

“Isn’t it narrow the ocean is, that you must be crossing me always?”
shouted Cud.

“Do not wonder,” cried a man from the other ship; “we heard that the
three sons of the King of Urhu were sailing on the sea, and if we find
them, it’s not long they’ll be before us.”

The three strangers were the three sons of the King of Hadone.

“If it is for these you are looking,” said Cud, “you need go no farther.”

“It is to find you that we are here,” said the man on the shining ship,
“to take you on a visit to our own kingdom for a day and seven years.
After that, we will go for the same length of time to your kingdom.”

“You will get that and welcome,” said Cud.

“Come on board my ship,” said the eldest son of the King of Hadone:
“we’ll make one company; your ship is not much to look at.”

“Of the food that our father gave us,” said Cud, “there is no bit dry,
and we have plenty on board. If it is dry food that you have in that big
ship, leave it and come to us.”

The sons of the King of Hadone went to the small ship, and let the big
one go with the wind. When Cud saw that they let their own ship go, he
made great friends of them.

“Have you been on sea ever before?” asked he of the eldest of the
strangers.

“I am on sea since I was of an age to walk by myself,” replied he.

“This is my first voyage,” said Cud. “Now as we are brothers and
friends, and as you are taking us to visit your kingdom, I’ll give you
command of my ship.”

The king’s son took this from Cud willingly, and steered home in a
straight course.

When the sons of the King of Hadone were leaving home, they commanded all
in the kingdom, big and little, small and great, weak and strong, to be
at the port before them when they came back with the sons of the King of
Urhu. “These,” said they, “must never be let out alive on the shore.”

In the first harbor the ship entered, the shore was black and white with
people.

“Why are all those people assembled?” asked Cud.

“I have no knowledge of that,” said the king’s son; “but if you’ll let
your two brothers go with me and my brothers, we’ll find out the reason.”

They anchored the ship, put down a long-boat, and Cad and Micad went into
it with the three sons of the King of Hadone. Cud and his sister-in-law
stayed behind on the ship. Cud never took his eyes off his brothers as
they sat in the boat. He watched them when near the shore, and saw them
both killed. With one bound he sprang from the bowsprit to land, and went
through all there as a hawk through small birds. Two hours had not passed
when the head was off every man in the kingdom. Whatever trouble he had
in taking the heads, he had twice as much in finding his brothers. When
he had the brothers found, it failed him to know how to bury them. At
last he saw on the beach an old ship with three masts. He pulled out the
masts, drew the ship further on land, and said to himself, “I will have
my brothers under this ship turned bottom upward, and come back to take
them whenever I can.”

He put the bodies on the ground, turned the ship over them, and went his
way.

The woman saw all the slaughter. “Never am I to see Cud alive,” thought
she, and fell dead from sorrow.

Cud took the woman to shore, and put her under the ship with his
brothers. He went to his ship then, sailed away alone, and never stopped
till he came to the kingdom where lived Mucan Mor Mac Ri na Sorach. Cud
went ashore, and while walking and looking for himself, he came to a
castle. He was wondering at the pole of combat, such a terribly big one,
and he gave a small blow to it. The messenger came out, and looked up and
down to know could he find the man who gave the blow. Not a soul could he
see but a white-haired young child standing near the pole. He went into
the castle again.

“Who struck the pole?” asked Mucan Mor.

“I saw no one but a small child with white hair; there is no danger from
him.”

Cud gave a harder blow.

“That blow is harder,” said Mucan Mor, “than any child can give. Go and
see who is in it.”

The man searched high and low, and it failed him to find any one but the
child.

“It would be a wonder if you are the one, you little child, that struck
the blow.”

“What harm,” said the little child, “if I gave the pole a touch?”

“Mucan Mor is going to dinner soon,” said the messenger; “and if you vex
him again, ’tis yourself that he’ll eat in place of the dinner.”

“Is dinner ready?” asked Cud.

“It is going to be left down,” was the answer he got.

When the man went in, Cud gave the pole a hard blow, and didn’t leave
calf, foal, lamb, kid, or child awaiting its birth, or a bag of poor oats
or rye, that didn’t turn five times to the left, and five to the right
with the fright that it got. He made such a noise and crash that dishes
were broken, knives hurled around, and the castle shaken to its bottom
stone. Mucan Mor himself was turned five times to the left and five to
the right before he could put the soles of his feet under him. When he
went out, and saw the small child, he asked, “Was it you that struck the
pole?”

“I gave it a little tip,” said Cud.

“You are a child of no sense to be lying so, and it is yourself that I’ll
eat for my supper.”

He thought he had only to take Cud into the castle, and roast him on the
spit. He went to catch the child; but if he did, the child faced him, and
soon they were fighting like two bulls in high grass. When it was very
late in the day, Mucan Mor rose up in a lump of fog, and Cud didn’t know
where he had gone.

All Cud had to do was to go to the forest, and gather twigs for a fire
to keep himself warm until morning. It wasn’t many twigs he had gathered
when twelve swans came near him.

“Love me!” said he. “I believe ye are the blessed birds that came from my
father’s kingdom to be food to relieve me in need.”

“Sorry am I that I have ever looked on you or you on me,” said one of the
swans; and the twelve rose and flew away.

Cud gathered the twigs for the fire, and dried the blood in his wounds.
In the morning, Mucan Mor struck his own pole of combat. He and Cud
faced each other, and fought till late in the day, when Mucan Mor rose
as a lump of fog in the air. Cud went to the forest as before to gather
twigs. It was few he had gathered when the twelve swans came again.

“Are ye the blessed birds from my own kingdom?” asked he.

“No,” said one of the swans; “but I put you under bonds not to turn me
away as you did last night.”

“As you put me under bonds,” said Cud, “I will not turn you away.”

The twelve began to gather twigs, and it wasn’t long till they had a
great fire made. One of the twelve sat at the fire then with Cud, and
said, “There is nothing in the world to kill Mucan Mor but a certain
apple. For the last three days I have been looking for that apple. I
found it to-day, and have it here for you. To-morrow you’ll be getting
the upper hand of Mucan Mor earlier than other days. He has no power to
rise as a fog until a given hour. When the time comes, he’ll raise his
two hands and be striving to go in the air. If you strike him then in the
right side in the ribs with the apple, you’ll make a green stone of him.
If you do not, he’ll come down and make a green stone of you.”

Cud took the apple, and had great thanks for the swan. She left down the
best food then before him. She had the food with her always. Glad was
he, for he was greatly in want of it after the fast of two days. She put
her own wing and head over his head and sheltered him till day break.
There wasn’t a wound on him next morning that wasn’t cured. As early as
the day dawned she roused him.

“Be up now,” said she, “and have the soles of your feet under you.”

He went first to the pole and struck a blow that took three turns out of
the stomach of Mucan Mor and three more out of his brain, before he could
stand on the soles of his feet, so great was the dread that came on him.

They fought the third day, and it wasn’t very late when Cud was getting
the upper hand. Mucan Mor raised his two arms toward the sky, striving to
escape in a fog from his enemy. Cud struck him then with the apple, and
made a green stone of him. Hardly had he Mucan Mor killed when he saw an
old hag racing up; she took one hill at a step and two at a leap.

“Your face and your health to you,” said the hag, when she stood before
Cud. “I am looking at you for three days, fighting without food or drink.
I hope that you’ll come with me now.”

“It’s long that you were thinking of asking me,” said he.

“I hope you’ll not refuse me,” said the hag.

“I will not,” replied Cud.

“Give me your hand,” said the hag, “and I’ll help you to walk.”

He took the hag’s hand. There wasn’t a jump that she gave while she had a
grip of his hand but he thought she was dragging the arm from him.

“Curses on you for an old hag! Is it little I have gone through that you
treat me in this way?”

“I have a cloth about my shoulders. Go into that, and I will carry you,”
said the hag.

There wasn’t a joint in the hag’s back that wasn’t three inches long.
When she had him on her back there wasn’t a leap that she gave that the
joints of her backbone were not going into Cud’s body.

“Hard luck to you for a hag, after all I have gone through to have me
killed at last.”

“You have not far to go now,” said she; and after a few leaps she was at
the end of her journey. She took him into a grand castle. The best table
of food that he had ever set eyes on was left down there before him.

“Sit there, now, son of the King of Urhu; eat and drink.”

“I have never taken food without company,” said Cud, “and I will not take
it this time.”

“Will you eat with me?”

“Bad luck to you for a hag, I will not.”

She opened a door and let in twelve pigs, and one pig, the thirteenth,
without a head.

“Will you take food with these, son of the King of Urhu?”

“Indeed, then, old hag, bad as you are yourself, I’d rather eat with you
than with these, and I’ll not eat with you.”

She put them back, opened another door and let out twelve of the
rustiest, foulest, ugliest old hags that man could set eyes on.

“Will you take food with these?” asked she.

“Indeed, then, I will not.”

She hurried them back, opened a door, and brought out twelve beautiful
young women.

“Will you take food with these?”

“These are fit to take food with any one,” said Cud.

They sat down and ate with good-will and pleasure. When they had the
dinner eaten the hag opened the door, and the twelve went back to their
own chamber.

“I’ll get great blame,” said the old hag, “for all the delay I’ve had.
I’ll be going now.”

“What trouble is on you that you’ll be blamed for your delay?”

“Those twelve pigs that you saw,” said the hag, “are twelve sons of
mine, and the pig without a head is my husband. Those twelve foul, yellow
hags that you saw are my twelve daughters. The twelve beautiful women who
ate with you are my daughters’ attendants.”

“Why are your twelve sons and your husband pigs, and your twelve
daughters yellow old hags?”

“The Awus in that house there beyond has them enchanted and held in
subjection. There isn’t a night but I must go with a gold apple to him.”

“I will go with you to-night,” said Cud.

“There is no use in going,” said the hag.

They were talking a long time before she would let him go. She went
first, and he followed. She knocked, and they opened the door. Cud was
in with her that instant. One Awus rose and put seven bolts and seven
locks on the door. Cud rose and put on seven locks and seven bolts more.
All began to laugh when they saw Cud doing this. The old chief, who was
standing at the hearth, let such a roar out of him that Cud saw the heart
inside in his body.

“Why are you laughing?” asked Cud.

“We think you a nice bit of meat to roast on the spit. Rise up,” said he
to a small attendant, “and tie that fellow.”

The attendant rose and tried to tie Cud, but soon Cud had him down and
tied.

“Bad luck to you, ’tis sorry I am that I ever lost food on the like of
you,” said the old chief to the small attendant. “Rise up,” said he to a
big attendant, “and tie him.”

The big one rose up, and whatever time the small one lasted, the big one
didn’t last half that length. Cud drew strings from his pocket and began
tying the Awuses. He caught the old Awus by the shins, dragged him down,
and put his knee on him.

“You are the best champion ever I have seen,” said the old Awus. “Give me
quarter for my soul; there is never a place where you need it but my help
will attend you with bravery. I’ll give you also my sword of light that
shines in the dark, my pot of cure that makes the dead alive, and the rod
of enchantment to help the pot of cure.”

“Where can I find them?” asked Cud.

“In a hole in the floor under the post of my bed. You cannot get them
without help.”

“It cannot be but I can do anything that has been done ever in your
house,” said Cud.

With that he went to the bed, and whatever work he had in his life he
never found a harder task than to move the post of the bed; but he found
the sword of light, the pot of cure, and the rod of enchantment. He came
to the Awus with the sword in one hand, and the two other things in the
other hand.

“The head off you now if you don’t take this hag and her family from
under enchantment. Make men and women of her sons and daughters, a king
of her husband, and a queen of herself in this kingdom, while water is
running, and grass is growing, and you are to go to them with a gold
apple every evening and morning as long as you live or any one lives who
comes after you to the end of all ages.”

“I will do that,” said the Awus.

He gave the word, and the hag was as fine a queen as she was before. She
and Cud went back to the castle. The twelve pigs were twelve young men,
and the thirteenth without a head was the king. She opened the chamber of
the twelve yellow hags, and they were as beautiful as ever. All were very
grateful to Cud for the good turn he had done them.

“I had one son,” said the queen; “while he was here he gave the old Awus
enough to do.”

“Where is he now?” inquired Cud.

“In the Eastern World, in a field seven miles in length, and seven in
width, and there isn’t a yard of that field in which a spike is not
standing taller than a man. There is not a spike, except one, without a
king’s son or a champion on it, impaled through his chin.”

“What name had your son?”

“Gold Boot.”

“I promise to bring Gold Boot here to you, or leave my own head on the
spike.”

As early as the day rose Cud was ready, and away he went walking, and
very little food had he with him. About midday he was at the enchanted
field, in the Eastern World. He was walking till he came to Gold Boot.
When he touched the body, the foot gave him a kick that sent him seven
acres and seven ridges away, and put three bunches of the blood of his
heart out of him.

“I believe what your mother said, that when you were living you were
strong, and the strength you have now to be in you.”

“Don’t think we are dead,” said Gold Boot; “we are not. It is how we are
enchanted and unable to rise out of this.”

“What put you in it?” asked Cud.

“A man will come out by and by with pipes, making music, and he’ll bring
so much sleep on you that he’ll put you on that empty spike, and the
field will be full. If you take my advice you will not wait for him.”

“My grief and my sorrow! I will never stir till I see all that is here,”
replied Cud.

It wasn’t long he was waiting when the piper came out, and the very first
sound that he heard Cud ran and caught the pipes; whatever music the man
was making, Cud played seven times better.

When Cud took the pipes, the piper ran crying into the castle where the
wizard was.

“What is on you?” asked the wizard.

“A man caught my pipes, and he is a twice better player than what I am.”

“Never mind that, take these with you; these are the pipes that won’t be
long in putting sleep on him.”

When Cud heard the first note of these pipes, he struck the old ones
against a stone, and ran and caught the new pipes. The piper rushed to
the wizard; the old man went out, threw himself on his knees, and begged
mercy.

“Never give him mercy,” said Gold Boot, “till he burns the hill that is
standing out opposite him.”

“You have no pardon to get till you set that hill there on fire,”
answered Cud.

“That is as bad for me as to lose my head,” said the wizard.

“That same is not far from you unless you do what I bid,” replied Cud.

Sooner than lose his head he lighted the hill. When the hill began to
burn, all the men except Gold Boot came from under enchantment as sound
as ever, and rose off the spikes. Every one was making away, and no one
asking who let him out. The hill was on fire except one spot in the
middle of it. Gold Boot was not stirring. “Why did you not make him set
all the hill on fire?” asked he.

“Why did you not set the whole hill on fire?” demanded Cud of the wizard.

“Is it not all on fire?”

“Do you see the centre is not burning yet?”

“To see that bit on fire,” said the wizard, “is as bad for me as to lose
the head itself.”

“That same is not far from you,” said Cud.

“Sooner than lose the head I will light it.”

That moment he lighted the hill, and Cud saw the very woman he saw the
first day sleeping in the little boat come toward him from the hill. He
forgot that he had seen Gold Boot or the enchanted hag and her sons. The
wizard, seeing this, stopped the centre fire, and Gold Boot was left on
the spike. Cud and the woman embraced till they smothered each other with
kisses and drowned each other with tears. After that they neither stopped
nor stayed till they reached his little ship and sailed away on it; they
never delayed till they came to where his two brothers and sister-in-law
were under the boat. Cud took out the three bodies, put a drop of the
cure on each one, and gave each a blow of the rod. They rose up in good
health and sound vigor. All entered the ship and sailed toward Urhu.

They had only the sailing of one day before them, when Cud recollected
his promise to bring Gold Boot to his mother.

“Take the wife to Fermalye,” said he to his brothers. “I must go for Gold
Boot; the king will give you food till I come. If you were to go to our
own father he’d think that it is dead I am.”

Cud drew out his knife, cut a slip from a stick; this he threw into the
sea. It became a ship, and away he sailed in that ship, and never stopped
till he entered the harbor next the enchanted field. When he came to
Gold Boot he gave him a drop of cure and a blow of the rod. He rose from
the spike, well and strong. The two embraced then, went to the ship, and
sailed away. They had not gone far when such a calm came that they cast
anchor near shore, and Gold Boot began to get dinner. It wasn’t long he
was at it when they saw food at the foot of a tree on the shore.

“Who would be getting trouble with cooking, and such food as that on the
shore?” said Gold Boot.

“Don’t mind that food,” replied Cud.

“Whatever I think of I do,” said Gold Boot.

He went to shore with one jump, caught the food, sprang back, and laid it
down for himself and Cud. When this was done there was food seven times
better on the land again.

“Who would taste of this, and that table over there?” cried Gold Boot.

“Never mind it,” said Cud. “If the man who owns this table was sleeping
when you took it, he is not sleeping now.”

“Whatever I think of I must do,” replied Gold Boot.

“If you did that before, I will do it now,” said Cud, and he sprang to
land. He looked up in the tree, and there he saw a man ready to take the
life from him.

“Grief and sorrow!” said the man. “I thought it was Gold Boot again. Take
this table, with welcome, but I hope you’ll invite me to dinner.”

“I will, indeed,” said Cud; “and what name am I to give you?”

“The Wet Mantle Champion.”

Cud took one end of the table and the champion the other. Out they went
to the ship with one bound. They sat down then together with Gold Boot
at the table. When dinner was over, the wind rose, and they sailed on,
never delaying till they came to the castle of Gold Boot’s father, where
there was a great welcome before them, and thanks beyond estimate.

“I will give you half my kingdom while I live and all of it when I die,”
said the king, “and the choice of my twelve daughters.”

“Many thanks to you,” replied Cud; “the promise of marriage is on me
already, but perhaps Wet Mantle is not married or promised.”

“I am not,” said Wet Mantle.

“You must have my chance,” said Cud.

Wet Mantle took Cud’s place, and the king sent for a big dish priest, and
a great wooden clerk. They came, and the couple were married. When the
three days’ wedding was over, Cud went away alone. While sailing near
land he saw a castle by the sea, and as he drew near he wondered more and
more. A raven was going in and out at the uppermost window, and each time
bringing out something white. Cud landed, walked up from the strand, and
went to the top of the castle. He saw a woman there, and the whole room
full of white pigeons. She was throwing them one by one from a loft to
the raven.

“Why do you throw those to the raven?” asked Cud of the woman.

“The raven is an enchanted brother of mine, who comes to this castle once
in seven years. I can see him only while I am throwing him pigeons. I get
as many pigeons as possible, to keep him with me while I can.”

“Keep him for a while yet,” said Cud.

He rushed to the ship, took his rod, and ran to the loft where the woman
was. “Entice him in further,” said Cud.

Cud struck the raven a blow, and he rose up as fine a champion as ever
was seen.

“Your blow on me was good,” said the champion, “and ’tis work you have
now before you. Your two brothers are killed and under seven feet of
earth in Fermalye. Your wife and her sister are to their knees in foul
water and filth in the stable, and are getting two mouthfuls of water,
and two of bread in the day till they die.”

Cud did not wait to hear more of the story. Away he went, and never
stopped till he came to Fermalye. When he was coming to the castle all
the children he met he was throwing at each other, he was so vexed. He
took the wife and sister out of the stable, then dug up the brothers and
brought them to life with the rod. The five made no delay after that, but
went to the ship and sailed to Urhu. When near land he raised white flags
on every mast.

“A ship is coming!” cried a messenger, running to the king. “I am
thinking it is Cud that is in it.”

“That’s what I will never believe,” said the king, “till he puts his hand
into my hand.”

Since Cud left home, the father and mother had never risen from the
fireside, but were sitting there always and crying. When the ship was
three miles from land, Cud ran from the stern to the stem, sprang to
land, ran into the castle, gave one hand to his mother, and the other to
his father.

It wasn’t one boat, but boats, that went out to the ship for the brothers
and the women. When they came, all spent the night with great pleasure
in the castle. Next day the king sent seven score of ships and one ship
to sea to bring supplies for the wedding. When the ships came back laden
from foreign parts, he sent messengers to invite all the people in the
kingdom. They were coming till they blackened the hills and spotted the
valleys. I was there myself, and we spent nine nights and nine days in
great glee and pleasure.




CAHAL, SON OF KING CONOR, IN ERIN, AND BLOOM OF YOUTH, DAUGHTER OF THE
KING OF HATHONY.


There was a king in Hathony long ago who had an old castle by the sea.
This king went out walking one day along the clean, smooth strand, and,
while walking, the thought rose in him to take a sail near the shore. He
stepped into his boat with attendants and men, and was sailing about in
enjoyment and pleasure, when a wind came with a mist of enchantment, and
drove the boat away through the sea with the king and his men.

They were going before the wind, without a sight of sky or sea; no man in
the boat could see the man who sat next to him. They were that way moving
in the mist without knowledge of where they were, or where they were
going, and the boat never stopped till it sailed into a narrow harbor in
a lonely place without house or habitation.

The king left the boat well fastened at the shore, and went his way,
walking till he came to a castle, and what castle should it be but the
castle of King Conor, in Erin.

King Conor received the King of Hathony with great hospitality and
welcome.

When the two had spent some days in company, they became great friends,
and made a match between their two children. The King of Hathony had a
daughter called Bloom of Youth, who was nine years of age, and King Conor
had a son ten years old, named Cahal.

When the King of Hathony wished to go back to his own land, King Conor of
Erin gave a ship to him, and the king sailed away with good wishes and
with supplies for a day and a year.

Bloom of Youth grew up in such beauty that she had not her equal in
Hathony or in other lands, and Cahal, King Conor’s son, became such a
hero that no man knew was the like of him in any place.

On a day Cahal said to his father, “Make up some treasure for me and
stores for my ship. I must leave home now and be travelling through the
world till I know is there a better man than myself in it.”

“It is, indeed, time for you to be going,” said King Conor, “for in
three years you are to marry Bloom of Youth, the daughter of the King
of Hathony, and you should be making out the place now where her father
lives.”

Next morning Cahal took what treasures his father gave him, and
provisions, went to his ship and raised sails. Away he went on his
voyage, sailing over the sea in one way and another, in this direction
and that. He sailed one year and three-quarters of a second year, but
found no man to give tale or tidings of the King of Hathony.

Once on a gloomy day he was sailing along through the waves, when a
strong north wind rose, and blew with such force that he let his ship go
with it.

Three days and nights the ship went before the north wind, and on the
fourth day, in the morning, it was thrown in on a rocky coast.

Cahal saved his life and his sword, and went away walking through the
country. On the evening of the fifth day he came to an old castle near
the seashore, and said to himself, “I will not go in here to ask for
lodgings like any poor traveller.” With that he walked up and put a blow
on the pole of combat that made the whole castle tremble.

Out rushed the messenger. “What brought you here, and what do you want?”
asked he of King Conor’s son.

“I want men to meet me in combat, seven hundred champions on my right
hand, seven hundred on my left, seven hundred behind me, and the same
number in front of me.”

The man ran in and gave the message to the king.

“Oh,” said the King of Hathony, “that is my son-in-law from Erin;” and
out he went.

“Are you the son of King Conor?” asked the king.

“I am,” said Cahal.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you,” said the king.

“Thankful am I for the welcomes, and glad to receive them,” said Cahal.
“I had great trouble in coming; it is not easy to find you.”

“It is not easy to find any man unless you know the road to his house,”
said the king.

There was great feasting that night and entertainment for Cahal. Next
day the king said, “Your bride, my daughter, is gone these two months.
Striker, son of the King of Tricks, came to my castle and stole her away
from me.”

“My word for it, he will not keep her unless he is a better man than I
am,” said Cahal.

“I am sure of that,” said the king, “and I said so.”

“My own ship was wrecked on your coast, and now you must give me another
in place of it,” said Cahal.

“I will,” said the king, “and a good one; but you can do nothing on sea
against Striker.”

“I am more used to the sea now than to land, I am so long on it,”
answered Cahal.

“If you were born on the water and had lived every day of your life on
it, you could do nothing at sea against Striker. There is not a man
living who can face him at sea.”

Nothing would satisfy Cahal but to go against Striker by sea; so he took
the ship which the king gave and sailed away, sailed week after week till
he was within a day’s journey of Striker’s castle. Striker thrust his
head up through the top of the castle then, and let a blast out through
his mouth that sent Cahal’s ship back twice the distance it had come.

King Conor’s son sailed forward again, and again Striker blew him back as
far as he had the first time.

Cahal sailed now to the castle of the King of Hathony.

“I said that you could do nothing against Striker on sea. If you wish to
get the upper hand of him I will tell you what to do. Take this bridle
and shake it behind the castle; whatever beast comes to you take that
one, and ride away against Striker.”

When Cahal shook the bridle, out came the smallest and ugliest beast in
the stables, a lean, shaggy mare.

“Oh, then, bad luck to you for coming,” said the king’s son, “and so many
fine steeds in the stables.”

“That is the pony my daughter used to ride, that is the best horse in
the stables; take her. She is not easy to ride though, for she is full
of tricks and enchantment, but if you are the right man she’ll not throw
you. She goes on water as well as land, and you will be at your enemy’s
castle to-day.”

Cahal mounted, and away went the mare. She crossed one hill at the first
leap, three at the second, then twelve hills and valleys at the third
leap; went over land and sea, and never stopped till she was in front of
Striker’s castle, two hours before sunset.

Cahal sprang from the mare, and struck the pole of combat.

“What do you want?” asked the attendant, running out.

“I want seven hundred champions in combat at my right side, seven hundred
at my left, seven hundred behind me, and seven hundred out before my
face.”

The attendant went in, and out came the twenty-eight hundred against
Cahal.

He went at the champions, and before sunset he had them in three heaps, a
heap of their bodies, a heap of their heads, and a heap of their weapons.

Next morning Cahal struck the pole again.

“What do you want this time?” asked the attendant.

“Seven thousand champions against me for every hundred that I had
yesterday.”

Out came the champions in thousands. As they were coming Cahal was going
through them, and before the day was ended he had them in three heaps
without leaving a man, a heap of their heads, a heap of their bodies, and
a heap of their weapons.

He struck the pole on the third morning, and before the attendant had
time to open his mouth, Cahal shouted, “Send out every man in the place.
I may as well spend one day on them all as to be calling for champions
occasionally.”

The forces of Striker, son of the King of Tricks, were coming as fast as
ever they could make their way through the gates. They were rushing at
Cahal like showers of hail on a stormy day, but they could neither kill
him nor get the upper hand. They could neither defend themselves nor hurt
him, and Cahal never stopped till he had them all in a heap at one side.

Cahal struck the pole on the fourth day.

“What do you want now?” asked the attendant.

“Striker, son of the King of Tricks, in combat before me.”

Out came Striker, and fell upon Cahal. The two fought seven days and six
nights without stopping or resting, then Striker called for a truce and
got it. He went into his castle, healed himself in his caldron of cure,
ate enough, slept, and was as fresh as ever next morning. They spent
three days and two nights in combat after that without rest.

Striker called for cessation a second time and got it. On the eleventh
morning a goldfinch perched opposite Cahal and said, “Bad luck to you for
a foolish young man to be giving your enemy rest, time to eat, drink, and
cure himself, and you lying outside at the foot of the wall in hunger and
cold. Keep him working till he yields. Give him no rest till you snatch
from his breast the pin which he has in the left side of it.”

They were struggling four days and nights without rest or cessation till
the fifth morning, when Cahal snatched the pin from the bosom of Striker.

“Oh, spare my life!” cried Striker. “I’ll be your servant in every place,
only spare me.”

“I want nothing of you,” said Cahal, “but this: Send out my bride to
me; you took her from her father, the King of Hathony, and she was to
be my wife soon when you took her. Send her to me, and put no fog or
enchantment on us while we are on the way home.”

“You ask more than I can give,” said Striker, “for Wet Mantle, the hero,
took that maiden from me two months ago. When going, she put him under
bonds not to molest her for two days and two years.”

“Where can I find Wet Mantle?”

“That is more than I can tell; but put your nose before you and follow
it.”

“That’s a short answer, and I would take your life for three straws on
account of it; but I’ll let some other man have his chance to take the
head off you.”

Cahal mounted his mare then, and was travelling over seas and dry
land,—travelling a long time till he came at last to Wet Mantle’s castle.
He struck the pole of combat, and out came the messenger.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Seven hundred at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven hundred
behind me, and seven hundred before my face.”

“That’s more men than you can find in this place,” said the messenger.
“Wet Mantle lives here in his own way, without forces or company; he
keeps no man but me, and is very well satisfied.”

“Go then,” said Cahal, “and tell him to come out himself to me.”

Wet Mantle came out, and the two fought seven days and six nights. Wet
Mantle called for a truce then and got it. The hero went to his castle,
cured himself, and was as fresh the eighth morning as the first. They
began to fight, and the struggle continued three days and two nights.
Wet Mantle called for a truce, and received it the second time. On the
eleventh morning he was well again, and ready for the struggle.

“Oh, then, it is foolish and simple you are, and small good in your
travelling the world,” cried a goldfinch to Cahal. “Why are you out here
in hunger and cold, and he cured and fresh in his castle? Give him no
rest the next time, but fight till you tire him and take the mantle from
him. He’ll be as weak as a common man then, for it is in the mantle his
strength is.”

On the eleventh morning they began for the third time and fought fiercely
all day. In the evening Wet Mantle called for a rest.

“No,” said Cahal, “you’ll get no rest. There is no rest for either of us.
You must fight till you or I yield.”

They fought on till the following evening. Wet Mantle called for rest a
second time.

“No rest till this battle is ended,” cried Cahal.

They held on all that night venomously, and were fighting at noon of the
following day. Then Cahal closed on his enemy, and tore the mantle from
his body.

The hero without his mantle had no more strength than a common man.

“You are the best champion that ever I have met,” said he to Cahal. “I
will give you all that you ask, but don’t kill me.”

“I have no wish to kill or to hurt you, though good treatment is not what
you deserve from me. You caused me great trouble and hardship searching
and travelling, not knowing where to find you. I want nothing of you but
my bride, and your promise not to put fog or magic on us or harm us until
we reach Erin in safety.”

“That is more than I can promise,” said Wet Mantle.

“Why so?” asked Cahal.

“The gruagach, Long Sweeper, took that maiden from me, and she put him
under bonds not to molest her, or come near her for three days and three
years.”

“Where can I find Long Sweeper?”

“That is more than I can tell,” said Wet Mantle. “The world is wide, you
have free passage through it, and you can be going this way and that
till you find him; he lives in a very high castle, and he is a tall man
himself; he has a very long broom, and when he likes he sweeps the sky
with that broom three times in the morning, and the day that he sweeps,
there is no man in the world that can contradict him or conquer him.”

Cahal went riding his pony from the north to the south, from the east to
the west, and west to east, three years and two days. At daylight of the
third day he saw a tall castle in the ocean before him. So tall was the
castle that he could not tell the height of it, and a man on the summit
twice as tall as the castle itself, and he with a broom sweeping the sky.

“Ah,” said Cahal to himself, “I have you at last.”

He rode forward then to the castle, and struck the pole of combat.

“What do you want?” asked the messenger.

“I want men to meet me in combat.”

“Well, that is what you’ll not get in this place. There is no man living
on this island but Long Sweeper and myself. The Black Horseman came from
the Western World three months ago, and killed every man, gave Long
Sweeper great hardship and trouble, and after terrible fighting got the
upper hand of him.”

“Well, if he has no men, let him come out himself, for I’ll never leave
the spot till I knock satisfaction out of Long Sweeper for the trouble he
gave me before I could find him.”

Long Sweeper came out, and they began to fight; they fought for seven
days and six nights. Toward evening of the seventh day Long Sweeper
called for rest and got it. He went into his high castle, ate, drank,
healed himself in his caldron of cure, and slept well and soundly, while
Cahal had to rest as best he was able on the ground beyond the wall. The
eighth morning Long Sweeper went up on his castle and swept the sky back
and forth three times, and got such strength that no man on earth could
overcome him that day.

They fought three days and two nights, and fought all the time without
rest. Long Sweeper called for rest then and got it, and was cured and
refreshed as before. Next morning he mounted the castle, swept the sky
three times with his broom, and was ready for combat.

Before Long Sweeper came, the goldfinch perched in front of Cahal and
said, “Misfortune to you, son of King Conor in Erin; ’tis to a bad place
you came with your life to lose it, and isn’t it foolish of you to give
your enemy rest, while yourself has nothing to lie on but the earth, and
nothing to put in your mouth but cold air? Give neither rest nor truce to
your enemy. He will be losing strength till three days from now. If he
gets no chance to sweep the sky, he’ll be no better than a common man.”

That evening Long Sweeper called for rest.

“No,” said Cahal, “you’ll get no rest from me. We must fight till either
one or the other yields.”

“That’s not fair fighting.”

“It is not, indeed. I am ten days and nights without food, drink, or
rest, while you have had them twice. We have not fought fairly so far,
but we will hereafter. You must remain as you are now till one of us is
conquered.”

They were fighting till noon, the thirteenth day. “I am beaten,” said
Long Sweeper. “Whatever I have I am willing to give you, but spare my
life, for if there is a good hero in the world you are he.”

“I want nothing of you,” said Cahal, “but to send out to me my bride,
Bloom of Youth, daughter of the King of Hathony, the maiden you took from
Wet Mantle. You have caused me great hardship and trouble, but I’ll let
some one else take your life, or may you live as you are.”

“I cannot send out your bride,” said Long Sweeper, “for she is not in my
castle. The Black Horseman took her from me three months ago.”

“Where am I to find that man?”

“I might tell you to put your nose before you and walk after it, but I
will not; I will give you a guide. Here is a rod; whichever way the rod
turns, follow it till you come to the Western World, where the Black
Horseman lives.”

Cahal mounted his mare, made off with the rod in his hand, and rode
straight to the Black Horseman’s castle. The messenger was in front of
the castle before him.

“Tell your master to send out champions against me, or to come himself,”
said Cahal.

That moment the Black Horseman himself was on the threshold. “I am here
all alone,” said he to Cahal. “I have lost all my wealth, all my men, all
my magic. I am now in a poor state, though I was living pleasantly and in
greatness after the conflict in which I got the better of Long Sweeper.
It’s rich and strong I was after parting with that man, and I was waiting
here to marry when White Beard from the Western World came, made war on
me, and continued it for a day and a year; then he left me poor and
lonely, as I am at this moment.”

“Well,” said Cahal, “you have caused me great labor and hardship; but
I ask nothing of you except to send out my bride, Bloom of Youth, to
me, and not to bring fog or magic on her or on me till we reach home in
safety.”

“White Beard took your bride from me, and he cannot marry her for four
days and four years, for she put him under bond not to do so. I will
tell you now how to find her. Do you see that broad river in front of
us? It flows from the Northern to the Southern World, and there is no
way to cross it unless a good hero does so by springing from one bank to
the other. When White Beard took the maiden from me, they walked to the
brink of the river; he placed the woman then on his shoulder and sprang
over the river to the west. ‘Let me down, now,’ said the woman. ‘I will
not,’ replied White Beard, ‘I have such regard for you that I will show
you every place on the road.’ He did not let her down till he showed
her everything between the river and the castle. ‘You may come down,’
said he, when they entered the castle (she could see everything from his
shoulder, but nothing from the ground). When coming down she thrust a
sleeping pin that she had in the head of the old man, and he fell fast
asleep standing there. She has whatever she wishes to eat or to drink in
the castle. All is in a mist of enchantment. She can see nothing outside
the castle, but everything within. That was my home at one time. I was
born and reared in that castle, and lived in it till White Beard drove
me away with magic and violence. I came to this place and lived here a
time without trouble, till I took Bloom of Youth from Long Sweeper. I was
waiting to marry her, when White Beard came, destroyed all my forces,
took away my enchantment, carried off Bloom of Youth, and left me here
without strength or defence. But one thing is left me, and that I will
give you. Here is a torch. When you cross the river, light it. You’ll
find the road, and no one has found it since I was there. When you light
the torch follow the road to an old cottage, at one side from the castle.
In this cottage is a henwife, who has lived there since my childhood. She
will show the way to the castle and back to her cottage. From there you
may journey homeward in safety, by lighting the torch a second time, and
keeping it till you ride out of the castle’s enchantment. This is all I
have to tell you.”

Cahal rode briskly to the river, rode across, lighted his torch on the
other side, saw a narrow bright road, but nothing on either side. The
road was a long one, but he came to the end of it at the door of the
henwife’s old cottage. Cahal greeted the henwife.

“A hundred thousand welcomes,” said the old woman. “You are here from my
master, the Black Horseman, or you could not be in it. Can I help you in
any way?”

“I want nothing of you but to show me the way to the castle of White
Beard, where my bride is, and then bring me back to this place.”

“Follow me,” said the henwife, “and leave your horse here.”

She took Cahal by the hand and went forward till she came to the castle
and entered it. There Cahal saw the finest woman that ever he had met
in the world. “Well,” said he to himself, “I am not sorry, after all my
troubles and hardships, if you are the woman I am to marry.”

“A greeting to you, young hero,” said the woman. “Who are you who have
been able to come to this castle, and why are you here?”

“My name is Cahal, son of King Conor, in Erin. I am long travelling and
fighting to find and to rescue my bride, Bloom of Youth, daughter of the
King of Hathony. Who are you, fair lady?” asked Cahal.

“I am the daughter of the King of Hathony. The day before I was taken
by Striker, son of the King of Tricks, my father told me that the son of
King Conor, in Erin, was betrothed to me. You, I suppose, are that man?”

“I am,” said Cahal. “Come with me now, I will free you; but what are we
to do with White Beard?”

“Leave him as he is. There is no knowing what he would do should we rouse
him.”

The two went with the henwife to her cottage. Cahal lighted the torch a
second time, mounted the mare, put Bloom of Youth in front, rode first to
Hathony, and then home to Erin.

King Conor made a great feast of welcome for Cahal and his bride. There
were seven hundred guests at the short table, eight hundred at the long
table, nine hundred at the round table, and a thousand in the grand hall.
I was there and heard the whole story, but got no present except shoes of
paper and stockings of buttermilk, and these a herder stole from me in
crossing the mountains.




COLDFEET AND THE QUEEN OF LONESOME ISLAND.


Once upon a time, and a long time ago it was, there lived an old woman
in Erin. This old woman’s house was at the northeast corner of Mount
Brandon. Of all the friends and relatives that ever she had in the
world there was but one left, her only son, Sean,[3] nicknamed Fuarcosa
(Coldfeet).

The reason that people called the boy Coldfeet was this: When a child he
was growing always; what of him did not grow one hour grew another; what
did not grow in the day grew in the night; what did not grow in the night
grew in the day; and he grew that fast that when seven years old he could
not find room enough in his mother’s house. When night came and he was
sleeping, whatever corner of the house his head was in, it was out of
doors that his feet were, and, of course, they were cold, especially in
winter.

It was not long till his legs as well as his feet were out of the house,
first to the knees, and then to the body. When fifteen years old it was
all that he could do to put his head in, and he lived outdoors entirely.
What the mother could gather in a year would not support the son for a
day, he was that large and had such an appetite.

Coldfeet had to find his own food, and he had no means of living but to
bring home sheep and bullocks from whatever place he met them.

He was going on in this way, faring rather ill than well, when one day
above another he said, “I think I must go into the great world, mother. I
am half starving in this place. I can do little good for myself as I am,
and no good at all for you.”

He rose early next morning, washed his face and hands, asked assistance
and protection of God, and if he did not, may we. He left good health
with his mother at parting, and away he went, crossing high hills,
passing low dales, and kept on his way without halt or rest, the clear
day going and the dark night coming, taking lodgings each evening
wherever he found them, till at last he came to a high roomy castle.

He entered the castle without delaying outside, and when he went in, the
owner asked was he a servant in search of a master.

“I am in search of a master,” said Coldfeet.

He engaged to herd cows for small hire and his keeping, and the time of
his service was a day and a year.

Next morning, when Coldfeet was driving the cattle to pasture, his master
was outside in the field before him, and said, “You must take good care
of yourself, for of all the herders who took service with me never a
man but was killed by one or another of four giants who live next to my
pastures. One of these giants has four, the next six, the third eight,
and the fourth twelve heads on him.”

“By my hand!” said Coldfeet, “I did not come here to be killed by the
like of them. They will not hurt me, never fear.”

Coldfeet went on with the cattle, and when he came to the boundary he put
them on the land of the giants. The cows were not long grazing when one
of the giants at his castle caught the odor of the strange herder and
rushed out. When coming at a distance he shouted, “I smell the blood of a
man from Erin; his liver and lights for my supper to-night, his blood for
my morning dram, his jawbones for stepping-stones, his shins for hurleys!”

When the giant came up he cried, “Ah, that is you, Coldfeet, and wasn’t
it the impudence in you to come here from the butt of Brandon Mountain
and put cattle on my land to annoy me?”

“It isn’t to give satisfaction to you that I am here, but to knock
satisfaction out of your bones,” said Coldfeet.

With that the giant faced the herder, and the two went at each other and
fought till near evening. They broke old trees and bent young ones; they
made hard places soft and soft places hard; they made high places low and
low places high; they made spring wells dry, and brought water through
hard, gray rocks till near sunset, when Coldfeet took the heads off the
giant and put the four skulls in muddy gaps to make a dry, solid road for
the cows.

Coldfeet drove out his master’s cattle on a second, third, and fourth
morning; each day he killed a giant, each day the battle was fiercer, but
on the fourth evening the fourth giant was dead.

On the fifth day Coldfeet was not long on the land of the dead giants
when a dreadful enchanted old hag came out against him, and she raging
with anger. She had nails of steel on her fingers and toes, each nail of
them weighing seven pounds.

“Oh, you insolent, bloodthirsty villain,” screamed she, “to come all
the way from Brandon Mountain to kill my young sons, and, poor boys,
only that timber is dear in this country it’s in their cradles they’d be
to-day instead of being murdered by you.”

“It isn’t to give satisfaction to you that I’m here, you old witch, but
to knock it out of your wicked old bones,” said Coldfeet.

“Glad would I be to tear you to pieces,” said the hag; “but ’tis
better to get some good of you first. I put you under spells of heavy
enchantment that you cannot escape, not to eat two meals off the one
table nor to sleep two nights in the one house till you go to the Queen
of Lonesome Island, and bring the sword of light that never fails, the
loaf of bread that is never eaten, and the bottle of water that is never
drained.”

“Where is Lonesome Island?” asked Coldfeet.

“Follow your nose, and make out the place with your own wit,” said the
hag.

Coldfeet drove the cows home in the evening, and said to his master,
“The giants will never harm you again; all their heads are in the muddy
gaps from this to the end of the pasture, and there are good roads now
for your cattle. I have been with you only five days, but another would
not do my work in a day and a year; pay me my wages. You’ll never have
trouble again in finding men to mind cattle.”

The man paid Coldfeet his wages, gave him a good suit of clothes for the
journey, and his blessing.

Away went Coldfeet now on the long road, and by my word it was a strange
road to him. He went across high hills and low dales, passing each night
where he found it, till the evening of the third day, when he came to a
house where a little old man was living. The old man had lived in that
house without leaving it for seven hundred years, and had not seen a
living soul in that time.

Coldfeet gave good health to the old man, and received a hundred thousand
welcomes in return.

“Will you give me a night’s lodging?” asked Coldfeet.

“I will indeed,” said the old man, “and is it any harm to ask, where are
you going?”

“What harm in a plain question? I am going to Lonesome Island if I can
find it.”

“You will travel to-morrow, and if you are loose and lively on the road
you’ll come at night to a house, and inside in it an old man like myself,
only older. He will give you lodgings, and tell where to go the day
after.”

Coldfeet rose very early next morning, ate his breakfast, asked aid of
God, and if he didn’t he let it alone. He left good health with the old
man, and received his blessing. Away with him then over high hills and
low dales, and if any one wished to see a great walker Coldfeet was the
man to look at. He overtook the hare in the wind that was before him, and
the hare in the wind behind could not overtake him; he went at that gait
without halt or rest till he came in the heel of the evening to a small
house, and went in. Inside in the house was a little old man sitting by
the fire.

Coldfeet gave good health to the old man, and got a hundred thousand
welcomes with a night’s lodging.

“Why did you come, and where are you going?” asked the old man. “Fourteen
hundred years am I in this house alone, and not a living soul came in to
see me till yourself came this evening.”

“I am going to Lonesome Island, if I can find it.”

“I have no knowledge of that place, but if you are a swift walker you
will come to-morrow evening to an old man like myself, only older; he
will tell you all that you need, and show you the way to the island.”

Next morning early Coldfeet went away after breakfast, leaving good
health behind him and taking good wishes for the road. He travelled this
day as on the other two days, only more swiftly, and at nightfall gave a
greeting to the third old man.

“A hundred thousand welcomes,” said the old man. “I am living alone in
this house twenty-one hundred years, and not a living soul walked the way
in that time. You are the first man I see in this house. Is it to stay
with me that you are here?”

“It is not,” said Coldfeet, “for I must be moving. I cannot spend two
nights in the one house till I go to Lonesome Island, and I have no
knowledge of where that place is.”

“Oh, then, it’s the long road between this and Lonesome Island, but I’ll
tell where the place is, and how you are to go, if you go there. The road
lies straight from my door to the sea. From the shore to the island no
man has gone unless the queen brought him, but you may go if the strength
and the courage are in you. I will give you this staff; it may help you.
When you reach the sea throw the staff in the water, and you’ll have a
boat that will take you without sail or oar straight to the island. When
you touch shore pull up the boat on the strand; it will turn into a staff
and be again what it now is. The queen’s castle goes whirling around
always. It has only one door, and that on the roof of it. If you lean on
the staff you can rise with one spring to the roof, go in at the door,
and to the queen’s chamber.

“The queen sleeps but one day in each year, and she will be sleeping
to-morrow. The sword of light will be hanging at the head of her bed, the
loaf and the bottle of water on the table near by. Seize the sword with
the loaf and the bottle, and away with you, for the journey must be made
in a day, and you must be on this side of those hills before nightfall.
Do you think you can do that?”

“I will do it, or die in the trial,” said Coldfeet.

“If you make that journey you will do what no man has done yet,” said
the old man. “Before I came to live in this house champions and hundreds
of king’s sons tried to go to Lonesome Island, but not a man of them had
the strength and the swiftness to go as far as the seashore, and that is
but one part of the journey. All perished, and if their skulls are not
crumbled, you’ll see them to-morrow. The country is open and safe in the
daytime, but when night falls the Queen of Lonesome Island sends her wild
beasts to destroy every man they can find until daybreak. You must be in
Lonesome Island to-morrow before noon, leave the place very soon after
midday, and be on this side of those hills before nightfall, or perish.”

Next morning Coldfeet rose early, ate his breakfast, and started at
daybreak. Away he went swiftly over hills, dales, and level places,
through a land where the wind never blows and the cock never crows, and
though he went quickly the day before, he went five times more quickly
that day, for the staff added speed to whatever man had it.

Coldfeet came to the sea, threw the staff into the water, and a boat was
before him. Away he went in the boat, and before noon was in the chamber
of the Queen of Lonesome Island. He found everything there as the old
man had told him. Seizing the sword of light quickly and taking the
bottle and loaf, he went toward the door; but there he halted, turned
back, stopped a while with the queen. It was very near he was then to
forgetting himself; but he sprang up, took one of the queen’s golden
garters, and away with him.

If Coldfeet strove to move swiftly when coming, he strove more in going
back. On he raced over hills, dales, and flat places where the wind never
blows and the cock never crows; he never stopped nor halted. When the
sun was near setting he saw the last line of hills, and remembering that
death was behind and not far from him, he used his last strength and was
over the hilltops at nightfall.

The whole country behind him was filled with wild beasts.

“Oh,” said the old man, “but you are the hero, and I was in dread that
you’d lose your life on the journey, and by my hand you had no time to
spare.”

“I had not, indeed,” answered Coldfeet. “Here is your staff, and many
thanks for it.”

The two spent a pleasant evening together. Next morning Coldfeet left his
blessing with the old man and went on, spent a night with each of the
other old men, and never stopped after that till he reached the hag’s
castle. She was outside before him with the steel nails on her toes and
fingers.

“Have you the sword, the bottle, and the loaf?” asked she.

“I have,” said Coldfeet; “here they are.”

“Give them to me,” said the hag.

“If I was bound to bring the three things,” said Coldfeet, “I was not
bound to give them to you; I will keep them.”

“Give them here!” screamed the hag, raising her nails to rush at him.

With that Coldfeet drew the sword of light, and sent her head spinning
through the sky in the way that ’tis not known in what part of the world
it fell or did it fall in any place. He burned her body then, scattered
the ashes, and went his way farther.

“I will go to my mother first of all,” thought he, and he travelled till
evening. When his feet struck small stones on the road, the stones never
stopped till they knocked wool off the spinning-wheels of old hags in the
Eastern World. In the evening he came to a house and asked lodgings.

“I will give you lodgings, and welcome,” said the man of the house; “but
I have no food for you.”

“I have enough for us both,” said Coldfeet, “and for twenty more if they
were in it;” and he put the loaf on the table.

The man called his whole family. All had their fill, and left the loaf as
large as it was before supper. The woman of the house made a loaf in the
night like the one they had eaten from, and while Coldfeet was sleeping
took his bread and left her own in the place of it. Away went Coldfeet
next morning with the wrong loaf, and if he travelled differently from
the day before it was because he travelled faster. In the evening he came
to a house, and asked would they give him a night’s lodging.

“We will, indeed,” said the woman, “but we have no water to cook supper
for you; the water is far away entirely, and no one to go for it.”

“I have water here in plenty,” said Coldfeet, putting his bottle on the
table.

The woman took the bottle, poured water from it, filled one pot and then
another, filled every vessel in the kitchen, and not a drop less in the
bottle. What wonder, when no man or woman ever born could drain the
bottle in a lifetime.

Said the woman to her husband that night, “If we had the bottle, we
needn’t be killing ourselves running for water.”

“We need not,” said the man.

What did the woman do in the night, when Coldfeet was asleep, but take
a bottle, fill it with water from one of the pots, and put that false
bottle in place of the true one. Away went Coldfeet next morning, without
knowledge of the harm done, and that day he travelled in the way that
when he fell in running he had not time to rise, but rolled on till the
speed that was under him brought him to his feet again. At sunset he was
in sight of a house, and at dusk he was in it.

Coldfeet found welcome in the house, with food and lodgings.

“It is great darkness we are in,” said the man to Coldfeet; “we have
neither oil nor rushes.”

“I can give you light,” said Coldfeet, and he unsheathed the sword
from Lonesome Island; it was clear inside the house as on a hilltop in
sunlight.

When the people had gone to bed Coldfeet put the sword into its sheath,
and all was dark again.

“Oh,” said the woman to her husband that night, “if we had the sword we’d
have light in the house always. You have an old sword above on the loft.
Rise out of the bed now and put it in the place of that bright one.”

The man rose, took the two swords out doors, put the old blade in
Coldfeet’s sheath, and hid away Coldfeet’s sword in the loft. Next
morning Coldfeet went away, and never stopped till he came to his
mother’s cabin at the foot of Mount Brandon. The poor old woman was
crying and lamenting every day. She felt sure that it was killed her son
was, for she had never got tale or tidings of him. Many is the welcome
she had for him, but if she had welcomes she had little to eat.

“Oh, then, mother, you needn’t be complaining,” said Coldfeet, “we have
as much bread now as will do us a lifetime;” with that he put the loaf on
the table, cut a slice for the mother, and began to eat himself. He was
hungry, and the next thing he knew the loaf was gone.

“There is a little meal in the house,” said the mother. “I’ll go for
water and make stirabout.”

“I have water here in plenty,” said Coldfeet. “Bring a pot.”

The bottle was empty in a breath, and they hadn’t what water would make
stirabout nor half of it.

“Oh, then,” said Coldfeet, “the old hag enchanted the three things before
I killed her and knocked the strength out of every one of them.” With
that he drew the sword, and it had no more light than any rusty old blade.

The mother and son had to live in the old way again; but as Coldfeet was
far stronger than the first time, he didn’t go hungry himself, and the
mother had plenty. There were cattle in the country, and all the men
in it couldn’t keep them from Coldfeet or stop him. The old woman and
the son had beef and mutton, and lived on for themselves at the foot of
Brandon Mountain.

In three quarters of a year the Queen of Lonesome Island had a son, the
finest child that sun or moon could shine on, and he grew in the way that
what of him didn’t grow in the day grew in the night following, and what
didn’t grow that night grew the next day, and when he was two years old
he was very large entirely.

The queen was grieving always for the loaf and the bottle, and there was
no light in her chamber from the day the sword was gone. All at once she
thought, “The father of the boy took the three things. I will never sleep
two nights in the one house till I find him.”

Away she went then with the boy,—went over the sea, went through the land
where wind never blows and where cock never crows, came to the house of
the oldest old man, stopped one night there, then stopped with the middle
and the youngest old man. Where should she go next night but to the woman
who stole the loaf from Coldfeet. When the queen sat down to supper the
woman brought the loaf, cut slice after slice; the loaf was no smaller.

“Where did you get that loaf?” asked the queen.

“I baked it myself.”

“That is my loaf,” thought the queen.

The following evening she came to a house and found lodgings. At supper
the woman poured water from a bottle, but the bottle was full always.

“Where did you get that bottle?”

“It was left to us,” said the woman; “my grandfather had it.”

“That is my bottle,” thought the queen.

The next night she stopped at a house where a sword filled the whole
place with light.

“Where did you find that beautiful sword?” asked the queen.

“My grandfather left it to me,” said the man. “We have it hanging here
always.”

“That is my sword,” said the queen to herself.

Next day the queen set out early, travelled quickly, and never stopped
till she came near Brandon Mountain. At a distance she saw a man coming
down hill with a fat bullock under each arm. He was carrying the beasts
as easily as another would carry two geese. The man put the bullocks in a
pen near a house at the foot of the mountain, came out toward the queen,
and never stopped till he saluted her. When the man stopped, the boy
broke away from the mother and ran to the stranger.

“How is this?” asked the queen; “the child knows you.” She tried to take
the boy, but he would not go to her.

“Have you lived always in this place?” asked the queen.

“I was born in that house beyond, and reared at the foot of that mountain
before you. I went away from home once and killed four giants, the first
with four, the second with six, the third with eight, and the fourth with
twelve heads on him. When I had the giants killed, their mother came
out against me, and she raging with vengeance. She wanted to kill me at
first, but she did not. She put me under bonds of enchantment to go to
the castle of the Queen of Lonesome Island, and bring the sword of light
that can never fail to cut or give light, the loaf of bread that can
never be eaten, and the bottle of water that can never be drained.”

“Did you go?” asked the queen.

“I did.”

“How could you go to Lonesome Island?”

“I journeyed and travelled, inquiring for the island, stopping one night
at one place, and the next night at another, till I came to the house of
a little man seven hundred years old. He sent me to a second man twice as
old as himself, and the second to a third three times as old as the first
man.

“The third old man showed me the road to Lonesome Island, and gave me a
staff to assist me. When I reached the sea I made a boat of the staff,
and it took me to the island. On the island the boat was a staff again.

“I sprang to the top of the queen’s turning castle, went down and entered
the chamber where she was sleeping, took the sword of light, with the
loaf and the bottle, and was coming away again. I looked at the queen.
The heart softened within me at sight of her beauty. I turned back and
came near forgetting my life with her. I brought her gold garter with me,
took the three things, sprang down from the castle, ran to the water,
made a boat of the staff again, came quickly to mainland, and from that
hour till darkness I ran with what strength I could draw from each bit of
my body. Hardly had I crossed the hilltop and was before the door of the
oldest old man when the country behind me was covered with wild beasts.
I escaped death by one moment. I brought the three things to the hag who
had sent me, but I did not give them. I struck the head from her, but
before dying she destroyed them, for when I came home they were useless.”

“Have you the golden garter?”

“Here it is,” said the young man.

“What is your name?” asked the queen.

“Coldfeet,” said the stranger.

“You are the man,” said the queen. “Long ago it was prophesied that a
hero named Coldfeet would come to Lonesome Island without my request or
assistance, and that our son would cover the whole world with his power.
Come with me now to Lonesome Island.”

The queen gave Coldfeet’s old mother good clothing, and said, “You will
live in my castle.”

They all left Brandon Mountain and journeyed on toward Lonesome Island
till they reached the house where the sword of light was. It was night
when they came and dark outside, but bright as day in the house from the
sword, which was hanging on the wall.

“Where did you find this blade?” asked Coldfeet, catching the hilt of the
sword.

“My grandfather had it,” said the woman.

“He had not,” said Coldfeet, “and I ought to take the head off your
husband for stealing it when I was here last.”

Coldfeet put the sword in his scabbard and kept it. Next day they reached
the house where the bottle was, and Coldfeet took that. The following
night he found the loaf and recovered it. All the old men were glad to
see Coldfeet, especially the oldest, who loved him.

The queen with her son and Coldfeet with his mother arrived safely in
Lonesome Island. They lived on in happiness; there is no account of their
death, and they may be in it yet for aught we know.




LAWN DYARRIG, SON OF THE KING OF ERIN, AND THE KNIGHT OF TERRIBLE VALLEY.


There was a king in his own time in Erin, and he went hunting one day.
The king met a man whose head was out through his cap, whose elbows and
knees were out through his clothing, and whose toes were out through his
shoes.

The man went up to the king, gave him a blow on the face, and drove three
teeth from his mouth. The same blow put the king’s head in the dirt. When
he rose from the earth the king went back to his castle, and lay down
sick and sorrowful.

The king had three sons, and their names were Ur, Arthur, and Lawn
Dyarrig. The three were at school that day and came home in the evening.
The father sighed when the sons were coming in.

“What is wrong with our father?” asked the eldest.

“Your father is sick on his bed,” said the mother.

The three sons went to their father and asked what was on him.

“A strong man that I met to-day gave me a blow in the face, put my head
in the dirt, and knocked three teeth from my mouth. What would you do to
him if you met him?” asked the father of the eldest son.

“If I met that man,” replied Ur, “I would make four parts of him between
four horses.”

“You are my son,” said the king. “What would you do if you met him?”
asked he then, as he turned to the second son.

“If I had a grip on that man I would burn him between four fires.”

“You, too, are my son. What would you do?” asked the king of Lawn Dyarrig.

“If I met that man I would do my best against him, and he might not stand
long before me.”

“You are not my son. I would not lose lands or property on you,” said the
father. “You must go from me, and leave this to-morrow.”

On the following morning the three brothers rose with the dawn; the
order was given Lawn Dyarrig to leave the castle, and make his own way
for himself. The other two brothers were going to travel the world to
know could they find the man who had injured their father. Lawn Dyarrig
lingered outside till he saw the two, and they going off by themselves.

“It is a strange thing,” said he, “for two men of high degree to go
travelling without a servant.”

“We need no one,” said Ur.

“Company wouldn’t harm us,” said Arthur.

The two let Lawn Dyarrig go with them then as a serving-boy, and set out
to find the man who had struck down their father. They spent all that day
walking, and came late to a house where one woman was living. She shook
hands with Ur and Arthur, and greeted them. Lawn Dyarrig she kissed and
welcomed, called him son of the King of Erin.

“’Tis a strange thing to shake hands with the elder and kiss the
younger,” said Ur.

“This is a story to tell,” said the woman; “the same as if your death
were in it.”

They made three parts of that night. The first part they spent in
conversation, the second in telling tales, the third in eating and
drinking, with sound sleep and sweet slumber. As early as the day dawned
next morning, the old woman was up and had food for the young men. When
the three had eaten she spoke to Ur, and this is what she asked of him,
“What was it that drove you from home, and what brought you to this
place?”

“A champion met my father, took three teeth from him, and put his head
in the dirt. I am looking for that man to find him alive or dead.”

“That was the Green Knight from Terrible Valley. He is the man who took
the three teeth from your father. I am three hundred years living in
this place, and there is not a year of the three hundred in which three
hundred heroes fresh, young, and noble have not passed on the way to
Terrible Valley, and never have I seen one coming back, and each of them
had the look of a man better than you. And now, where are you going,
Arthur?”

“I am on the same journey with my brother.”

“Where are you going, Lawn Dyarrig?”

“I am going with these as a servant,” said Lawn Dyarrig.

“God’s help to you, it’s bad clothing that’s on your body,” said the
woman; “and now I will speak to Ur. A day and a year since a champion
passed this way; he wore a suit as good as was ever above ground. I had a
daughter sewing there in the open window. He came outside, put a finger
under her girdle, and took her with him. Her father followed straightway
to save her, but I have never seen daughter or father from that day to
this. That man was the Green Knight of Terrible Valley. He is better than
all the men that could stand on a field a mile in length and a mile
in breadth. If you take my advice you’ll turn back and go home to your
father.”

’Tis how she vexed Ur with this talk, and he made a vow to himself to go
on. When Ur did not agree to turn home, the woman said to Lawn Dyarrig,
“Go back to my chamber, you’ll find in it the apparel of a hero.”

He went back, and there was not a bit of the apparel that he did not go
into with a spring.

“You may be able to do something now,” said the woman, when Lawn Dyarrig
came to the front. “Go back to my chamber and search through all the old
swords. You will find one at the bottom; take that.”

He found the old sword, and at the first shake that he gave he knocked
seven barrels of rust out of it; after the second shake, it was as bright
as when made.

“You may be able to do well with that,” said the woman. “Go out now to
that stable abroad, and take the slim white steed that is in it. That one
will never stop nor halt in any place till he brings you to the Eastern
World. If you like, take these two men behind you; if not, let them walk.
But I think it is useless for you to have them at all with you.”

Lawn Dyarrig went out to the stable, took the slim white steed, mounted,
rode to the front, and catching the two brothers, planted them on the
horse behind him.

“Now, Lawn Dyarrig,” said the woman, “this horse will never stop till he
stands on the little white meadow in the Eastern World. When he stops,
you’ll come down and cut the turf under his beautiful right front foot.”

The horse started from the door, and at every leap he crossed seven hills
and valleys, seven castles with villages, acres, roods, and odd perches.
He could overtake the whirlwind before him seven hundred times before the
whirlwind behind could overtake him once. Early in the afternoon of the
next day he was in the Eastern World. When he dismounted, Lawn Dyarrig
cut the sod from under the foot of the slim white steed in the name of
the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and Terrible Valley was down under him
there. What he did next was to tighten the reins on the neck of the steed
and let him go home.

“Now,” said Lawn Dyarrig to the brothers, “which would ye rather be
doing, making a basket or twisting gads (withes)?”

“We would rather be making a basket; our help is among ourselves,”
answered they.

Ur and Arthur went at the basket and Lawn Dyarrig at twisting the gads.
When Lawn Dyarrig came to the opening with the gads, all twisted and made
into one, they hadn’t the ribs of the basket in the ground yet.

“Oh, then, haven’t ye anything done but that?”

“Stop your mouth,” said Ur, “or we’ll make a mortar of your head on the
next stone.”

“To be kind to one another is the best for us,” said Lawn Dyarrig. “I’ll
make the basket.”

While they’d be putting one rod in the basket he had the basket finished.

“Oh, brother,” said they, “you are a quick workman.”

They had not called him brother since they left home till that moment.

“Who will go in the basket now?” asked Lawn Dyarrig, when it was
finished, and the gad tied to it.

“Who but me?” said Ur. “I am sure, brothers, if I see anything to
frighten me ye’ll draw me up.”

“We will,” said the other two.

He went in, but had not gone far when he cried to pull him up again.

“By my father and the tooth of my father, and by all that is in Erin dead
or alive, I would not give one other sight on Terrible Valley!” cried he,
when he stepped out of the basket.

“Who will go now?” asked Lawn Dyarrig.

“Who will go but me?” answered Arthur.

Whatever length Ur went, Arthur didn’t go the half of it.

“By my father and the tooth of my father, I wouldn’t give another look at
Terrible Valley for all that’s in Erin dead or alive!”

“I will go now,” said Lawn Dyarrig, “and as I put no foul play on you, I
hope ye’ll not put foul play on me.”

“We will not, indeed,” said they.

Whatever length the other two went, Lawn Dyarrig didn’t go the half of
it till he stepped out of the basket and went down on his own feet. It
was not far he had travelled in Terrible Valley when he met seven hundred
heroes guarding the country.

“In what place here has the Green Knight his castle?” asked he of the
seven hundred.

“What sort of a sprisawn goat or sheep from Erin are you?” asked they.

“If we had a hold of you, that’s a question you would not put the second
time; but if we haven’t you, we’ll not be so long.”

They faced Lawn Dyarrig then and attacked him; but he went through them
like a hawk or a raven through small birds. He made a heap of their feet,
a heap of their heads, and a castle of their arms.

After that he went his way walking, and had not gone far when he came to
a spring. “I’ll have a drink before I go farther,” thought he. With that
he stooped down and took a drink of the water. When he had drunk he lay
on the ground and fell asleep.

Now there wasn’t a morning that the lady in the Green Knight’s castle
didn’t wash in the water of that spring, and she sent a maid for the
water each time. Whatever part of the day it was when Lawn Dyarrig fell
asleep, he was sleeping in the morning when the girl came. She thought it
was dead the man was, and she was so in dread of him that she would not
come near the spring for a long time. At last she saw he was asleep, and
then she took the water. Her mistress was complaining of her for being so
long.

“Do not blame me,” said the maid. “I am sure that if it was yourself that
was in my place you’d not come back so soon.”

“How so?” asked the lady.

“The finest hero that a woman ever laid eyes on is sleeping at the
spring.”

“That’s a thing that cannot be till Lawn Dyarrig comes to the age of a
hero. When that time comes he’ll be sleeping at the spring.”

“He is in it now,” said the girl.

The lady did not stay to get any drop of the water on herself, but ran
quickly from the castle. When she came to the spring she roused Lawn
Dyarrig. If she found him lying, she left him standing. She smothered
him with kisses, drowned him with tears, dried him with garments of
fine silk, and with her own hair. Herself and himself locked arms and
walked into the castle of the Green Knight. After that they were inviting
each other with the best food and entertainment till the middle of the
following day. Then the lady said,—

“When the Green Knight bore me away from my father and mother, he brought
me straight to this castle, but I put him under bonds not to marry me for
seven years and a day, and he cannot; still I must serve him. When he
goes fowling he spends three days away, and the next three days at home.
This is the day for him to come back, and for me to prepare his dinner.
There is no stir that you or I have made here to-day but that brass head
beyond there will tell of it.”

“It is equal to you what it tells,” said Lawn Dyarrig, “only make ready a
clean, long chamber for me.”

She did so, and he went back into it. Herself rose up then to prepare
dinner for the Green Knight. When he came she welcomed him as every day.
She left down his food before him, and he sat to take his dinner. He was
sitting with knife and fork in hand when the brass head spoke. “I thought
when I saw you taking food and drink with your wife that you had the
blood of a man in you. If you could see that sprisawn of a goat or sheep
out of Erin taking meat and drink with her all day, what would you do?”

“Oh, my suffering and sorrow!” cried the knight. “I’ll never take another
bite or sup till I eat some of his liver and heart. Let three hundred
heroes fresh and young go back and bring his heart to me, with the liver
and lights, till I eat them.”

The three hundred heroes went, and hardly were they behind in the chamber
when Lawn Dyarrig had them all dead in one heap.

“He must have some exercise to delay my men, they are so long away,” said
the knight. “Let three hundred more heroes go for his heart, with the
liver and lights, and bring them here to me.”

The second three hundred went, and as they were entering the chamber,
Lawn Dyarrig was making a heap of them, till the last one was inside,
where there were two heaps.

“He has some way of coaxing my men to delay,” said the knight. “Do you go
now, three hundred of my savage hirelings, and bring him.”

The three hundred savage hirelings went, and Lawn Dyarrig let every
man of them enter before he raised a hand, then he caught the bulkiest
of them all by the two ankles and began to wallop the others with him,
and he walloped them till he drove the life out of the two hundred and
ninety-nine. The bulkiest one was worn to the shin bones that Lawn
Dyarrig held in his two hands. The Green Knight, who thought Lawn Dyarrig
was coaxing the men, called out then, “Come down, my men, and take
dinner!”

“I’ll be with you,” said Lawn Dyarrig, “and have the best food in the
house, and I’ll have the best bed in the house. God not be good to you
for it, either.”

He went down to the Green Knight and took the food from before him and
put it before himself. Then he took the lady, set her on his own knee,
and he and she went on eating. After dinner he put his finger under her
girdle, took her to the best chamber in the castle, and remained there
till morning. Before dawn the lady said to Lawn Dyarrig,—

“If the Green Knight strikes the pole of combat first, he’ll win the
day; if you strike first, you’ll win, if you do what I tell you. The
Green Knight has so much enchantment that if he sees it is going against
him the battle is, he’ll rise like a fog in the air, come down in the
same form, strike you, and make a green stone of you. When yourself and
himself are going out to fight in the morning, cut a sod a perch long in
the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; you’ll leave the sod on the
next little hillock you meet. When the Green Knight is coming down and is
ready to strike, give him a blow with the sod; you’ll make a green stone
of him.”

As early as the dawn Lawn Dyarrig rose and struck the pole of combat. The
blow that he gave did not leave calf, foal, lamb, kid, or child waiting
for birth, without turning them five times to the left and five times to
the right.

“What do you want?” asked the knight.

“All that’s in your kingdom to be against me the first quarter of the
day, and yourself the second quarter.”

“You have not left in the kingdom now but myself, and it is early enough
for you that I’ll be at you.”

The knight faced him, and they went at each other and fought till late in
the day. The battle was strong against Lawn Dyarrig when the lady stood
in the door of the castle.

“Increase on your blows and increase on your courage,” cried she. “There
is no woman here but myself to wail over you, or to stretch you before
burial.”

When the knight heard the voice, he rose in the air like a lump of fog.
As he was coming down, Lawn Dyarrig struck him with the sod on the right
side of his breast, and made a green stone of him.

The lady rushed out then, and whatever welcome she had for Lawn Dyarrig
the first time, she had twice as much now. Herself and himself went into
the castle and spent that night very comfortably. In the morning they
rose early, and collected all the gold, utensils, and treasures. Lawn
Dyarrig found the three teeth of his father in a pocket of the Green
Knight, and took them. He and the lady brought all the riches to where
the basket was. “If I send up this beautiful lady,” thought Lawn Dyarrig,
“she may be taken from me by my brothers; if I remain below with her, she
may be taken from me by people here.” He put her in the basket, and she
gave him a ring so that they might know each other if they met. He shook
the gad, and she rose in the basket.

When Ur saw the basket he thought, “What’s above let it be above, and
what’s below let it stay where it is.”

“I’ll have you as wife forever for myself,” said he to the lady.

“I put you under bonds,” said she, “not to lay a hand on me for a day and
three years.”

“That itself would not be long even if twice the time,” said Ur.

The two brothers started home with the lady; on the way Ur found the head
of an old horse with teeth in it and took them, saying, “These will be my
father’s three teeth.”

They travelled on, and reached home at last. Ur would not have left a
tooth in his father’s mouth, trying to put in the three that he had
brought; but the father stopped him.

Lawn Dyarrig, left in Terrible Valley, began to walk around for himself.
He had been walking but one day when whom should he meet but the lad
Shortclothes, and he saluted him. “By what way can I leave Terrible
Valley?” asked Lawn Dyarrig.

“If I had a grip on you that’s what you wouldn’t ask of me a second
time,” said Shortclothes.

“If you have not touched me you will before you are much older.”

“If I do, you will not treat me as you did all my people and my master.”

“I’ll do worse to you than I did to them,” said Lawn Dyarrig.

They caught each other then, one grip under the arm and one grip on
the shoulder. ’Tis not long they were wrestling when Lawn Dyarrig had
Shortclothes on the earth, and he gave him the five thin tyings dear and
tight.

“You are the best hero I have ever met,” said Shortclothes; “give me
quarter for my soul,—spare me. When I did not tell you of my own will, I
must tell in spite of myself.”

“It is as easy for me to loosen you as to tie you,” said Lawn Dyarrig,
and he freed him. The moment he was free, Shortclothes said,—

“I put you under bonds, and the misfortune of the year to be walking and
going always till you go to the northeast point of the world, and get
the heart and liver of the serpent which is seven years asleep and seven
years awake.”

Lawn Dyarrig went away then, and never stopped till he was in the
northeast of the world, where he found the serpent asleep.

“I will not go unawares on you while you are asleep,” said Lawn Dyarrig,
and he turned to go. When he was going, the serpent drew him down her
throat with one breath.

Inside he found three men playing cards in her belly. Each laughed when
he looked at Lawn Dyarrig.

“What reason have you for laughing?” asked he.

“We are laughing with glee to have another partner to fill out our
number.”

Lawn Dyarrig did not sit down to play. He drew his sword, and was
searching and looking till he found the heart and liver of the serpent.
He took a part of each, and cut out a way for himself between two ribs.
The three card-players followed when they saw the chance of escape.

Lawn Dyarrig, free of the serpent, never stopped till he came to
Shortclothes, and he was a day and three years on the journey, and doing
the work.

“Since you are not dead now,” said Shortclothes, “there is no death
allotted to you. I’ll find a way for you to leave Terrible Valley. Go and
take that old bridle hanging there beyond and shake it; whatever beast
comes and puts its head into the bridle will carry you.”

Lawn Dyarrig shook the bridle, and a dirty, shaggy little foal came and
put head in the bridle. Lawn Dyarrig mounted, dropped the reins on the
foal’s neck, and let him take his own choice of roads. The foal brought
Lawn Dyarrig out by another way to the upper world, and took him to
Erin. Lawn Dyarrig stopped some distance from his father’s castle, and
knocked at the house of an old weaver.

“Who are you?” asked the old man.

“I am a weaver,” said Lawn Dyarrig.

“What can you do?”

“I can spin for twelve and twist for twelve.”

“This is a very good man,” said the old weaver to his sons. “Let us try
him.”

The work they would be doing for a year he had done in one hour. When
dinner was over the old man began to wash and shave, and his two sons
began to do the same.

“Why is this?” asked Lawn Dyarrig.

“Haven’t you heard that Ur, son of the king, is to marry to-night the
woman that he took from the Green Knight of Terrible Valley?”

“I have not,” said Lawn Dyarrig; “but as all are going to the wedding, I
suppose I may go without offence.”

“Oh, you may,” said the weaver. “There will be a hundred thousand
welcomes before you.”

“Are there any linen sheets within?”

“There are,” said the weaver.

“It is well to have bags ready for yourself and two sons.”

The weaver made bags for the three very quickly. They went to the
wedding. Lawn Dyarrig put what dinner was on the first table into the
weaver’s bag, and sent the old man home with it. The food of the second
table he put in the eldest son’s bag, filled the second son’s bag from
the third table, and sent the two home.

The complaint went to Ur that an impudent stranger was taking all the
food.

“It is not right to turn any man away,” said the bridegroom; “but if that
stranger does not mind he will be thrown out of the castle.”

“Let me look at the face of the disturber,” said the bride.

“Go and bring the fellow who is troubling the guests,” said Ur, to the
servants.

Lawn Dyarrig was brought right away, and stood before the bride, who
filled a glass with wine and gave it to him. Lawn Dyarrig drank half the
wine, and dropped in the ring which the lady had given him in Terrible
Valley.

When the bride took the glass again the ring went of itself with one leap
to her finger. She knew then who was standing before her.

“This is the man who conquered the Green Knight, and saved me from
Terrible Valley,” said she to the King of Erin; “this is Lawn Dyarrig,
your son.”

Lawn Dyarrig took out the three teeth, and put them in his father’s
mouth. They fitted there perfectly, and grew into their old place. The
king was satisfied; and as the lady would marry no man but Lawn Dyarrig
he was the bridegroom.

“I must give you a present,” said the bride to the queen. “Here is a
beautiful scarf which you are to wear as a girdle this evening.”

The queen put the scarf around her waist.

“Tell me now,” said the bride to the queen, “who was Ur’s father?”

“What father could he have but his own father, the King of Erin?”

“Tighten, scarf,” said the bride.

That moment the queen thought that her head was in the sky, and the lower
half of her body down deep in the earth.

“Oh, my grief and my woe!” cried the queen.

“Answer my question in truth, and the scarf will stop squeezing you. Who
was Ur’s father?”

“The gardener,” said the queen.

“Whose son is Arthur?”

“The king’s son.”

“Tighten, scarf,” said the bride.

If the queen suffered before, she suffered twice as much this time, and
screamed for help.

“Answer me truly, and you’ll be without pain; if not, death will be on
you this minute. Whose son is Arthur?”

“The swine-herd’s.”

“Who is the king’s son?”

“The king has no son but Lawn Dyarrig.”

“Tighten, scarf.”

The scarf did not tighten, and if the bride had been commanding it for a
day and a year it would not have tightened, for the queen told the truth
that time. When the wedding was over, the king gave Lawn Dyarrig half his
kingdom, and made Ur and Arthur his servants.




BALOR ON TORY ISLAND.


Long ago Ri Balor lived on Tory Island, and he lived there because it was
prophesied that he was never to die unless he’d be killed by the son of
his only daughter.

Balor, to put the daughter in the way that she’d never have a son, went
to live on Tory, and built a castle on Tor Mor, a cliff jutting into the
ocean. He put twelve women to guard the daughter, and all around the
castle he had cords fixed, and every one of them tied to bells, so that
no man could come in secret. If any man touched a cord all the bells
would ring and give notice, and Balor would seize him.

Balor lived that way, well satisfied. He was full sure that his life was
out of danger.

Opposite on the mainland, at Druim na Teine (hill of fire), lived a
smith, Gavidin, who had his forge there. The smith owned a cow called
Glas Gavlen, and she was his enchanted step-sister.

This cow was called Gavlen because she was giving milk, and she the fifth
year without a calf. Glas Gavlen was very choice of food; she would eat
no grass but the best. But if the cow ate much good grass there was no
measuring the milk she gave; she filled every vessel, and the milk was
sweet and rich.

The smith set great value on Glas Gavlen, and no wonder, for she was the
first cow that came to Erin, and at that time the only one.

The smith took care of the cow himself, and never let her out of his
sight except when working in his forge, and then he had a careful man
minding her.

Balor had an eye on Glas Gavlen, and wanted to bring her to Tory for his
own use, so he told two agents of his, Maol and Mullag, who were living
near Druim na Teine, to get the cow for him. The smith would not part
with Glas Gavlen for any price, so there was no way left but to steal
her. There was no chance for stealing till one time when three brothers,
named Duv, Donn, and Fin, sons of Ceanfaeligh (Kinealy), went to the
forge to have three swords made.

“Each man of you is to mind the cow while I am working,” said the smith,
“and if he loses her I’ll take the head off him.”

“We will agree to that,” said the brothers.

Duv and Donn went with Glas Gavlen on the first day and the second,
and brought her back to the smith safely. When his turn came Fin took
the cow out on the third day, but when some distance from the forge he
bethought himself and ran back to tell the smith not to make his sword
so heavy as those of his brothers. The moment he was inside in the forge
Maol and Mullag, Balor’s men, stole the cow, and away they went quickly,
driving her toward Baile Nass. When they came to the brow of the slope,
where the sand begins, they drew her down to the water’s edge by the
tail, and put her into a boat which they had there prepared and ready.

They sailed toward Tory, but stopped at Inis Bofin (island of the white
cow) and put the cow out on land. She drank from a well there, which is
called since that time Tobar na Glaise (well of the gray cow). After that
they sailed on, and landed the same day at Port na Glaise, on Tory Island.

When Fin came out of the forge he saw nothing of Glas Gavlen,—neither
trace nor sign of her. He ran back then with the evil tidings to the
smith.

“If you fail to bring her back to me within three days,” said Gavidin,
“I’ll take the head off you, according to our bargain. I made the sword
to oblige you, and you promised to bring the cow or give your head.”

Away with Fin then, travelling and lamenting, looking for Glas Gavlen. He
went toward Baile Nass and came to a place on the strand where a party of
men were playing ball. He inquired of them about the cow, but they began
to make game of him, he looked so queer in himself, and was so sad. At
last one of the players, whose name was Gial Duv (Black Jaw), came up to
Fin and spoke to him: “Stand aside till the game is over, and I’ll talk
to you. This is a party of players that you should not interfere with;
they are lucht sidhe [people of the mounds, fairies]. I know what your
trouble is. I will go with you, and do my best to bring the cow. I know
where she is, and if I cannot bring her, no one can.”

They searched down as far as Maheroerty, and went then to Minlara, where
a boat was found. They sailed away in the boat, and reached Tory that
night a few hours after Maol and Mullag.

“Go now,” said Gial Duv to Fin, “and ask Balor what would release the
cow, and what can you do to earn her. I’ll stay here till you come back
to me.”

Fin went to Balor and asked the question.

“To get the cow,” said Balor, “you must eat seven green hides while one
inch of a rush-light is burning, and I’ll light it myself.”

Fin returned and told Gial Duv. “Go,” said Gial, “and tell him you will
try to do that. He will put you in a room apart with the hides and take
the rush himself. Cut the hides quickly, and if you can cut them I’ll
make away with them. I’ll be there with you, invisible.”

All this was done. Fin cut the hides and Gial Duv put them away. The
moment the rush-light was burned Balor came in, and there wasn’t a hand’s
breadth of the hides left.

“I have the seven hides eaten,” said Fin.

“Come to me to-morrow. My daughter will throw the cow’s halter. If she
throws it to you the cow will be yours.”

Fin was let out of the room then.

“Now,” said Gial Duv, “I’ll take you to Balor’s daughter. There is a
wall between the castle and the rest of the island, and I’ll take you
over it. There are cords along the wall everywhere, and whoever tries to
pass over will touch them and sound all the bells in the place. I will
raise you above them all and take you in without noise. You will go first
to Balor’s daughter; she will be pleased with you and like you. After
that you will see all the other women, and do you be as intimate with
them as with Balor’s daughter, so that they will not tell that you were
in it, and be sure to tell the daughter to throw you the cow’s halter
to-morrow.”

Fin was taken into the castle by Gial Duv without noise, and he did all
that Gial directed. Next day Fin went to Balor and asked for the cow.

“Well, come with me. Let my daughter throw the halter. If she throws it
to you the cow will be yours.”

They went. She threw the halter at Fin, and Balor was very angry. “Oh,
daughter,” cried he, “what have you done?”

“Don’t you know,” said she, “that there is a false cast in every woman’s
hand? There is a crooked vein in my arm, and I could not help it; that’s
what gave the halter to Fin.”

Balor had to give the cow and forgive the daughter. Fin took Glas Gavlen
to the mainland that day and gave her to the smith.

Before the year was out Gial Duv went to Fin and said, “Make ready and
come with me to Tory; if you don’t Balor will find out what happened when
you were on the island, and kill his own daughter, with the twelve women
and all the children.”

The two went to Tory that evening, and when the children were born the
women gave twelve of them to Fin in a blanket, and one, Balor’s grandson,
by himself in a separate cloth. Fin took his place in the boat with the
twelve on his back, and one at his breast. The blanket was fastened
at his throat with a dealg (thorn); the thorn broke (there was a great
stress on it, for the weather was rough), and the twelve children fell in
the water at Sruth Deilg and became seals.

“Oh!” cried Gial, “the children are lost. Have you Balor’s grandson?”

“I have,” answered Fin.

“That is well. We don’t care for the others while we have him.”

They brought the child to the mainland, where a nurse was found, but the
child was not thriving with her.

“Let us return to Tory with the boy,” said Gial Duv. “There is nothing
that Balor wishes for so much as trees. He has tried often to make trees
grow on the island, but it was no use for him. Do you promise that you’ll
make a grand forest on Tory if he’ll let some of the women nurse the
child. Tell him that your wife died not long ago. Balor will say, ‘How
could we find a nurse here when there is no woman on the island who has
a child of her own?’ You will say that ’tis a power this child has that
whatever woman touches him has her breast full of milk. I will put you in
with the women in the evening, and do you tell them what is wanted. The
mother is to take the child first when you go in to-morrow, and she will
hand him quickly to another and that one to a third, and so on before any
can be stopped.”

Fin gave the child to Balor’s daughter before her father could come near
her; she gave him to one of the women, and he was passed on till all
twelve had had him. It was found that all had milk, and Balor consented
to let the child be nursed.

Gial Duv made a large fine forest of various trees. For two years Balor
was delighted; he was the gladdest man, for all he wanted was trees and
shelter on Tory Island.

The child was in good hands now with his mother and the twelve women,
and when able to walk, Fin used to bring him out in the daytime. Once he
kept him and went to the mainland. The next day a terrible wind rose, and
it didn’t leave a tree standing on Tory. Balor knew now that the forest
was all enchantment and deceit, and said that he would destroy Fin and
all his clan for playing such a trick on him. Balor sent his agents and
servants to watch Fin and kill him.

Fin was warned by Gial Duv, and took care of himself for a long time,
but at last they caught him. It was his custom to hunt in Glen Ath, for
there were many deer and much game there in those days, and Fin was very
fond of hunting; but he shunned all their ambushes, till one evening when
they were lying in wait for him in the bushes by a path which he was
travelling for the first time. They leaped up when he was near, caught
him, and bound him.

“Take the head off me at one blow,” said he, “and be done with it.”

They put his head on a stone and cut it off with one blow. In this way
died Fin MacKinealy, the father of Balor’s grandson. This grandson was
a strong youth now. He was a young man, in fact, and his name was Lui
Lavada (Lui Longhand). He was called Lavada because his arms were so long
that he could tie his shoes without stooping. Lui did not know that he
was Balor’s grandson. He knew that his father had been killed by Balor’s
men, and he was waiting to avenge him.

A couple of years later there was a wedding on the mainland, and it was
the custom that no one was to begin to eat at a wedding till Maol and
Mullag should carve the first slices. They did not come this time in
season, and all the guests were impatient.

“I’ll carve the meat for you,” said Balor’s grandson. With that he carved
some slices, and all present began to eat and drink.

After a while Maol and Mullag came, and they were in a great rage because
the people were eating, drinking, and enjoying the wedding feast without
themselves.

When all had finished eating and drinking, and were ready to go home,
Maol said, “The bride will go with me.”

The bride began to cry when she heard that, and was in great distress.
Lui Lavada asked what trouble was on her, and the people told him, that
since Balor’s two deputies were ruling on the mainland it was their
custom at weddings that Maol, the first in authority, should keep company
with the bride the first evening, and Mullag the second evening.

“It’s time to put a stop to that,” said Lui Lavada, Balor’s grandson.
With that he walked up to the two and said, “Ye’ll go home out of this as
ye are.”

Maol answered with insult, and made an offer to strike him. Lui caught
Maol then and split his tongue; he cut a hole in each of his cheeks, and
putting one half of the tongue through the left cheek, and the other
through the right, he thrust a sliver of wood through the tips of each
half. He took Mullag then and treated him in like manner.

The people led the two down to the seashore after that. Lui put Maol
in one boat and Mullag in another, and let them go with the wind, which
carried them out in the ocean, and there is no account that any man saved
them.

Balor swore vengeance on the people for destroying his men, and
especially on Lui Lavada. He had an eye in the middle of his forehead
which he kept covered always with nine shields of thick leather, so that
he might not open his eye and turn it on anything, for no matter what
Balor looked at with the naked eye he burned it to ashes. He set out in a
rage then from Tory, and never stopped till he landed at Baile Nass and
went toward Gavidin’s forge. The grandson was there before him, and had a
spear ready and red hot.

When Balor had eight shields raised from the evil eye, and was just
raising the ninth, Lui Lavada sent the red spear into it. Balor pursued
his grandson, who retreated before him, going south, and never stopped
till he reached Dun Lui, near Errigal Mountain. There he sat on a rock,
wearied and exhausted. While he was sitting there, everything came to
his mind that he did since the time that his men stole Glas Gavlen from
Gavidin Gow. “I see it all now,” said he. “This is my grandson who has
given the mortal blow to me. He is the son of my daughter and Fin
MacKinealy. No one else could have given that spear cast but him.” With
that Balor called to the grandson and said, “Come near now. Take the
head off me and place it above on your own a few moments. You will know
everything in the world, and no one will be able to conquer you.”

Lui took the head off his grandfather, and, instead of putting it on his
own head, he put it on a rock. The next moment a drop came out of the
head, made a thousand pieces of the rock, and dug a hole in the earth
three times deeper than Loch Foyle,—the deepest lake in the world up to
that time,—and so long that in that hole are the waters of Gweedore Loch,
they have been there from that day to this.

       *       *       *       *       *

The above tale I wrote down on the mainland, where I found also another
version, but inferior to this. On Tory itself I found two versions, both
incomplete. Though differing in particulars, the argument is the same
in all. Balor is represented as living on Tory to escape the doom which
threatens him through a coming grandson; he covets the cow Glas Gavlen,
and finally gains her through his agents.

The theft of the cow is the first act in a series which ends with the
death of Balor at Gweedore, and brings about the fulfilment of the
prophecy. In all the variants of the tale Balor is the same unrepentant,
unconquerable character,—the man whom nothing can bend, who tries to
avenge his own fate after his death by the destruction of his grandson.
The grandson does not know whom he is about to kill. He slays Balor to
avenge his father, Fin MacKinealy, according to the vendetta of the time.




BALOR OF THE EVIL EYE AND LUI LAVADA HIS GRANDSON.


Long ago there were people in Erin called Firbolgs; and they lived
undisturbed many years, till a king called Balor Beiman came from Lochlin
with great forces, made war on the Firbolgs, killed their king, and drove
themselves out of Erin.

The Firbolgs went to Spain; and there they were looking for means of
support, but could find none, unless what they got for work in carrying
mortar.

They carried mortar, and lived that way till at long last the Spaniards
said, “These people are too many in number; let us drive them out of the
country.” So the Spaniards drove out the Firbolgs, and they came back to
Erin. In Erin they attacked Balor and his Lochlin men, but were defeated
with loss a second time. When they left Erin again, the Firbolgs went to
the lands of Gallowna, and there they lived undisturbed and unharmed.

When the Firbolgs were driven out of Erin the second time, Balor Beiman
summoned his chief men, and said to them, “I will go back to Lochlin now
and live there in quiet. I am too old to fight with new enemies. I will
leave my sons here with you to rule in place of myself; and do ye obey
them, and be as brave under them as ye were under me.”

With that Balor left Erin, sailed away, and never stopped till he reached
home in Lochlin.

At that time there was a smith in Erin named Gaivnin Gow, and he had a
cow called Glas Gownach. The smith had a magic halter with which he used
to tie the cow every night.

Glas Gownach travelled three provinces of Erin every day, and came home
in the evening; the halter had power over her, and she went always to the
halter in the evening if left to herself.

The cow gave milk to every one on her journey each day,—no matter how
large the vessels were that people brought, or how many, she filled them;
there was no lack of milk in Erin while that cow was in it. She was sent
to give food and comfort to all, and she gave it, but especially to poor
people.

Balor Beiman had his eye on the cow, and, when going back to Lochlin from
Erin, he watched his chance and stole the halter. Gaivnin Gow saw the
theft, but too late to prevent it. Balor escaped with the halter, and
made off to Lochlin.

Gaivnin Gow ran quickly to Glas Gownach, caught her by the tail, and held
her that way till evening, when he drove her home carefully, and shut her
up in the forge behind the bellows, where he milked her.

Gaivnin Gow stopped work in his forge now, and did nothing but mind the
cow. He went out in the morning, followed her through every place, and
brought her back in the evening. He held her tail all the day, and never
let go his hold of her till he had her fastened behind the bellows.

The people got milk as before from Glas Gownach wherever she went through
the country; but the smith got no milk till he had the cow enclosed in
the forge.

The widow of the king of the Firbolgs took a new husband in the land of
Gallowna, and had seven sons there. When the eldest, Geali Dianvir, had
grown up, she said to him, “I will give you ships now, and go you to Erin
with warriors and good champions to know can we get satisfaction of those
people who hunted us out of our country like hares or foxes.”

The son took the ships, and sailed away with champions and heroes, and
never stopped till he sailed into Caola Beag (Killybegs, in Donegal). He
landed in that place, left his ships safely fastened, and went forward
travelling. He never stopped on his way nor halted till he came to a
place called Blan Ri. He halted in that place, for before him were three
armies fighting.

When they saw the new forces coming, the armies stopped fighting.

“Why are ye fighting here with three armies?” asked Dianvir; “what is the
cause of your struggle?”

The leader of one army said, “We are brothers; our father died not long
since; he was king of three provinces, and I think it my right to be king
in his place.”

The leader of the second army, the middle brother, said, “I have as much
right to be king after my father as he has.”

The third brother said, “I have as much right to be king as either of
them.”

Neither of the three was willing to yield his claim, or obey one of the
others; but they were all ready to fight while their strength lasted.

“Your trouble can be settled easily,” said Dianvir; “if ye are willing.”

“Settle it, and do us a service,” said the eldest brother.

“I will; but ye must take my judgment and obey it.”

“We will,” said all the brothers. “We will accept your decision, and do
what you tell us.”

“Listen, then,” said Dianvir: “you, the eldest, will be king for this
year. You, the second, will be king in his place the second year; and
you, the youngest brother, will be king the third year. The fourth year,
you, the eldest brother, will be king again for a year; and so it will go
on, and you and your two brothers will be spending time happily all your
lives.”

The three brothers agreed, and were glad. The eldest was king that first
year. Dianvir went his way; but he had hardly gone out of their sight
when the youngest of the three brothers said, “That man will make trouble
for us yet; my advice is to follow him, and put an end to himself and his
men before they can harm us.”

“Oh,” said the eldest, “sure ye would not kill the man who gave us good
counsel and settled our difficulty?”

“No matter what he did,” said the youngest; “he will give you trouble yet
if ye let him go. Follow him, put an end to him, or he will put an end to
us.”

They sent men after Dianvir. As Dianvir was a stranger in Erin he had no
knowledge of the roads: when a lake was before him he was long going
around it; when he came to a deep river he was long finding a ford.

Dianvir’s men were cut off, most of them fell, and he himself fell with
others. A small number escaped to the ships, took one of them, and sailed
to the land of Gallowna. They told the queen the whole story, told how
they had been treated with treachery.

“I will have satisfaction for my son,” said the mother. “I will have it
without waiting long.” With that she had ships and boats prepared, and
went herself with her other sons, and strong forces, to take vengeance on
the brothers. The queen and her forces were six weeks sailing hither and
over, driven by strong winds, when one morning a sailor at the topmast
cried, “I see land!”

“Is it more or less of it that you see?” asked the queen.

“I see land, the size of a pig’s back,” said the sailor, “and a black
back it is.”

They sailed three days and nights longer, and on the fourth morning they
were near shore, and landed in Bantry (White Strand). The queen fixed
her house at Ardneevy, and prepared for action; but instead of the three
brothers it was the sons of Balor she had against her.

War began, and the Lochlin men were getting the upper hand the first
days. At some distance from their camp was a well of venom, and into this
well they dipped their swords and spears before going to battle, and the
man of the enemy who was barely grazed by a weapon dipped in the well
was as badly off as the man whose head was taken from him. There was no
chance now for the queen’s forces, so she called her sons and said to
them, “We’ll be destroyed to the last one unless we find help against
this venom. Go to the Old Blind Sage, and ask advice of him.”

The sons went to the sage, and the advice they got was this,—

“There is a well of venom not far from the camp of the Lochlin men.
Before going to battle they dip their swords and spears in that water,
and the enemy who is touched by those weapons that day is killed as
surely as if the head had been swept from him. Ye are to get twenty
measures of the milk of Glas Gownach, and pour it into that well in the
night-time; the milk will be going down in the well and the poison will
be rising and going out till it flows away and is lost altogether. Take,
then, a hundred swords and spears to Gaivnin Gow, the smith, to put
temper on their points and edges. He will do this if ye follow the cow
all day for him and bring her home safely in the evening.”

The queen’s sons did what the sage advised. The venom went from the well
when the cow’s milk was poured into it. From that night out the weapons
of the Lochlin men were common swords and spears.

When the queen’s sons went with the swords and spears to Gaivnin Gow,
he said, “I cannot work for you. I am minding this cow, Glas Gownach,
that travels three provinces of Erin every day; I must go with her
wherever she goes, bring her home, and put her behind the bellows in the
forge every night. If the cow goes from me I am lost, with my wife and
children. We have no means of support but her milk.”

“I am as good a man as you,” said the best of the brothers; “I will mind
the cow, and bring her back in the evening.”

The smith let the cow go with him at last, and went to work at the swords
and spears. The young man followed the cow faithfully, all day, brought
her back in the evening, left her outside the forge, and went in himself.
The smith had the swords and spears tempered.

“Where is the cow Glas Gownach?” asked Gaivnin Gow.

“Outside at the door.”

“Bad luck to you, she is gone from me now, gone forever!”

They went out. Not a trace of Glas Gownach. She had gone to Balor Beiman
in Lochlin, for he had the halter.

There was a great battle on the following day, the queen fell and her
sons, except two. Balor’s sons were all killed, and the Lochlin men
driven away.

Balor rose up in anger when the news came to Lochlin. “I’ll have
satisfaction for my sons,” said he. “I will burn all Erin!”

Besides his two eyes Balor had a third one, an evil eye, in the middle
of his forehead, with the power to burn everything in the world that it
looked upon. Over this eye he kept seven steel shields, and a lock on
each one of them.

“I will destroy Erin, and no man can stop me,” said Balor; “for no man
can kill me but the son of my daughter. She has no son, and if she had
itself, he could kill me only with the red spear made by Gaivnin Gow, and
it cast into my eye the moment I raise the last shield from it, when I am
standing on Muin Duv[4] [Black Back] to burn Erin.”

One day the two brothers were talking, and Cian, the youngest son of the
queen of the Firbolgs, said to his only living brother, “We have done
great harm to Gaivnin Gow. It is by us that the cow went from him, and we
should bring her back.”

“That is more than we can do,” said the second brother, “unless we get
help from Bark an Tra, the druid.”

The two brothers went to Bark an Tra, and Cian told their story.

“The work is a hard one; I don’t know can you do it,” said the druid;
“but you can try; I will help you. The cow is with Balor Beiman, in
Lochlin. He stole her halter when he went from Erin; and she followed it
the day your brother left her outside the forge. No man can bring the cow
with him unless he has the halter, and it is hard to get that.

“Balor Beiman can be killed only by the son of his daughter; he has
her behind seven locked doors. No living person sees the daughter but
himself. He sees her every day, takes food and drink to her. To bring
back the cow you must make the acquaintance of Balor’s daughter. I will
give you a cloak of darkness; put it over you, and make your way to
Lochlin. When Balor goes to see his daughter, you go with him. He opens
one door, goes in and locks it, opens the second, goes in and locks
that, and so on. When he is inside in his daughter’s chamber the seven
doors are locked behind him.”

Cian put on the cloak of darkness, and no man could see him; he went to
Lochlin then, and followed Balor to his daughter’s chamber. He waited
till the night when she was sleeping, went then to her bedside, and put
his hand on her heavily.

She screamed, saying, “Some one is in the chamber.”

Balor came, very angry and with an evil face, to see who was in it. He
searched the chamber through, searched many times, found no one. Failing
to find any one, he returned to his own place and went to bed. Cian came
again and put a heavier hand on Balor’s daughter. She roared out that
some one was in the chamber. Balor came, searched, and looked several
times, and went away. The third time the young man put a still heavier
hand on the maiden, and she screamed louder. Balor searched this time
more carefully, found no man, and said, “Oh, you are a torment; it’s
dreaming you are. You are hoping for some one to be in the world to
destroy me, but that is what never will be. If I hear another scream here
I will take the head off you surely.”

No sooner was Balor gone this time, and the seven doors locked, than the
young man came again, and put a heavier hand than ever on the maiden. She
did not scream then; she was in dread of her father, but said slowly,
“Are you a living man or a ghost?”

“I am so and so,” said Cian, “the best champion in the world, and I have
come here to win you.” He talked on till he pleased her, they agreed
then. He spent three days in her company. On the fourth day he followed
Balor out of the chamber, and away with him back to Erin. He went to Bark
an Tra, the druid.

“Were you in Lochlin with Balor?”

“I was.”

“How did you behave?”

“So and so,” said Cian.

“You must be there again at the right time.”

Cian was back in Lochlin at the right time, unseen in his cloak of
darkness, and brought away a child with him to Erin. The child was not
thriving for three years, hardly lived, and was puny.

“The child is not doing well,” said Cian to the druid.

“The child will do well yet,” answered Bark an Tra. “Take him now to
Lochlin as far as Balor; the child will not thrive till his grandfather
calls him by name.”

Cian went to Balor. “Well,” said Balor, “who are you and what journey are
you on?”

“I am a poor man looking for service.”

“What child is that you have with you?”

“My own child,” said Cian; “my wife is dead.”

“What can you do?” asked Balor.

“I am the best gardener in the world.”

“I have a better gardener than you,” said Balor.

“You have not. What can your gardener do?”

“The tree that he plants on Monday morning has the finest ripe apples in
the world on Saturday night.”

“That’s nothing. The tree that I plant in the morning I’ll pluck from it
in the evening the finest ripe apples you have ever set eyes on.”

“I do not like to have any child near my castle,” said Balor; “but I will
keep you for a time, even with the child, if your wages are not too great
for me.”

“I will work a day and a year for the cow.”

Balor agreed to the terms, and took Cian. Balor spoke no word to the
child, good or bad, and the boy was not thriving. One day Cian was
bringing to Balor a lot of fine apples from one of his trees; he stumbled
on the threshold, and the apples fell to the floor. All the people
present ran to gather the apples, the child better than others. He worked
so nimbly that he picked up two-thirds of all that had fallen, though a
whole crowd was picking as well as himself.

“Tog leat Lui Lavada [Take away with you Little Long Hand],” cried Balor.

“Oh, he has the name now,” said Cian.

Cian worked his time out then, and said, “I will take my pay another day.”

“You may take it when you like,” said Balor.

Cian took his son to Erin; the child grew wonderfully after that, and was
soon of full strength.

Cian went to the druid.

“The time is near,” said the druid, “when Balor will stand on Muin Duv.
He’ll raise his eye-shields; and if the red spear is not put in his eye
when the last shield is raised, all Erin will be burned in one flash. Go
now and ask Balor Beiman for your wages; say that you want the cow Glas
Gownach, for we want her and must have her. He will refuse, dispute, and
quarrel, give bad names. You will say that he must pay you, must give the
cow or go to judgment. He will go to judgment rather than give the cow;
and do you choose his daughter as judge; she will give the cow to you.”

“I will go to judgment,” said Balor, when Cian insisted on getting the
cow. “What judgment will you have?”

“My case is a true one,” said Cian. “I ask no judge but the one yourself
will take. I ask no judge but your own daughter.”

“Let her be the judge,” said Balor.

Cian put on his cloak of darkness, and, going to the daughter, explained
his case to her. Next day Balor went in and told her all the story of the
cow Glas Gownach.

“I must have nine days to think the matter over,” said Balor’s daughter.

She got the time, then she asked three days more. On the thirteenth
morning Balor went to her and said, “The judgment must be made to-day.”

“Well,” said the daughter, “go out now and stand before the window, you
and the gardener, and to whomever the halter comes from me he’ll have the
cow.”

When they stood in front of the window, she threw the halter to Cian.

“How could you do that?” cried out Balor.

“Oh, father, they say there is always a crooked cast in a woman’s hand. I
threw toward you; but it’s to the gardener the halter went.”

Balor let the cow go. He was very angry, but could not help himself.
“You have Glas Gownach; but I’ll have satisfaction in my own time,” cried
he, as Cian went away.

“We have troubled you greatly with our work,” said Cian to Gaivnin Gow;
“but here is the cow for you, and with her the halter. You can stay at
home now and rest; you need follow her no longer.”

Cian went that night to the druid, and said, “I have the cow back in
Erin.”

“It is well that you have,” answered the druid. “In five days from
this Balor will be here to burn Up Erin. He will stand on Muin Duv at
daybreak. He will raise all the shields from his eye; and unless a spear
made by Gaivnin Gow is hurled into his eye by his grandson that instant,
he will have all Erin in flames. You must bring Gaivnin Gow and the forge
with you to Muin Duv, have the spear made, and all things prepared there;
and your son must be ready to throw the red spear at the right moment.”

Gaivnin Gow came. They brought the forge, the spear, and all that was
needed, put them behind a rock on the side of Muin Duv. On the fifth
morning, at daylight, Balor was on the top of Muin Duv; and the instant
the last shield reached his upper eyelid Lui Lavada struck him with the
spear, and Balor fell dead.




ART, THE KING’S SON, AND BALOR BEIMENACH, TWO SONS-IN-LAW OF KING UNDER
THE WAVE.


The King of Leinster was at war for twenty years, and conquered all
before him. He had a son named Art; and, when the wars were over, this
son was troubled because he could find no right bride for himself. No
princess could suit him or his father; for they wanted an only daughter.
In this trouble they went to the old druid.

“Wait,” said the druid, “till I read my book of enchantment; and then I
will tell you where to find such a woman.”

He read his book, but could find no account of an only daughter of the
right age and station. At last the druid said to the king, “Proclaim over
all Erin that if any man knows of such a princess he is to come to this
castle and tell you.”

The king did as the druid advised. At long last a sailor walked the way,
and went to the king. “I know,” said he, “of the woman you wish.”

“Who is she?” asked the king.

“The only daughter of the King of Greece, and she is beautiful. But it is
better to keep your son at home than to send him abroad; for there is no
man who could not find a good wife in Erin.”

Art would not listen to this advice, but said, “I will go and get that
one.”

Next morning he made ready, took farewell of his father, and away he
went on his journey. He rode a fine steed to the seashore; there he took
a ship, and nothing more is told of him till he touched land in Greece.
The King of Greece received Art with great welcome, gave a feast of seven
days in his honor, and sent heralds through the city declaring that any
man who would fall asleep till the end of the seven days would have the
head swept off his body.

Silk and satin were spread under Art’s feet, and respect of every kind
shown him. He was entertained seven days, and at last, when the king
didn’t ask him what journey he was on, he said, “It is a wonder to me
that you do not ask what brought me, and why I am travelling.”

“I am not surprised at all,” said the king. “A good father’s son like
you, and a man of such beauty, ought to travel all nations, and see every
people.”

“I am not travelling to show myself nor to see people. Men told me that
you have an only daughter. I want her in marriage, and ’tis for her sake
that I am here.”

“I have never heard news I liked better,” said the king; “and if my
daughter is willing, and her mother is satisfied, you have my blessing.”

Art went to the queen and told her the cause of his coming.

“If the king and my daughter are satisfied,” replied she, “that is the
best tale that man could bring me.”

Art went to the princess, and she said, “If my father and mother are
willing, your words are most welcome to me; but there is one obstacle
between us,—I can marry no man but the man who will bring me the head of
the Gruagach of Bungling Leaps.”

“Where is he to be found?” asked Art.

“If ’twas in the east he was, I would direct you to the west; and if
’twas in the west he was, I would send you to the east: but not to harm
you would I do this, for thousands of men have gone toward that gruagach,
and not a man of them has ever come back.”

“Your opinion of me is not very high. I must follow my nose and find the
road.”

Next morning Art took farewell of the king, and went his way travelling
to know could he find the gruagach. At that time gruagachs and heroes
lived in old castles. Art inquired and inquired till he heard where the
gruagach lived.

At last he came to the castle, and shouted outside; but if he did it was
no use for him, he got no answer. Art walked in, found the gruagach on
the flat of his back, fast asleep and snoring. The gruagach had a sword
in his hand. Art caught the sword, but could not stir it from the grasp
of the gruagach.

“’Tis hard to say,” thought he, “that I could master you awake, if I can
do nothing to you in your slumber; but it would be a shame to strike a
sleeping man.”

He hit the gruagach with the flat of his sword below the knee, and woke
him. The gruagach opened his eyes, sat up, and said, “It would be fitter
for you to be herding cows and horses than to be coming to this place to
vex me.”

“I am not here to give excuse or satisfaction to you,” said Art, “but to
knock satisfaction out of your flesh, bones, and legs, and I’ll take the
head off you if I can.”

“It seems, young man, that it is a princess you want; and she will not
marry you without my head.”

“That is the truth.”

“What is your name?” asked the gruagach; “and from what country do you
come?”

“My name is Art, and I am son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

“Your name is great, and there is loud talk of you, but your size is not
much; and if the princess were in question between us, I would think as
little of putting that small hill there on the top of the big one beyond
it as of killing you. For your father’s sake, I would not harm you; your
father is as good a man for a stranger to walk to as there is in the
world; and for that reason go home and don’t mind me or the princess, for
your father and mother waited long for you, and would be sorry to lose
you.”

“Very thankful am I,” said Art, “for your kind speech; but as I came
so far from home, and want the princess, I’ll knock a trial out of you
before I leave this place.”

Next morning the two faced each other, and fought like wild bulls, wild
geese, or wolves, fought all day with spears and swords. Art was growing
weak, and was not injuring the gruagach till evening, when he thought,
“Far away am I from father, mother, home, and country.” With that he got
the strength of a hundred men, gave one blow to the gruagach under the
chin, and sent his head spinning through the air. That moment the body
went down through the earth.

When the body disappeared, Art thought the head would come down like any
other thing; but the earth opened, and the head flew into the earth and
vanished.

“I will go back to the castle of the King of Greece,” thought Art, “and
tell him the whole story.”

On the way to the castle, and while passing a cabin, a big old man came
out of the cabin, and cried, “Welcome, Art, son of the King of Leinster.
It is too far you are going to-night. Stay with me, if you like my
entertainment.”

“Very thankful am I,” said Art, “and glad to stay with you. It is weak
and tired I am.”

When he went in, the old man stripped him, put him first into a caldron
of venom, and then into a caldron of cure, and he was as well as ever.

“Would go against the gruagach to-morrow?” asked the old man.

“I would if I knew where to find him.”

“You will find him where he was to-day; but he will be twice as strong
to-morrow, since you vexed him to-day.”

After breakfast Art went to the castle, and found the gruagach asleep, as
the first time, struck him with the flat of his sword, but so hard that
he saw stars.

“Art, son of the King of Leinster, you are not satisfied yet; but you
will suffer.”

“I am not satisfied,” said Art. “I’ll have your head or you will have
mine.”

“Go home to your father and mother; don’t trouble me: that is my advice.”

“I am thankful to you,” said Art, jestingly; “but I’ll take a trial of
you.”

They fought as before. The gruagach had twice the strength of the first
day; and Art was knocking no quarters out of him, but suffering from
every blow, his flesh falling and his blood flowing.

“I am not to last long,” thought Art, “unless I can do something.” He
remembered his father and mother then, and how far he was from home; that
moment the strength of two hundred men came to him. With one blow he
swept off the gruagach’s head and sent it twice as far into the sky as on
the first day; the body sank through the earth. Art stood at the place
where the body had vanished.

When the head was coming down, and was near, he caught it and held it
firmly by the hair; then, cutting a withe, he thrust it through the ears
and, throwing the head over his shoulder, started for the castle of the
King of Greece; but before reaching the old man’s cabin, he met three men
and with them a headless body.

“Where are ye going?” asked Art.

“This body lost its head in the eastern world, and we are travelling the
earth to know can we find a head to match it.”

“Do you think this one would do?” asked Art of one of the men.

“I don’t know,” said he; “it is only for us to try.”

The moment the head was put on the body, men, head, and body went down
through the earth.

Art went to the old man, and told him of all that had happened.

“You were very foolish,” said the old man, “to do what you did. Why did
you not keep the head and bring it to me? I would tell you what to do.”
The old man cured Art’s wounds, and after supper he asked, “Will you
fight the gruagach again?”

“I will.”

“Well, if you have the luck to knock the head off him a third time, never
part with it till you come to me.”

Art went a third time to the gruagach, struck him with the flat of his
sword, and knocked ferns out of his eyes.

“Oh, ho! Art, son of the King of Leinster, you are not satisfied yet, it
seems. To-day will tell all. You’ll fall here.”

They went at each other with venom; and each sought the head of the other
so fiercely that each hair on him would hold an iron apple. The gruagach
had the upper hand till evening. Art thought of home then, of the young
princess, and of the mean opinion that she had of him, and gave such a
blow that the gruagach’s head vanished in the sky. The body went through
the earth, and Art stood as before at the place where it sank till he saw
the head coming; he seized it, cut two withes, passed them through the
ears, threw the head over his shoulder, and went toward the old man’s
cabin. He was within one mile of the house, when he saw, flying from the
southeast, three ravens, and each bird seemed the size of a horse. At
that time a terrible thirst came on him; he put the gruagach’s head on
the ground, and stooped to drink from a spring near the wayside; that
moment one of the ravens swept down and carried off the head.

“I am in a worse state now than ever,” said Art, lamenting.

He went to the cabin of the old man, who received him well, and cured
him, and said, “You may go home now, since you did not keep the head when
you had it; or you may go into a forest where there is a boar, and that
boar is far stronger and fiercer than the gruagach: but if you can kill
the boar, you will win yet, if you do what I tell you. When the boar is
dead, open the body and hide in it. The three ravens will come after
awhile to eat; you can catch one of them, and hold it till the others
bring the head.”

Art went away to the forest. He was not long in it when the boar caught
the scent of him, and ran at him, snapped at his body, and took pieces
out of it. Art defended himself till evening, and was more losing than
gaining, when he remembered home and that princess who thought so little
of his valor. He got the strength of four hundred men then, and made two
even halves of the boar. When Art tried to draw his sword, it was broken
at the hilt: and he let three screeches out of him that were heard all
over the kingdom. He could not prepare the carcass, so he went to the old
man with the sword hilt.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you,” said the old man; “and you deserve
them. You are the best man I have seen in life.”

“I do not deserve the welcomes,” said Art; “’Tis badly the day has gone
with me: my sword is broken.”

“I will give you a better one,” said the old man, taking him to a room
where there was nothing but swords. “Here are swords in plenty; take your
choice of them.”

Art tried many, but broke one after another. At last he caught an old
rusty blade, and shook it. The sword screeched so fiercely that it was
heard in seven kingdoms, and his father and mother heard it in Erin.

“This blade will do,” said Art.

“Come, now, and we’ll prepare the boar,” said the old man.

The two went and dressed the boar in the way to give Art room within the
body, and a place to seize the raven. The old man went to a hilltop, at a
distance, and sat there till he heard the three ravens coming, and they
cawing as before. “Oh, it is ye that are coming!” thought he. The birds
came to the ground, and walked about, till at last one of them began to
peck at the carcass. Art caught that one quickly by the neck; the bird
struggled and struggled.

“You might as well stop,” said Art; “you’ll not go from me. This fellow’s
head, or the head ye took yesterday,” said Art to the other two.

“Kill not our brother,” cried they; “we’ll bring the head quickly.”

“He has but two hours to live, unless ye bring here the head ye took from
me.”

The ravens were not gone one hour when the gruagach’s head was in Art’s
hands, and the raven was free.

“Come home with me now,” said the old man. Art went with him. “Show this
head to the princess,” said the old man; “but do not give it to her;
bring it back here to me.”

Art went to the king’s castle, and, showing the head to the princess,
said, “Here is the head which you wanted; but I will not marry you.” He
turned away then, went to the old man, and gave him the head. The old man
threw the head on a body which was lying in the cabin; the head and the
body became one, and just like the old man.

“Now, Art, king’s son from Erin, the gruagach was my brother, and for the
last three hundred years he was under the enchantment of that princess,
the only daughter of the King of Greece. The princess is old, although
young in appearance; my brother would have killed me as quickly as he
would you; and he was to be enchanted till you should come and cut the
head off him, and show it to the princess, and not marry her, and I
should do as I have done. My brother and I will stay here, take care of
our forests, and be friends to you. Go you back to Erin: a man can find a
good wife near home, and need not look after foreign women.”

Art went to Erin, and lived with his father and mother. One morning he
saw a ship coming in, and only one man on board, the Red Gruagach, and
he having a golden apple on the end of a silver spindle, and throwing the
apple up in the air and catching it on the spindle.

The Red Gruagach came to Art, and asked, “Will you play a game with me?”

“I have never refused to play,” said Art; “but I have no dice.”

The gruagach took out dice; they played. Art won. “What is your wish?”
asked the gruagach.

“Get for me in one moment the finest woman on earth, with twelve
attendant maidens and thirteen horses.”

The Red Gruagach ran to his ship, and brought the woman with her maidens;
the horses came bridled and saddled. When Art saw the woman, he fell in
love, took her by the hand, and went to the castle. They were married
that day. The Red Gruagach would not sail away; he stayed near the castle
and watched. Art’s young wife knew this, and would not let her husband
leave the castle without her.

Two or three months later she fell ill, and sent for the old king. “You
must guard Art, and keep him safe,” said she, “till I recover.”

Next morning the king was called aside for some reason, and Art went out
of the castle that moment. At the gate he met the gruagach, who asked
him to play. They played with the gruagach’s dice, and Art lost.

“Give your sentence,” said he to the gruagach.

“You will hear it too soon for your comfort. You are to bring me the
sword of light, and the story of the man who has it.”

Art’s wife saw the king coming back. “Where is Art?” asked she.

“Outside at the gate.”

She sprang through the door, though sick, but too late.

“You are not a husband for me now, you must go from me,” said she to
Art. “The man who has the sword of light is my sister’s husband; he has
the strength of thousands in him, and can run with the speed of wild
beasts. You did not know me, did not know that I was not that gruagach’s
daughter; you did not ask me who I was. Now you are in trouble, you must
go. Sit on the horse that I rode, and that the gruagach gave you, take
the bridle in your right hand, and let the horse go where he pleases;
he will face the ocean, but a road will open before him, and he will
never stop till he comes to my father’s castle. My father is King Under
the Wave. The horse will stop at steps in front of the castle; you will
dismount then. My father will ask where you got that steed, and you will
say you got him when you won him and the daughter of King Under the Wave
from the Red Gruagach.”

Next morning Art took farewell of his wife and his father and mother,
started, and never stopped nor dismounted till he came to the steps
outside the castle-yard where horsemen used to mount and dismount. He
came down then.

“Where did you get that horse?” asked King Under the Wave; “and where is
the rider who left my castle on his back?”

“I won him and the daughter of King Under the Wave from the Red Gruagach.”

“Ah, ’tis easily known to me that it was the Foxy Gruagach who stole my
child. Now, who are you, and where are you going?”

“I am Art, son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

King Under the Wave gave a hundred thousand welcomes to Art then, and
said, “You are the best king’s son that has ever lived; and if my
daughter was to go from me, I am glad that it is to you she went. It is
for the fortune that you are here, I suppose?”

“I am not here for a fortune; but I am in heavy trouble. I am in search
of the sword of light.”

“If you are going for that sword, I fear that you will not be a
son-in-law of mine long. It is the husband of another daughter of mine
who has the sword of light now; and while he has it, he could kill
the whole world. But I like you better, and will send servants to the
stable to get you the worst horse for to-night; you will need the best
afterward. Balor Beimenach, this son-in-law of mine, will grow stronger
each time you go to his castle. One of my men will ride with you, and
show you where Balor lives, and show you the window of the room where
he sleeps. You will turn your horse’s back to the window, and call out,
‘Are you asleep, Balor Beimenach?’ He will reply, and call out, ‘What do
you want?’ You will answer, ‘The sword of light and the story of Balor
Beimenach.’ Put spurs to your horse that instant, and ride away, with
what breath the horse has. I will have the twelve gates of this castle
open before you, to know will you bring the life with you. Balor is
bound not to cross a gate or a wall of this castle without my request,
or to follow any man through a gate or over a wall of mine. He must stop
outside.”

On the following day, Art and a serving-man rode away; the man pointed
out Balor’s castle, and the window of his bedchamber. In the evening, Art
rode up to the window, and shouted, “Are you asleep, Balor Beimenach?”

“Not very soundly. What do you want?”

“The sword of light and the story of Balor Beimenach.”

“Wait, and you will get them!”

Art put spurs to his horse, and shot away. Balor Beimenach was after him
in a flash. Art’s horse was the worst in the stables of King Under the
Wave, though better than the best horse in another kingdom. Still Balor
was gaining on him, and when he came near the castle, he had not time to
reach the gate. He spurred over the wall; but if he did, Balor cut his
horse in two behind the saddle, and Art fell in over the wall with the
front half.

Balor was raging; he went to his castle, but slept not a wink,—walked his
chamber till morning to know would Art come again.

Next evening, Art rode to the window on a better horse, and called out,
“Balor Beimenach, are you asleep?” and raced away. Balor followed, and
followed faster. Art could not reach the gate before him, so he spurred
his horse over the wall. Balor cut this one in two just at the saddle.
Art tumbled down from the wall with his life.

This enraged Balor more than the first escape; he slept not a wink that
night, but was walking around the whole castle and cursing till morning.

King Under the Wave gave Art the best horse in his stable, for the third
night, and said, “This is your last chance with horses. I hope you will
escape; but I’m greatly in dread that Balor will catch you. Now put this
horse to full speed before you shout, and you will have some chance if
your horse runs with what speed there is in him.”

Art obeyed the king. But Balor killed that horse as he had the other two,
and came nearer killing Art; for he cut a piece of the saddle behind him,
and Art came very near falling outside the wall; but he fell in, and
escaped with his life.

“Well,” said King Under the Wave, on the fourth day, “no horse that ever
lived could escape him the fourth time. Every vein in his body is wide
open from thirst for blood; he would use every power that is in him
before he would let you escape. But here is where your chance is. Balor
has not slept for three nights; he will be sound asleep this time; the
sword of light will be hanging above his head near his grasp. Do you slip
into the room, and walk without noise; if you can touch the sword, you
will have all Balor’s strength, and then he will give you the story.”

Art did as the king directed. He slipped into the room, saw the sword of
light hanging just above Balor’s head. He went up without noise till he
caught the hilt of the sword; and that moment it let out a screech that
was heard throughout the dominions of King Under the Wave, and through
all Erin.

Balor woke, and was very weak when he saw Art. The moment Art touched the
hilt of the sword, he had all the strength that Balor had before. The
screech that the sword gave put Balor in such fear that he fell to the
floor, struck his face against the bed-post, and got a great lump on his
forehead.

“Be quiet,” said Art; “the sword is mine, and now I want the story.”

“Who are you?” asked Balor, “and what land are you from? It seems that
you are a friend of my father-in-law; for he is shielding and aiding you
these four nights.”

“I am a friend of his, and also his son-in-law. I wish to be your friend
as well.”

“What is your name?” asked Balor.

“Art, son of the King of Leinster, in Erin.”

“I would rather you had the sword than any other man save myself.”

Balor rose, and went to his wife, and said, “Come with me to your
father’s castle.”

King Under the Wave gave a great feast, and when the feast was over
Balor Beimenach took Art aside, and told him this story: “I was married
to my wife but a short time, and living in that castle beyond, when I
wanted to go to a fair. When not far from the castle, I found I had left
my whip behind, and went back for it. For years there had lived in my
castle a cripple. On returning I found that my wife had disappeared with
this cripple. I went after them in a rage. When I reached her, she struck
me with a rod of enchantment, and made a white horse of me. She gave me
then to a servant, who was to take grain to a mill with me. I had no
saddle on my back, only a chain to cut and gall me. Though a horse, I had
my own knowledge. I wanted freedom. The boy who drove me misused me, and
beat me. I broke his leg with a kick, and ran away among wild hills to
pasture. I had the best grass, and lived for a time at my ease; but my
wife heard of me, and had me brought home. She struck me again with her
rod of enchantment, made a wolf of me. I ran away to rocky places. The
wolves of the mountains bit and tore me; but at last they grew friendly.
I took twelve of these with me, and we killed my wife’s cattle, day and
night. She collected hunters and hounds, who killed six of the wolves.
The other six and I were more harmful than ever. A second party killed
the other six, and I was alone. They surrounded me; there was no escape
then. I saw among the hunters my own father-in law. I ran to King Under
the Wave, fell down before him, looked into his face; he pitied and saved
me, took me home with him.

“My wife was at her father’s that day, and knew me. She begged the king
to kill me; but he would not; he kept me. I served him well, and he
loved me. I slept in the castle. One night a great serpent came down
the chimney, and began to crawl toward the king’s little son, sleeping
there in the cradle. I saw the serpent, and killed it. My wife was at her
father’s castle that night, and rose first on the following morning. She
saw the child sleeping, and the serpent lying dead. She took the child to
her own chamber, rubbed me with blood from the serpent, and told the king
that I had eaten the child. ‘I begged you long ago to kill that wolf,’
said she to her father; ‘if you had followed my advice you would not be
without your son now.’ She turned and went out.

“Right there on a table was the rod of enchantment, which my wife had
forgotten. I sprang toward the king; he was startled, and struck me with
the rod, without knowing its power. I became a man, was myself again,
and told the king my whole story. We went to my wife’s chamber; there the
king found his son living and well. King Under the Wave gave command then
to bring seven loads of turf with seven barrels of pitch, make one pile
of them, and burn his daughter and the cripple on the top of the pile.

“‘Grant me one favor,’ cried I. ‘I will,’ said the king. ‘Spare your
daughter; she may live better now.’ ‘I will,’ said the king; ‘but they
will burn the cripple.’

“That is my story for you. Go now, and tell it to the Red Gruagach;
keep the sword in your hand while telling the story; and when you have
finished, throw the sword into the air, and say, ‘Go to Balor Beimenach!’
It will come to me. When you need the sword, send me word; I will throw
it to you; and we’ll have the strength of thousands between us.”

Art gave a blessing to all, and mounted his wife’s steed; the road
through the sea opened before him. The wife received him with a hundred
thousand welcomes. After that he went to the Red Gruagach, and,
holding the sword of light in his hand, told the story. When the story
was finished, he threw the sword in the air, and said, “Go to Balor
Beimenach.”

“Why did you not give me the sword?” cried the Red Gruagach, in a rage.

“If I was bound to bring the sword, I was not bound to give it to you,”
answered Art. “And now leave this place forever.”

Art lived happily with his wife, and succeeded his father.




SHAWN MACBREOGAN AND THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION.


There was a very rich man once who lived near Brandon Bay, and his name
was Breogan.

This Breogan had a deal of fine land, and was well liked by all people
who knew him. One morning as he was walking on the strand for himself, he
found, above the highest tide, a little colt, barely the size of a goat;
and a very nice colt he was.

“Oh, what a beautiful little beast!” said Breogan; “he doesn’t belong to
any one in this country. He is not mine; but still and all I’ll take him.
If an owner comes the way, sure he can prove his claim, if he is able.”

Breogan carried the colt to the stable, and fed him as well as any beast
that he had. The colt was thriving well; and when twelve months were
passed, it was a pleasure to look at him. Breogan put him in a stable by
himself after that, and kept him three years. At the end of the third
year, it isn’t a little colt he was, but a grand, fiery steed. Breogan
invited all his friends and neighbors to a feast and a great merrymaking.
“This will be a good time,” thought he, “to find a man to ride the
strange colt.”

There was a splendid race-course on the seashore. The appointed day came,
and all the people were assembled. The horse was brought out, bridled
and saddled, and led to the strand. The place was so crowded that a pin
falling from the sky would not fall on any place but the head of some
person old or young, some man, woman, or child that was there at the
festival.

For three days the women of the village were cooking food for all that
would come; there was enough ready, and to spare. Breogan strove to come
at a man who would ride the horse; but not a man could he find. The horse
was so fiery that all were in dread of him.

Not to spoil sport for the people, Breogan made up his mind to ride
himself. As soon as the man mounted, and was firm in the saddle, the
horse stood on his hind-legs, rose with a leap in the air, and away with
him faster than any wind, first over the land, and then over the sea. The
horse never stopped till he came down on his fore-feet in Breasil, which
is a part of Tir nan Og (the Land of the Young).

Breogan found himself now in the finest country man could set eyes on. He
rode forward, looking on all sides with delight and pleasure, till out
before him he saw a grand castle, and a beautiful gate in front of it,
and the gate partly open.

“Well,” thought he, “I’ll go in here for a bit, to know are there people
living inside.” With that he tied the bridle to one of the bars of the
gate, and left the horse, thinking to come back in a short time. He went
to the door of the castle, and knocked on it. A woman came and opened the
door to him.

“Oh, then, a hundred thousand welcomes to you, Breogan from Brandon,”
said she.

He thanked her, and was greatly surprised when he heard her calling him
by name. She brought him then to a parlor; and, though he had fine rooms
in his own house, he hardly knew at first how to sit in this parlor, it
was that grand and splendid. He wasn’t long sitting, when who should come
in but a young woman, a beauty; the like of her he had never seen before
in his life. She was first in every way, in good looks as well as in
manners. She sat down at his side, and welcomed him.

Breogan remained in the castle a few hours, eating, drinking, talking,
and enjoying himself. At long last he thought, “I must be going;” and
then he said so.

The first woman laughed. “Well, now, my good friend,” said she, “of all
the men that ever came to this place,—and it’s many a man that came here
in my time,—there never was a worse man to care for his horse than what
you are. Your poor beast is tied to a bar of the gate outside since you
came, and you have never as much as thought that he was dry or hungry;
and if I had not thought of him, it’s in a bad state he’d be now. How
long do you think you are in this castle?”

“Oh, then, I am about seven hours in it.”

“You are in this country just seven years,” said the woman. “The beauty
and comfort of this Land of the Young is so great that the life of twelve
months seems the length of one hour in another place.”

“If I am here that long, I must be going this minute,” said Breogan.

“Well,” said the woman, “if you are going, I must ask you one question.
There will be a child in this castle; and as you are the father, ’tis you
that should name it. Now what will the name be?”

“If ’tis a son, you’ll call him Shawn, the son of Breogan, from Brandon
in Erin. You’ll rear him for seven years. At the end of that time give
him your blessing and the means of making a journey to Erin. Tell him who
I am; and if he is anything of a hero, he’ll not fail to make me out.”

Breogan left his blessing with the women, went to the gate, and found his
horse standing there, tied in the same way that he left him. He untied
the beast, mounted, and away through the air with him, leaving Breasil
behind, and never stopped nor halted till he came down about a mile from
his own house, near Brandon, exactly seven years from the day that he
left it. Seeing on the strand a great number of people, he wondered why
they were in it, and what brought them together. A large, fine-looking
man was passing the way, and Breogan called out to him: “What are these
people all doing that I see on the strand?” asked he.

“You must be a stranger,” said the man, “not to know what these people
are here for.”

“I am no stranger,” said Breogan; “but I went out of the country a few
years before this, and while I was gone there were changes.”

“If a man leaves his own country for a short time itself,” said the
other, “he will find things changed when he comes again to it. I will
tell you why these people are here. We had in this place a fine master,
and it’s good and kind he was to us. He went out to the strand one day,
walking, and found a little colt above the high tide. He took the colt
home, reared and fed him three years. Then this man gathered the people
to give them a feast, and to know could he find some one to ride the
horse. When no one would venture, he mounted himself; and all saw how the
horse rose in the air, made a leap over the harbor, and then away out of
sight. We think that he fell, and was drowned in the sea; for neither
Breogan nor the horse was seen ever after. We are sorry for the man,
because he was kind to us; but ’tis equal what became of the horse. After
waiting seven years, Breogan’s wife is to be married this evening to some
great man from the North. We don’t know what kind is he. He may destroy
us, or drive us out of our houses.”

Breogan thanked the man for his words, and hurried on toward his own
house. The servants saw him coming, knew him, and cried, “Here comes the
master!” and there was a great stir up and down in the house. Next minute
the wife heard the news; and out she ran to meet her husband. Any man
would think she was glad to see Breogan. “Why are all the people here
to-day?” asked he of the wife.

“And was not it this day seven years that you put the country behind
you, wherever you went? You left dinner here ready; and the dinner is in
the same state it was the day you went away from me. I thought it better
to send for the people again, and eat the dinner in memory of you that
prepared it.”

The husband said nothing. The people ate the dinner; and every man,
woman, and child went home satisfied.

At the end of another seven years, Breogan made a great dinner again. All
was ready; a great crowd of people were present. The day being fine, you
could see far in every direction.

“Look, now,” said Breogan, to one of his men who had very good eyesight.
“Look out toward the water, to know can you see any one coming. Seven
years ago to-day, I came home from Breasil, in the Land of the Young; and
my son, if I have one, is to be here to-day. He ought to be coming by
this time.”

The man looked out as well as he could. “I see a boat with one mast
coming toward us,” said he; “and it’s sailing faster than any boat I have
ever set eyes on. In the boat I can see only one young man; and very
young he is too.”

“Oh, that is he,” said Breogan.

The boat came in at full sail; and it wasn’t long till the youth was
standing before his father. “Who are you?” asked Breogan.

“My name is Shawn MacBreogan.”

“If that is your name, sit down here at dinner; for you are my son.”

When the feast was over, the people went home. When Breogan’s wife found
out who the boy was, she wouldn’t give the breadth of a ha’penny piece of
his body for a fortune, she was that fond of him.

Things went on well till one day when Breogan and his son were out
hunting. The day being warm, they sat down to rest; and the son said to
the father, “Since I came to you in Erin, you seem vexed in yourself. I
have not asked what trouble is on you, or is there anything amiss with
you.”

“All things are well with me but one thing,” said Breogan. “There is
some understanding between my wife and a man in the north of Erin. I’m
in dread of my life; for while I was in Breasil she saw this man, and
the day I came home they were going to be married. Since then I have not
slept soundly in bed; for messages are passing between them.”

“Very well, father, I’ll put an end to that soon,” said Shawn. He rose on
the following morning, caught his hurley in his right hand, and his ball
in the left. He threw up the ball, then struck it with the hurley, and
was driving it that way before him till he reached the north of Erin, and
never let his ball touch the ground even one time. He inquired for his
father’s opponent. When he found out the house, he knocked at the door.
“Is your master inside?” asked he.

“He is,” said the servant.

“Go,” said Shawn, “and tell him that I want him, and not to delay, as I
must be at dinner in Brandon this evening.”

The master of the house came out, and, seeing a boy there before him,
thought it strange that he should speak rudely to a man like himself. “If
you don’t beg my pardon this minute, I’ll take the head off you,” said
the man.

“Well,” said Shawn, “I am not here to beg pardon of you nor of any man;
but I came to have satisfaction for the trouble you put on my father, and
I far away from him.”

“Who is your father?”

“My father is Breogan of Brandon.”

Out the man went; and the two stood on a fine green plain, and began to
fight with swords, cutting each other’s flesh. They were not long at
the swords when Shawn said, “It is getting late, and I must be at home
before dinner to-day, as I promised; there is no use in delaying.” With
that he rose out of his body, and gave the man a blow between the head
and shoulders that put the head a mile from the body. Shawn caught the
head before it touched earth; then, grasping it by the hair, he left the
body where it fell, took his hurley in his right hand, threw his ball
in the air, and drove it far to the south with the hurley; and he drove
it across Erin in that way, the ball never touching ground from the far
north of Erin to Brandon. Holding the ball and hurley in his hand, he
went into the house, and laid the head at his father’s feet.

“Now, my dear father,” said he, “here is the head of your enemy; he’ll
trouble you no more from this out.”

When Breogan’s wife saw the head, she was cut to the heart and troubled;
though she would not let any man know it. One day when the father and son
came home from killing ducks, she was groaning, and said she was ready to
die.

“Is there any cure for you here or there in the world?” asked Shawn.

“There is no getting the cure that would heal me; there is no cure but
three apples from the white orchard in the White Nation.”

“Well,” said the boy, “I promise you not to eat the third meal at the one
table, nor sleep the second night in the one bed, till I get three apples
from the White Nation.”

The father was very angry when they came out of the bed-room. “Sure,”
said he, “it would be enough for you to risk your life for your own
mother.”

“Well, I must go now,” said Shawn; “the promise is given; I’ll not break
my word.” So away with him on the following morning; and on that day’s
journey he came to a glen, and in it a house. In the house there was no
living creature but a white mare with nine eyes.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you, Shawn MacBreogan from Brandon. You
must be tired and hungry after the day’s journey,” cried the mare. “Go in
now to the next room, and take supper, and strengthen yourself.”

He went to the next room, and inside in it was a table, and on the table
was everything that the best king could wish for. He ate, drank, and went
then and gave a hundred thousand thanks for the supper. He stood near the
fire for a while; then the mare said, “Come here, and lie under my head;
wonder at nothing you see, and let no word out of you.”

He did as the mare said. About dusk three seals came in, and went to the
supper-room. They threw off their sealskins, and became three as fine
young men as one could look at.

“I wish Shawn MacBreogan from Brandon were here to-night. I’d be glad to
see him, and give him a present, and have his good company,” said one of
the three.

“I’d be glad to see him, too,” said the second; “and I’d give him a
present.”

“So would I,” said the third.

“Go to them now,” said the mare; “enjoy their company. In the morning
you’ll ask for the presents.”

He went out among them.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you, Shawn MacBreogan,” cried the young
men; “and ’tis glad we are to see you.”

They drank wine then, sang songs, and told tales, and never slept a wink
all the night. Before sunrise they went as seals; and when going Shawn
said,“I hope you will not forget the presents you promised last evening.”

“We will not,” said the eldest. “Here is a cloak for you. While it is on
you, you’ll be the finest man in the world to look at.”

“Here is a ball,” said the second. “If you throw it in the air, and wish
for anything you like, you will have it before the ball comes to the
ground.”

The third gave a whistle: “When you blow this,” said he, “every enemy
that hears it will lie down asleep, and be powerless; and, besides,
you’re to have the white mare to ride.”

He took the gifts.

“Give me a feed of grain before we start,” said the mare. “No man has sat
on me without being turned into froth and blown away, or else thrown and
killed. This will not happen to you; still I must throw you three times:
but I’ll take you to a soft place where you’ll not be killed.”

Shawn mounted her then, and she tossed him. She threw him very far the
first time. He was badly shocked, but recovered. The second and third
times it was easier. The fourth time he mounted for the journey. It was
not long till he came to the seashore. On the third day he was in sight
of land in the White Nation. The mare ran over the water and swiftly,
without trouble; no bird ever went with such speed.

When Shawn came near the castle, he stopped before a house at the edge of
the town, and asked a lodging of the owner, an old man.

“I’ll give you that,” said the old man, “and welcome, and a place for
your horse.” After supper Shawn told his errand.

“I pity you,” said the man. “I am in dread you’ll lose your life; but
I’ll do what I can for you. No man has ever been able to get one of
those apples; and if a stranger is caught making up to them, the king
takes his head without mercy or pardon. There is no kind of savage beast
in the world but is guarding the apples; and there is not a minute in the
night or the day when some of the beasts are not watching.”

“Do you know what virtue is in the apples?” asked Shawn.

“I do well,” said the old man; “and it’s I that would like to have one
of them. If a man is sick, and eats even one bite of an apple, he’ll be
well; if old, he’ll grow young again, and never know grief from that out;
he will always be happy and healthy. I’ll give you a pigeon to let loose
in the orchard; she will go flying from one tree to another till she
goes to the last one. All the beasts will follow her; and while they are
hunting the pigeon, you will take what you can of the apples: but I hope
you will not think it too much to give one to me.”

“Never fear,” said Shawn, “if I get one apple, you’ll have the half of
it; if two, you’ll have one of them.”

The old man was glad. Next morning at daybreak Shawn took the pigeon,
mounted the mare, and away with him then to the orchard. When the pigeon
flew in, and was going from tree to tree with a flutter, the beasts
started after her. Shawn sprang in on the back of the mare, left her, and
went to climb the first tree that he met for the apples; but the king’s
men were at him before he could touch a single apple, or go back to the
mare. They caught him, and took him to the king. The mare sprang over the
wall, and ran to the house of the old man. Shawn told the king his whole
story, said that his father was Breogan of Brandon, and his mother the
Princess of Breasil in the Land of the Young.

“Oh,” said the king, “you are the hero that I am waiting for this long
time. A fine part of my kingdom is that island beyond; but ’tis taken by
a giant who holds it with an army of hirelings. Clear that island of the
giant and his men, bring me his head, and you’ll have the apples.”

Shawn went to the old man, then to the mare, and told her.

“You can do that without trouble,” said she; “you have the power needed
to do it.”

Shawn took his breakfast, then sat on the mare, and rode toward the
island. Just before the mare touched the land, Shawn sounded the whistle;
and every one who heard it was asleep the next instant. Shawn took his
sword then, swept the head off the giant, and before evening there
wasn’t a man alive on the island except Shawn himself. He tied the
giant’s head to the saddle-bow, mounted the mare, and was ready to start,
when she spoke to him: “Be careful not to look back toward the island
till you come down from my back.” With that she swept on, and soon they
were nearing the castle. While crossing the yard, Shawn thought, “I have
the island cleared; the head is safe on me; and the apples are mine.”
With that he forgot the mare’s words, and turned to look back at the
island; but as he did, he fell from the saddle, and where should he fall
but down on a dust-heap. A son of the comb woman, a youth who fed dogs
and small animals, was lying there at the time, and he sickly and full of
sores. Shawn’s cloak slipped from his shoulders, and fell on this dirty,
foul fellow; that moment he sprang up the finest-looking man in the
kingdom. He fastened the cloak on his shoulders, mounted the white mare,
and rode to the castle. The king was that glad when he looked at the head
of the giant that he didn’t know where to put the counterfeit hero who
brought it.

“How did you clear the island?” asked the king; “and was it a hard task
to take the head off the giant?”

“Oh, then,” said the dog-feeder, “there was never such a battle in the
world as the battle to-day on that island between myself and the giant
with his forces; and ’tis well I earned what will come to me.”

“You’ll get good pay,” said the king; “I promised you apples from my
white orchard; but I’ll give you more, I’ll give you my youngest daughter
in marriage, and that island for her portion. My daughter will not be of
age to marry for a year and a day. Till that time is out, you’ll live
with me here in the castle.”

Believe me, the dog-feeder was a great man in his own mind that evening.

There was one woman in the yard who saw the deception, and that was the
henwife. She knew well what the dog-feeder was, and ’tis often she said,
“He’s the greatest liar on earth, and kind mother for him.” She drew
Shawn into her own house, and he sick and full of sores, just like the
dog-feeder, not a man in the world would have known him. She nursed and
tended Shawn. On the sixth day he was able to speak; but he lay in great
weakness, and covered with sores.

“How am I to be cured?” asked he of the henwife.

“I know,” answered she; “I spoke to a wise woman to-day, and got the
right cure for you.” With that the henwife went down to a spring that
belonged to the king’s youngest daughter, and pulled up nine rushes
growing near it. Three of these she threw away, and kept six of them. She
cut the white from the green parts, crushed them in water, gave Shawn
some of the water to drink, and rubbed the rest on his body. A week was
not gone, when he was as sound and well as ever.

Shawn heard now the whole story of the dog-feeder’s lies and prosperity.
He took service himself in the castle; and a few days after that the king
gave a hunt, and invited all the guests in the castle to go with him.
Shawn had to go as a basket-boy, and carry provisions like any servant.
Toward evening, when the company were on a wild moor twenty miles from
the castle, a thick mist fell, and all were afraid that their lives would
be gone from them.

“I can take you to a castle,” said Shawn.

“Take us,” said the king.

“I will if you will give me your daughter to marry.”

“She is promised to another,” said the king.

“I have the best right to her,” said Shawn. “It was I cleared the island.”

“I don’t believe you,” said the king.

“We’ll be lost, every man of us,” said the chief hunter; “give him the
promise, he may be dead before the day of the wedding.”

The king gave his promise. The basket-boy stepped behind a great rock,
threw up the ball, and wished for the finest castle on earth. Before the
ball touched the ground the king, the guests, and attendants were in a
castle far finer than any they had looked on in daylight or seen in a
dream. The best food and drink of all kinds were in it, shining chambers
and beds of silk and gold. When all had eaten and drunk their fill, they
fell asleep to sweet music, and slept soundly till morning. At daybreak
each man woke up, and found himself lying on the wild moor, a tuft of
rushes under his head, and the gray sky above him. Glad to see light,
they rose and went home.

Now the henwife told the king’s daughter the story of Shawn, who had
cleared out the island, and the comb-woman’s son, the deceiver. When the
year was ended, and the day came for the marriage, the king’s daughter
said she would marry no man but the man who would ride the white mare
with nine eyes (the mare could either kill or make froth of a man). The
comb-woman’s son was the first man to mount; but the cloak fell from him,
and he vanished in froth blown away by the wind, and no one saw sight of
him from that day to this. Sixteen king’s sons tried to ride the white
mare, and were killed every man of them; but their bodies were found.
Shawn, who had taken the cloak, sat on the mare, and rode three times
past the castle. At the door the mare knelt for him to come down.

The king’s daughter would have jumped through her window, and killed
herself, if her maids had not held her. She rushed down the stairs,
kissed Shawn, and embraced him. The wedding began then. It lasted for a
day and a year, and the last was the best day of all.

When the wedding was over, Shawn remembered the mare, and went to the
stable. She had not been fed, and a white skin was all that was left of
her. When Shawn came to the mare’s place, three young men and two women
were playing chess in it.

“Oh, I forgot the mare from the first day of the wedding till this
moment,” said Shawn; and he began to cry.

“Why are you crying?” asked the elder of the two women.

He told the reason.

“You needn’t cry,” said the woman; “I can revive her.” With that she took
the skin, put it on herself; and that minute she was the white mare.
“Would you rather see me a white mare as I am now, or the woman that I
was a minute ago?”

“The woman,” said Shawn.

She took off the skin, and was a woman again. She told him then how the
king, her father, made three seals of her brothers and a white mare of
herself, to be in those forms till a hero should come who could clear
out the island. “You cleared the island,” said she; “and we are all free
again.”

The king gave the island to his son-in-law, and as many apples from the
orchard as he wished. The first thing that Shawn did was to take an apple
to the old man who gave him lodgings when he came to the White Nation.
At the first bite he swallowed, the old man was twenty-one years of age,
young and hearty, and so happy that it would do any man good to have one
look at him.

Shawn and his young wife lived another day and a year with her father,
and then they went to visit his father in Brandon. From pretending to be
sick, Breogan’s wife became sick in earnest, and died. Breogan himself
was now old and dissatisfied.

“The least I can do,” thought Shawn, “is to give him an apple.” He gave
him the apple. Breogan ate it, was twenty-one years of age; and if ever a
man was glad in Erin, ’twas he was.

Shawn left the father young and happy at Brandon, and went back himself
with his wife to the island.




THE COTTER’S SON AND THE HALF SLIM CHAMPION.


Once upon a time there was a poor cotter in Erin, and he had three sons.
Whether it was well or ill that he reared them, he reared them, and then
died. When their father was dead and buried, the three sons lived with
their mother for a day and a year; and at the end of that time the eldest
brother said, “I will go to seek my fortune in the world.”

He took his mother’s blessing with him, and went away on the following
morning.

The two sons and the mother lived on together for another day and a year,
when the second son said, “I will go out to seek my fortune.”

He went away like the first brother.

The mother and the youngest son lived on together for a day and a year,
and then the mother died. When she was buried, the youngest of the
three brothers, whose name was Arthur, went out in the world to seek
his fortune. He travelled, and was walking always for a day and a year
without finding a master, till on the afternoon of the last day of the
year he took service with a hill.

On the last day of Arthur’s service with the hill, the Half Slim Champion
came in the afternoon, and asked would he play a game of cards.

“If you win,” said the champion, “you will have a castle with lands and
cattle of all kinds; if you lose, you will do me a service.”

“I will play,” answered Arthur.

With that they sat down to play; and Arthur won. Now, Arthur had lands
and a castle, cattle of all kinds, and wealth in abundance.

The Half Slim Champion went his way; and Arthur lived for a day and a
year on his lands. On the last day of the year, the champion came in the
afternoon, and with him was the most beautiful lady that man could set
eyes on. “Will you play a second game?” asked the champion. “If you lose,
you will do me a service; if you win, I give you this lady as wife.”

“I will play with you,” said Arthur.

They played, and Arthur won.

Arthur lived with his wife in the castle for a day and a year; and on the
last afternoon, the champion came the way leading a hound.

They played the third time, and Arthur won the hound. The champion went
his way; and again Arthur lived for a day and a year with his wife in
the castle in ease, in plenty, and in great delight.

On the afternoon of the last day, the champion came the fourth time.
Arthur’s wife saw him at a distance, and said to her husband, “My advice
is to play no more with that champion. Remain as you are, and keep out of
harm’s way.”

But Arthur would not listen to the wife, nor be said by her. He went out
to play with the champion, and lost.

“I put you under bonds,” said the champion, “not to sleep two nights in
the same bed, nor eat two meals off the same table; but to be walking
through the world, and searching always till you find the birth that has
never been born, and that never will be.”

The champion turned, walked away, and disappeared. Arthur went home in
grief; and when he sat down the chair that was under him broke into
pieces.

“I told you,” said the wife, “not to play with him. What has he put on
you?”

“To be walking and searching, ever and always, through the world till I
find the birth that has never been born, and never will be.”

“Take the hound with you,” said the wife, “and go first to the castle of
the son of the King of Lochlin. Take service with him; you may learn
something there.”

Away went Arthur next morning, and the hound with him. They were long on
the road, lodging one time at a house, and another time where the night
found them, till at last a great castle was in sight. When the hound saw
the castle, he grew so wild with delight that he broke his chain, and
rushed away. But if he did, Arthur followed; and when the hound sprang
into the castle, Arthur was at his side.

“It was lucky for you,” cried the son of the King of Lochlin, “to come in
with the hound. Without that you’d have been done for. Who are you, and
where are you going?”

“I am a man in search of a master.”

“I am seeking a man,” said the king’s son. “Will you take service with
me?”

“I will,” answered Arthur.

He hired for a day and a year, and wages according to service.

Arthur went to work on the following morning, and his first task was to
bring fagots from the forest. When he went to the forest, he found half
of it green, and the other half dry. Nothing was growing in the dry part;
all was withered and dead. Arthur collected dry fagots, and brought them
to the castle. In the evening he spoke to the king’s son, and this is
what he asked of him, “Why is half of your forest green, and the other
half withered and dry?”

“A day and seven years ago,” said the king’s son, “a terrible serpent
came the way, and took half of my forest for herself. In that part she is
living till this time,—that is the green part. She knocked the life out
of my half,—that is the dry part.”

“Why do you not take wood from the green part?” asked Arthur.

“Neither you nor all who ever came before you could do that,” said the
son of the king. Next morning Arthur went out for fagots the second time.
He stopped before the largest green tree to be found in the forest, and
was cutting away at it. The moment the serpent saw this, she came out,
and called, “Why are you cutting my timber?”

“I am cutting it because I am sorry to see you as you are,” said Arthur,
“without a roof over you or a shelter of any kind. I wish to build a
house to protect you.”

When the serpent heard this, she was glad and thankful to Arthur. When
he had two wedges in the tree, and it partly cut, he said, “If yourself
would only come over now, and put your tail in the cut and help me, we
could throw down this tree.”

She went to him then, and put her tail in the cut. Arthur knocked out the
wedges, and left her tail in the tree. She begged and cried, screaming,
“The tree is killing me; the tree is killing me! Let me free! Let me out
of this!”

“It wasn’t to let you out that I put you in,” replied Arthur.

What he did then was to jump behind her, and vex her until he got her in
the way that, out of rage and great strength, she tore up the tree with
its roots, and seven acres and seven ridges of land with it. Arthur was
vexing the serpent until she rushed into the dry part of the forest, and
was fastened among the trees; then he cut down dry trees, and piled them
on the serpent and on the green tree till they were the size of a hill.
In the evening he drove her to the castle before him, with all the hill
of dry wood on her. When a maid was going from the castle for water, and
saw this, she ran in with the story that Arthur was coming home with the
serpent, and all the dry wood of the forest above on her back.

When the people inside heard this, they were in dread that she’d kill
them all, and they rushed out to run away. There was one girl in the
castle who heard the tidings too late, or was slow in preparing, for when
she was ready, the serpent was at the door.

“Where are the people of the castle?” asked Arthur.

“All made away, and took their lives with them,” said she.

“Run now and call them back,” said Arthur.

“I’m in dread to go out. I will not go unless you take the head off the
serpent.”

Arthur swept the head off the serpent. The girl ran after the people, and
brought them back. Arthur piled all the wood near the castle. The king’s
son was delighted to have so much fuel, and was so glad that he took
Arthur to his bed to sleep that night with him.

“It’s a wonder,” said Arthur, “such a good king’s son as you to be
without a wife.”

“I had a wife,” said the king’s son; “but the giant with five heads, five
necks, and five lumps on his heads, came and took her to the Eastern
World.”

“Why did you not take her from him?”

“Neither I, nor you, nor all that ever came before us could do that.”

On the following morning Arthur rose, washed his face, rubbed his eyes,
and said to the king’s son, “I am going to the Eastern World to bring
back your wife.” Away he went; but the king’s son would not believe that
any man living could bring back the wife.

When Arthur came to the castle of the giant in the Eastern World, the
giant himself was not in it, only the wife of the King of Lochlin’s son,
who said, “There is no use in your delaying in this place; you’ll be
killed, if you stay till the giant comes home.”

“I’ll never leave this castle till I see the giant; and when I go home
you’ll go with me.”

It wasn’t long till Arthur heard the great voice of the giant. As he came
toward the castle the bottom of the forest was rising to the top, and the
top of the forest was going to the bottom. In front of the giant went a
shaggy goat, and another behind him. In his hand was a club with a yellow
flea on the end of it; on one shoulder he carried a dead hag, and on the
other a great hog of a wild boar.

“Fu fa my beard!” cried the giant. “I catch the smell of a lying rogue
from Erin, too big for one bite and too small for two. I don’t know
whether to blow him away through the air, or put him under my feet.”

“You filthy giant, ’tis not to give satisfaction to you, or the like of
you, that I came, but to knock satisfaction out of you.”

“I want only time till morning to give you what you came for,” said the
giant.

It was daybreak when Arthur was up and struck the pole of combat. There
wasn’t a calf, kid, lamb, foal, or child awaiting birth that didn’t turn
five times to the right and five times to the left from the strength of
the blow.

“What do you want?” asked the answering man.

“Seven hundred against me, and then seven hundred to every hundred of
these, till I find the man who can put me down.”

“You fool of the world, it would be better for you to hide under a leaf
than to stand before the giant.”

The giant came out to Arthur; and the two went at each other like two
lions of the desert or two bulls of great growth, and fought with rage.
They made the softest places hardest, and the hardest places softest;
they brought spring wells up through dry slate rocks, and great tufts of
green rushes through their own shoe-strings. The wounds that they made on
each other were so great that little birds flew through them, and men of
small growth could crawl through on their hands and knees.

It was dark and the end of the day, when Arthur cried out, “It is a bad
thing for me, filthy giant, to have a fine day spent on you!”

With that he gave him one blow on the five necks, and sent the five
heads flying through the air. After a while the heads were coming down,
croning (singing the coronach), Arthur caught them, and struck the
giant’s breast with them; the body and heads fell dead on the ground. The
wife of the son of the King of Lochlin ran out now, smothered Arthur with
kisses, washed him with tears, and dried him with a cloak of fine silk;
she put her hand under his arm, and they went to the castle of the giant.
The two had good entertainment, plenty to eat, and no bit dry. They made
three parts of that night,—one part for conversation, one for tales, and
one for soft sleep.

When they rose in the morning, the woman said, “It is a poor thing for us
to go and leave here behind all the gold the giant had.”

“Let us not be in so great a hurry; we’ll find a cure for that,” said
Arthur.

They went out, found three ships belonging to the giant, and filled them
with gold. When the three ships were laden, Arthur took hawsers and
lashed the first ship to the second, the second to the third, raised the
anchors, and sailed away. When he was in sight of Lochlin, a messenger
was walking toward the water, and saw the ships coming. He ran to the
castle, and cried to the king’s son, “The servant-boy is coming, and
bringing your wife with him.”

“That I will never believe,” said the king’s son, “till she puts her hand
in my hand.”

The king’s son had kept his head by the fire, without rising from the
hearth, all the time that Arthur was away. When the wife came in, and
put her hand on his hand, he rose up, and shook seven tons of ashes from
himself, with seven barrels of rust.

There was great gladness in the castle; and the king’s son was ready to
do anything for Arthur, he was so thankful to him. Arthur’s time was out
on the following day. The king’s son spoke to him, and asked, “What am I
to give you now for the service? What wages do you expect?”

“No more than is just. I hope that you will find out for me who is the
birth that has never been born, and that never will be.”

“That is no great thing for me to discover,” said the king’s son.

There was a hollow place in the wall of the castle near the fireplace,
and in that hollow the king’s son kept his own father, and gave him food.
He opened a secret door, and brought out the old king.

“Now tell me, father,” said he, “who is it that has never been born, and
never will be?”

“That’s a thing of which no tidings have been given, or ever will be,”
replied the king.

When the father wasn’t giving him the answer he wanted, the son put the
old king, standing, on a red-hot iron griddle.

“It’s fried and roasted you’ll be till you answer my question, and tell
who is the birth that has never been born, and that never will be,” said
the son.

The old king stood on the griddle till the marrow was melting in the
bones of his feet. They took him off then; and the son asked him a second
time.

“That’s a question not to be answered by me,” said the king.

He was put, standing, again on the red-hot griddle, and kept on it, till
the marrow was melting in the bones to his knees.

“Release me out of this now,” cried the king; “and I will tell where that
birth is.”

They took him from the griddle. He sat down then, and told this story to
his son, in presence of Arthur:—

“I was walking out beyond there in the garden one day, when I came on a
beautiful rod, which I cut and took with me. I discovered soon after that
that was a rod of enchantment, and never let it go from me. When I went
walking or riding in the day, I took the rod with me. In the night, I
slept with it under my pillow. Misfortune came on me at last; for I left
the rod in my chamber one time that I started away to go fowling. After
I had gone a good piece of road, I remembered the rod, and hurried home
then to get it.

“When I came to the castle I found a dark tall man inside in my chamber
with the queen. They saw me, and I turned from the door to let them slip
out, and think that I had not seen them. I went to the door not long
after, and opened it. Your mother was standing inside, not two feet from
the threshold. She struck me right there with the rod, and made a wild
deer of me.

“When she had me a deer, she let out a great pack of hounds; for every
hand’s breadth of my body there was a savage dog to tear me, and hunt me
to death. The hounds chased me, and followed till I ran to the far away
mountains. There I escaped. So great was my swiftness and strength that I
brought my life with me.

“After that I went back to injure the queen; and I did every harm in my
power to her grain, and her crops, and her gardens.

“One day she sprang up from behind a stone wall, when I thought no one
near, struck me with the rod, and made a wolf of me. She called a hunt
then. Hounds and men chased me fiercely till evening. At nightfall I
escaped to an island in a lake where no man was living. Next day I went
around each perch of that island. I searched every place, and found only
a she-wolf.

“But the wolf was a woman enchanted years before,—enchanted when she was
within one week of her time to give birth to a hero. There she was; but
the hero could not be born unless she received her own form again.

“There was little to eat on the island for the she-wolf, and still less
after I came. What I suffered from hunger in that place no man can know;
for I had a wolf’s craving, and only scant food to stop it. One day above
another, I was lying half asleep, half famished, and dreaming. I thought
that a kid was there near me. I snapped at it, and awoke. I had torn open
the side of the she-wolf. Before me was an infant, which grew to the size
of a man in one moment. That man is the birth that has never been born,
and never will be; that man is the Half Slim Champion.

“When I snapped at the she-wolf, I bit her so deeply that I took a piece
from behind the ear of the child, and killed the mother. When you go back
to the Half Slim Champion, and he asks who is the man that has never been
born, and never will be, you will say: Try behind your own ear, you will
find the mark on him.

“The infant, grown to a man before my eyes, attacked me, to kill me. I
ran, and he followed. He hunted me through every part of that island. At
last I had no escape but to swim to the country-side opposite. I sprang
to the water, though I had not the strength of the time when I went from
the hunters; but on the way were two rocks. On these I drew breath, and
then came to land. I could not have swum five perches farther.

“I lived after that in close hiding, and met with no danger till I was
going through a small lane one evening, and, looking behind, saw the hero
whose mother I killed on the island. I started; he rushed along after me.
I came to a turn, and was thinking to go over the wall, and escape by
the fields, when I met my false queen. She struck me with the rod in her
fright, and I got back my own form again. I snatched the rod quickly, and
struck her. ‘You’ll be a wolf now,’ said I; ‘you’ll have your own share
of misfortune.’ With that she sprang over the wall, a gray wolf, and ran
off through the pastures.

“The dark tall man was a little behind and saw everything. He turned to
escape; but I struck him with the rod, and made a sheep of the traitor,
in hopes that the gray wolf might eat him. The hero saw all, saw the wolf
that I was, turned into a man. I entered the castle; he followed me. I
took you at once with me, showed you this hollow place near the chimney,
and hid in it. The hero searched every foot of the castle, but found no
trace of me. He had no knowledge of who I was; and when you denied that
I was here, he waited one day, a second day, and then went away, taking
your sister and the best hound at the castle.

“That hero of the island, whose mother I killed, is the Half Slim
Champion. There is nothing he wishes so much as my death; and when he
hears who it was that has never been born, and never will be, he will
know that I am alive yet, and he’ll kill half the people in Lochlin,
unless he kills me first of all, or this champion kills him.”

When Arthur heard this story, he went away quickly from the castle of
the King of Lochlin, and never stopped till he came to the hill where he
played cards the first time. The Half Slim Champion was before him there,
standing.

“Have you found the answer, and can you tell who has never been born, and
never will be?”

“Try behind your own ear, and you’ll find the mark on him.”

“That’s true,” said the champion, “and the man who killed my mother is
alive yet; but if he is, he will not be so long, and you’ll not leave
this till you and I have a trial.”

The two went at each other then; and it was early enough in the day when
Arthur had the head off the champion. He put a gad through his ears, took
the head on his shoulder, hurried back to the King of Lochlin, and threw
it on the floor, saying, “Here is the head of the Half Slim Champion.”

When the old king heard these words in his place of concealment, he burst
out the wall, and went through the end of the castle, so great was his
joy. As soon as he was in the open air, free from confinement and dread,
he became the best man in Lochlin.

They made three parts of that night, which they passed in great
enjoyment, and discovered that Arthur’s wife was the sister of the son
of the King of Lochlin, the lady who was carried away by the Half Slim
Champion, and lost in a game of cards.

When the old king got the head of the Half Slim Champion, he gave the
three ships full of gold to Arthur, and would have given six ships, if he
had had them, he was so glad to be free. Arthur took farewell of the old
king and his son, and sailed away with his three ships full of gold to
Erin, where his wife was.




BLAIMAN, SON OF APPLE, IN THE KINGDOM OF THE WHITE STRAND.


There was a king in Erin long ago who had two sons and one daughter. On a
day of days, the daughter walked into her father’s garden, in which she
saw an apple-tree with only one apple on it; she took the apple, and ate
it.

There was an old druid in the castle, who saw the king’s daughter going
out, and met her coming in.

“Well,” said he, “you had the look of a maiden when you were going out,
and you have the look of a married woman coming in.”

Those who were near heard the saying of the druid, and it was going the
rounds till it came to the king. The king went at once to the druid, and
asked, “What is this that you say about my daughter?”

“I say nothing,” answered the druid.

“You must tell me your words,” said the king, “and prove them, or lose
your head.”

“Oh, as you are going that far you must give me time, and if a few months
do not prove my words true, you may cut the head off me.”

The princess was then taken to the top of the king’s castle, where no one
could see her but her maid. There she remained till she gave birth to a
son with a golden spot on his poll, and a silver spot on his forehead.
He was so beautiful that if sunshine and breeze ever rested on a child,
they would rest on him; and what of him did not grow in the day grew at
night. He grew so quickly that soon he was as large as the king’s sons,
his uncles, and rose out to be a great champion.

One day when the two sons of the king were hunting, there was snow on
the ground, and they killed a hare. Some of the hare’s blood fell on the
snow, and they said that that was a beautiful meeting of colors. They
were wondering could any woman be found with such colors on her face,
white shining through the red. When they came home in the evening, they
asked the old druid could a woman of that sort be found. He answered that
if she could itself, little good would it do them; they could find wives
good enough for them near home. They said that that was no matter, but to
tell them where was the woman they had asked for.

“That woman,” said the druid, “is the daughter of the King of the
kingdom of the White Strand. Hundreds of champions have lost their heads
for her; and if you go, you will lose your heads too.”

The elder son said, “We do not mind that; we will go.”

The brothers had no vessel to take them to the kingdom of the White
Strand; and the elder said he would build one. He took tools one morning,
and started for the seashore. When just outside the castle, he heard a
voice, asking, “Where are you going, king’s son?”

“I am going to make a turkey-pen,” answered the young man. “May you
prosper in justice and truth,” said the voice.

The king’s son began to build the ship that day; and in the evening what
had he built but a turkey-pen? When he came home, they asked what had he
made.

“Nothing; I made only a turkey-pen.”

“Oh,” said the second son, “you are a fool. I knew that you could do
nothing good.”

On the following morning, the second son started for the seashore; and
the voice spoke to him, and asked, “Where are you going, king’s son?”

“To build a pig-sty,” answered he. “May you prosper in justice and
truth,” said the voice.

He worked all day; and in the evening it was a pig-sty that he had. He
came home; and now the brothers were doleful because they had not a ship
in which to sail to the princess.

The following morning, the king’s grandson said, “Give me the tools, to
see can I myself do anything.”

“What can you do, you fool?” asked the uncles.

“That matters not,” replied he. He left the castle; and at the place
where the voice spoke to his uncles, it spoke to him also, and asked,
“What are you going to do, Blaiman, son of Apple?” (He did not know his
origin till then.)

“I am going to build a ship,” said Blaiman.

“That it may thrive with you in justice and truth,” said the voice.

He went off to the edge of a wood that was growing at the seashore, gave
one blow to a tree, and it went to its own proper place in the vessel. In
the evening Blaiman had the nicest ship that ever moved on the deep sea.
When finished, the ship was at the edge of the shore; he gave it one blow
of a sledge, and sent it out to deep water. Blaiman went home full of
gladness.

“What have you made?” asked the uncles.

“Go out and see for yourselves,” answered Blaiman.

The two went, and saw the ship in the harbor. They were delighted to see
the fine vessel, as they themselves could not build it. The voice had
built it with Blaiman in return for his truth.

Next morning provisions for a day and a year were placed in the vessel.
The two sons of the king went on board, raised the sails, and were moving
out toward the great ocean. Blaiman saw the ship leaving, and began to
cry; he was sorry that, after building the ship, it was not he who had
the first trial of his own work. When his mother heard him, she grew
sorry too, and asked what trouble was on him; and he told her that after
he had built the ship, he wanted to have the first trial of it.

“You are foolish,” said she. “You are only a boy yet; your bones are not
hard. You must not think of going to strange countries.”

He answered, that nothing would do him but to go. The old king, the
grandfather, wanted Blaiman to stay; but he would not.

“Well,” said the king, “what I have not done for another I will do now
for you. I will give you my sword; and you will never be put back by any
man while you keep that blade.”

Blaiman left the house then; the vessel was outside the harbor already.
He ran to the mouth of the harbor, and, placing the point of his sword
on the brink of the shore, gave one leap out on board. The two uncles
were amazed when they saw what their nephew had done, and were full of
joy at having him with them. They turned the ship’s prow to the sea,
and the stern to land. They raised to the tops of the hard, tough,
stained masts the great sweeping sails, and took their capacious,
smoothly-polished vessel past harbors with gently sloping shores, and
there the ship left behind it pale-green wavelets. Then, with a mighty
wind, they went through great flashing, stern-dashing waves with such
force that not a nail in the ship was unheated, or a finger on a man
inactive; and so did the ship hurry forward that its stern rubbed its
prow, and it raised before it, by dint of sailing, a proud, haughty ridge
through the middle of the fair, red sea.

When the wind failed, they sat down with the oars of fragrant beech
or white ash, and with every stroke they sent the ship forward three
leagues on the sea, where fishes, seals, and monsters rose around them,
making music and sport, and giving courage to the men; and the three
never stopped nor cooled until they sailed into the kingdom of the
White Strand. Then they drew their vessel to a place where no wave was
striking, nor wind rocking it, nor the sun splitting it, nor even a crow
of the air dropping upon it; but a clean strand before it, and coarse
sand on which wavelets were breaking. They cast two anchors toward the
sea, and one toward land, and gave the vessel the fixing of a day and a
full year, though they might not be absent more than one hour.

On the following day they saw one wide forest as far as the eye could
reach; they knew not what manner of land was it.

“Would you go and inquire,” said Blaiman to the elder uncle, “what sort
of a country that is inside?” The uncle went in, very slowly, among the
trees, and at last, seeing flashes of light through the forest, rushed
back in terror, the eyes starting out of his head.

“What news have you?” asked Blaiman.

“I saw flashes of fire, and could not go farther,” said the elder king’s
son.

“Go you,” said Blaiman to the other, “and bring some account of the
country.”

He did not go much farther than the elder brother, then came back, and
said, “We may as well sail home again.”

“Well,” said Blaiman, “ye have provisions for a day and a year in this
vessel. I will go now, and do ye remain here; if I am not back before
the end of the day and the year, wait no longer.” He gave them good by,
then went on, and entered the forest. It was not long till he met with
the flashes. He did not mind them, but went forward; and when he had gone
a good distance, he found the trees farther apart and scattered. Leaving
the trees, he came out on a broad, open plain; in the middle of the plain
was a castle; in front of the castle twelve champions practising at feats
of arms; and it was the flashes from the blows of their swords that he
and his uncles had seen in the forest. So skilled were the champions that
not one of them could draw a drop of blood from another.

Blaiman was making toward them. By the side of the path there was a
small hut, and as he was passing the door, an old woman came out, and
hailed him. He turned, and she said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you,
Blaiman, son of Apple, from Erin.”

“Well, good woman,” said Blaiman, “you have the advantage. You know me;
but I have no knowledge of you.”

“I know you well,” said she; “and it’s sorry I am that you are here. Do
you see those twelve men out there opposite? You are going to make for
them now; but rest on your legs, and let the beginning of another day
come to you.”

“Your advice may be good,” said Blaiman, and he went in. The old woman
prepared his supper as well as it was ever prepared at his grandfather’s
house at home, and prepared a bed for him as good as ever he had. He
slept enough, and he wanted it. When day overtook him on the morrow, he
rose, and washed his face and hands, and asked mercy and help from God,
and if he did not he let it alone; and the old woman prepared breakfast
in the best way she could, and it was not the wrong way. He went off then
in good courage to the castle of the king; and there was a pole of combat
in front of the castle which a man wanting combat would strike with his
sword. He struck the pole a blow that was heard throughout the whole
kingdom.

“Good, good!” said the king; “the like of that blow was not struck while
I am in this castle.”

He put his head through a window above, and saw Blaiman outside.

Around the rear of the castle was a high wall set with iron spikes.
Few were the spikes without heads on them; some heads were fresh, some
with part of the flesh on them, and some were only bare skulls. It was
a dreadful sight to see; and strong was the man that it would not put
fright on.

“What do you want?” asked the king of Blaiman.

“Your daughter to marry, or combat.”

“’Tis combat you will get,” said the king; and the twelve champions of
valor were let out at him together. It was pitiful to see him; each one
of the twelve aiming a blow at him, he trying to defend himself, and he
all wounded and hacked by them. When the day was growing late, he began
to be angry; the noble blood swelled in his breast to be uppermost; and
he rose, with the activity of his limbs, out of the joints of his bones
over them, and with three sweeping blows took the twelve heads off the
champions. He left the place then, deeply wounded, and went back to the
old woman’s cabin; and if he did, it was a pleasure for the old woman to
see him. She put him into a caldron of venom, and then into a caldron of
cure. When he came out, he was perfectly healed; and the old woman said,—

“Victory and prosperity to you, my boy. I think you will do something
good; for the twelve were the strongest and ablest of all the king’s
forces. You have done more than any man that ever walked this way before.”

They made three parts of the night: the first part, they spent in eating
and drinking; the second, in telling tales and singing ballads; the
third, in rest and sound sleep.

He had a good sleep, and he needed it. Being anxious, he rose early; and
as early as he rose, breakfast was ready before him, prepared by the old
woman. He ate his breakfast, went to the king’s castle, and struck the
pole.

“What do you want?” asked the king, thrusting his head through the window.

“Seven hundred men at my right hand, seven hundred at my left, seven
hundred behind me, and as many as on the three sides out before me.”

They were sent to him four deep through four gates. He went through
them as a hawk through a flock of small birds on a March day, or as a
blackbird or a small boy from Iraghti Conor between two thickets. He made
lanes and roads through them, and slew them all. He made then a heap
of their heads, a heap of their bodies, and a heap of their weapons.
Trembling fear came on the king, and Blaiman went to the old woman’s
cabin.

“Victory and prosperity to you, my boy; you have all his forces stretched
now, unless he comes out against you himself; and I’m full sure that he
will not. He’ll give you the daughter.”

She had a good dinner before him. He had fought so well that there
was neither spot nor scar on his skin; for he had not let a man of the
forty-two hundred come within sword’s length of his body. He passed the
night as the previous night.

Next morning after breakfast, he went to the castle, and with one blow
made wood lice of the king’s pole of combat. The king went down to
Blaiman, took him under the arm, and, leading him up to the high chamber
where the daughter was, put her hand in his.

The king’s daughter kissed Blaiman, and embraced him, and gave him a ring
with her name and surname written inside on it. This was their marriage.

Next day Blaiman, thinking that his uncles had waited long enough, and
might go back to Erin, said to the king, “I will visit my uncles, and
then return hither.”

His wife, an only child, was heir to the kingdom, and he was to reign
with her.

“Oh,” said the king, “something else is troubling me now. There are three
giants, neighbors of mine, and they are great robbers. All my forces are
killed; and before one day passes the giants will be at me, and throw me
out of the kingdom.”

“Well,” said Blaiman, “I will not leave you till I settle the giants;
but now tell where they are to be found.”

“I will,” said the king; and he gave him all needful instruction. Blaiman
went first to the house of the youngest giant, where he struck the pole
of combat, and the sound was heard over all that giant’s kingdom.

“Good, good!” said the giant; “the like of that blow has never been
struck on that pole of combat before,” and out he came.

“A nerve burning of the heart to you, you miserable wretch!” said the
giant to Blaiman; “and great was your impudence to come to my castle at
all.”

“It is not caring to give you pleasure that I am,” said Blaiman, “but to
knock a tormenting satisfaction out of your ribs.”

“Is it hard, thorny wrestling that you want, or fighting with sharp gray
swords in the lower and upper ribs?” asked the giant.

“I will fight with sharp gray swords,” said Blaiman.

The giant went in, and fitted on his wide, roomy vest, his strong,
unbreakable helmet, his cross-worked coat-of-mail; then he took his
bossy, pale-red shield and his spear. Every hair on his head and in his
beard was so stiffly erect from anger and rage that a small apple or a
sloe, an iron apple or a smith’s anvil, might stand on each hair of them.

Blaiman fitted on his smooth, flowery stockings, and his two dry warm
boots of the hide of a small cow, that was the first calf of another cow
that never lay on any one of her sides. He fitted on his single-threaded
silken girdle which three craftsmen had made, underneath his
broad-pointed, sharp sword that would not leave a remnant uncut, or, if
it did, what it left at the first blow it took at the second. This sword
was to be unsheathed with the right hand, and sheathed with the left. He
gave the first blood of battle as a terrible oath that he himself was,
the choice champion of the Fenians, the feather of greatness, the slayer
of a champion of bravery; a man to compel justice and right, but not give
either justice or right; a man who had earned what he owned in the gap
of every danger, in the path of every hardship, who was sure to get what
belonged to him, or to know who detained it.

They rushed at each then like two bulls of the wilderness, or two wild
echoes of the cliff; they made soft ground of the hard, and hard ground
of the soft; they made low ground of high, and high ground of low. They
made whirling circles of the earth, and mill-wheels of the sky; and if
any one were to come from the lower to the upper world, it was to see
those two that he should come. They were this way at each other to the
height of the evening. Blaiman was growing hungry; and through dint of
anger he rose with the activity of his limbs, and with one stroke of his
sword cut off the giant’s head. There was a tree growing near. Blaiman
knocked off a tough, slender branch, put one end of it in through the
left ear and out through the right, then putting the head on the sword,
and the sword on his shoulder, went home to the king. Coming near the
castle with the giant’s head, he met a man tied in a tree whose name was
Hung Up Naked.

“Victory and prosperity to you, young champion,” said the man; “you have
done well hitherto; now loose me from this.”

“Are you long there?” asked Blaiman.

“I am seven years here,” answered the other.

“Many a man passed this way during that time. As no man of them loosed
you, I will not loose you.”

He went home then, and threw down the head by the side of the castle. The
head was so weighty that the castle shook to its deepest foundations. The
king came to the hall-door, shook Blaiman’s hand, and kissed him. They
spent that night as the previous night; and on the next day he went to
meet the second giant, came to his house, and struck the pole of combat.
The giant put out his head, and said, “You rascal, I lay a wager it was
you who killed my young brother yesterday; you’ll pay for it now, for I
think it is a sufficient length of life to get a glimpse of you, and I
know not what manner of death I should give you.”

“It is not to offer satisfaction that I am here,” said Blaiman, “but to
give you the same as your brother.”

“Is it any courage you have to fight me?” asked the giant.

“It is indeed,” said Blaiman; “’tis for that I am here.”

“What will you have?” asked the giant; “hard, thorny wrestling, or
fighting with sharp gray swords?”

“I prefer hard, thorny wrestling,” said Blaiman; “as I have practised it
on the lawns with noble children.”

They seized each other, and made soft places hard, and hard places soft;
they drew wells of spring water through the hard, stony ground in such
fashion that the place under them was a soft quagmire, in which the
giant, who was weighty, was sinking. He sank to his knees. Blaiman then
caught hold of him firmly, and forced him down to his hips.

“Am I to cut off your head now?” asked Blaiman.

“Do not do that,” said the giant. “Spare me, and I will give you my
treasure-room, and all that I have of gold and silver.”

“I will give you your own award,” said Blaiman. “If I were in your place,
and you in mine, would you let me go free?”

“I would not,” said the giant.

Blaiman drew his broad, shadowy sword made in Erin. It had edge, temper,
and endurance; and with one blow he took the two heads off the giant, and
carried the heads to the castle. He passed by Hung Up Naked, who asked
him to loose him; but he refused. When Blaiman threw the heads down, much
as the castle shook the first day, it shook more the second.

The king and his daughter were greatly rejoiced. They stifled him with
kisses, drowned him with tears, and dried him with stuffs of silk and
satin; they gave him the taste of every food and the odor of every
drink,—Greek honey and Lochlin beer in dry, warm cups, and the taste of
honey in every drop of the beer. I bailing it out, it would be a wonder
if I myself was not thirsty.

They passed that night as the night before. Next morning Blaiman was very
tired and weary after his two days’ fight, and the third giant’s land
was far distant.

“Have you a horse of any kind for me to ride?” asked he of the king.

“Be not troubled,” said the king. “There is a stallion in my stable that
has not been out for seven years, but fed on red wheat and pure spring
water; if you think you can ride that horse, you may take him.”

Blaiman went to the stable. When the horse saw the stranger, he bared
his teeth back to the ears, and made a drive at him to tear him asunder;
but Blaiman struck the horse with his fist on the ear, and stretched
him. The horse rose, but was quiet. Blaiman bridled and saddled him,
then drove out that slender, low-sided, bare-shouldered, long-flanked,
tame, meek-mannered steed, in which were twelve qualities combined:
three of a bull, three of a woman, three of a fox, and three of a hare.
Three of a bull,—a full eye, a thick neck, and a bold forehead; three of
a woman,—full hips, slender waist, and a mind for a burden; three of a
hare,—a swift run against a hill, a sharp turn about, and a high leap;
three of a fox,—a light, treacherous, proud gait, to take in the two
sides of the road by dint of study and acuteness, and to look only ahead.
He now went on, and could overtake the wind that was before him; and the
wind that was behind, carrying rough hailstones, could not overtake him.

Blaiman never stopped nor stayed till he arrived at the giant’s castle;
and this giant had three heads. He dismounted, and struck the pole a blow
that was heard throughout the kingdom. The giant looked out, and said,
“Oh, you villain! I’ll wager it was you that killed my two brothers. I
think it sufficient life to see you; and I don’t know yet what manner of
death will I put on you.”

“It is not to give satisfaction to you that I am here, you vile worm!”
said Blaiman. “Ugly is the smile of your laugh; and it must be that your
crying will be uglier still.”

“Is it hard, thorny wrestling that you want, or fighting with sharp gray
swords?” asked the giant.

“I will fight with sharp gray swords,” said Blaiman.

They rushed at each other then like two bulls of the wilderness. Toward
the end of the afternoon, the heavier blows were falling on Blaiman. Just
then a robin came on a bush in front of him, and said, “Oh, Blaiman, son
of Apple, from Erin, far away are you from the women who would lay you
out and weep over you! There would be no one to care for you unless I
were to put two green leaves on your eyes to protect them from the crows
of the air. Stand between the sun and the giant, and remember where men
draw blood from sheep in Erin.”

Blaiman followed the advice of the robin. The two combatants kept at each
other; but the giant was blinded by the sun, for he had to bend himself
often to look at his foe. One time, when he stretched forward, his helmet
was lifted a little, Blaiman got a glimpse of his neck, near the ear.
That instant he stabbed him. The giant was bleeding till he lost the
last of his blood. Then Blaiman cut the three heads off him, and carried
them home on the pommel of his saddle. When he was passing, Hung Up
Naked begged for release; but Blaiman refused and went on. Hung Up Naked
praised him for his deeds, and continued to praise. On second thought,
Blaiman turned back, and began to release Hung Up Naked; but if he did,
as fast as he loosened one bond, two squeezed on himself, in such fashion
that when he had Hung Up Naked unbound, he was himself doubly bound; he
had the binding of five men hard and tough on his body. Hung Up Naked was
free now; he mounted Blaiman’s steed, and rode to the king’s castle. He
threw down the giant’s heads, and never stopped nor stayed till he went
to where the king’s daughter was, put a finger under her girdle, bore
her out of the castle, and rode away swiftly.

Blaiman remained bound for two days to the tree. The king’s swine-herd
came the way, and saw Blaiman bound in the tree. “Ah, my boy,” said he,
“you are bound there, and Hung Up Naked is freed by you; and if you had
passed him as you did twice before, you need not be where you are now.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Blaiman; “I must suffer.”

“Oh, then,” said the swine-herd, “it is a pity to have you there and me
here; I will never leave you till I free you.”

Up went the swine-herd, and began to loosen Blaiman; and it happened to
him as to Blaiman himself: the bonds that had been on Blaiman were now on
the swine-herd.

“I have heard always that strength is more powerful than magic,” said
Blaiman. He went at the tree, and pulled it up by the roots; then, taking
his sword, he made small pieces of the tree, and freed the swine-herd.

Blaiman and the swine-herd then went to the castle. They found the king
sitting by the table, with his head on his hand, and a stream of tears
flowing from his eyes to the table, and from the table to the floor.

“What is your trouble?” asked Blaiman.

“Hung Up Naked came, and said that it was himself who killed the giant;
and he took my daughter.”

When he found that his wife was taken, and that he knew not where to look
for her, Blaiman was raging.

“Stay here to-night,” said the king.

Next morning the king brought a table-cloth, and said, “You may often
need food, and not know where to find it. Wherever you spread this, what
food you require will be on it.”

Although Blaiman, because of his troubles, had no care for anything, he
took the cloth with him. He was travelling all day, and at nightfall came
to a break in the mountain, a sheltered spot, and he saw remains of a
fire.

“I will go no farther to-night,” said he. After a time he pulled out the
table-cloth, and food for a king or a champion appeared on it quickly. He
was not long eating, when a little hound from the break in the mountain
came toward him, and stood at some distance, being afraid to come near.

“Oh,” said the hound, “have you crumbs or burned bread-crusts that you
would give me to take to my children, now dying of hunger? For three days
I have not been able to hunt food for them.”

“I have, of course,” said Blaiman. “Come, eat enough of what you like
best, and carry away what you can.”

“You have my dear love forever,” said the hound. “You are not like the
thief that was here three nights ago. When I asked him for help, he threw
a log of wood at me, and broke my shoulder-blade; and I have not been
able to find food for my little children since that night. Doleful and
sad was the lady who was with him; she ate no bite and drank no sup the
whole night, but was shedding tears. If ever you are in hardship, and
need my assistance, call for the Little Hound of Tranamee, and you will
have me to help you.”

“Stay with me,” said Blaiman, “a part of the night; I am lonely, and you
may take with you what food you can carry.”

The hound remained till he thought it time to go home; Blaiman gave him
what he could carry, and he was thankful.

Blaiman stayed there till daybreak, spread his cloth again, and ate what
he wanted. He was in very good courage from the tidings concerning his
wife. He journeyed swiftly all day, thinking he would reach the castle of
Hung Up Naked in the evening; but it was still far away.

He came in the evening to a place like that in which he had been the
night previous, and thought to himself, I will stay here to-night. He
spread his cloth, and had food for a king or a champion. He was not long
eating, when there came opposite him out a hawk, and asked, “Have you
crumbs or burned crusts to give me for my little children?”

“Oh,” said Blaiman, “come and eat your fill, and take away what you are
able to carry.”

The hawk ate his fill. “My love to you forever,” said the hawk; “this is
not how I was treated by the thief who was here three nights ago. When
I asked him for food, he flung a log of wood at me, and almost broke my
wing.”

“Give me your company a part of the night; I am lonely,” said Blaiman.

The hawk remained with him, and later on added, “The lady who went with
the thief was doleful and careworn; she ate nothing, but shed tears all
the time.” When going, and Blaiman had given him all the food he could
carry, the hawk said, “If ever you need my assistance, you have only to
call for the Hawk of Cold Cliff, and I will be with you.”

The hawk went away, very thankful; and Blaiman was glad that he had
tidings again of his wife. Not much of next day overtook him asleep. He
rose, ate his breakfast, and hastened forward. He was in such courage
that he passed a mountain at a leap, a valley at a step, and a broad
untilled field at a hop. He journeyed all day till he came to a break in
the mountain; there he stopped, and was not long eating from his cloth,
when an otter came down through the glen, stood before him, and asked,
“Will you give me crumbs or burned crusts for my little children?”

Blaiman gave him plenty to eat, and all he could carry home. “My love
to you forever,” said the otter. “When you need aid, call on the Otter
of Frothy Pool, and I will be with you. You are not like the thief who
was here three nights ago, having your wife with him. She was melting
all night with tears, and neither ate nor drank. You will reach the
castle of Hung Up Naked to-morrow at midday. It whirls around like a
millstone, continually, and no one can enter but himself; for the castle
is enchanted.”

The otter went home. Blaiman reached the castle at midday, and knew the
place well, from the words of the otter. He stood looking at the castle;
and when the window at which his wife was sitting came before him, she
saw him, and, opening the window, made a sign with her hand, and told him
to go. She thought that no one could get the upper hand of Hung Up Naked;
for the report had gone through the world that no man could kill him.

“I will not go,” said Blaiman. “I will not leave you where you are; and
now keep the window open.”

He stepped back some paces, and went in with one bound through the
window, when it came around the second time.

While Hung Up Naked was tied to the tree, the tributes of his kingdom
remained uncollected; and when he had the woman he wanted safe in his
castle, he went to collect the tributes. She had laid an injunction on
him to leave her in freedom for a day and a year. She knew when he would
be returning; and when that time was near she hid Blaiman.

“Good, good!” cried Hung Up Naked, when he came. “I smell on this little
sod of truth that a man from Erin is here.”

“How could a man from Erin be here?” asked Blaiman’s wife. “The only
person from Erin in this place is a robin. I threw a fork at him. There
is a drop of blood on the fork now; that is what you smell on the little
sod.”

“That may be,” said Hung Up Naked.

Blaiman and the wife were planning to destroy Hung Up Naked; but no one
had knowledge how to kill him. At last they made a plan to come at the
knowledge.

“It is a wonder,” said the woman to Hung Up Naked, “that a great man
like yourself should go travelling alone; my father always takes guards
with him.”

“I need no guards; no one can kill me.”

“How is that?”

“Oh, my life is in that block of wood there.”

“If it is there, ’tis in a strange place; and it is little trouble you
take for it. You should put it in some secure spot in the castle.”

“The place is good enough,” said he.

When Hung Up Naked went off next day, the wife told Blaiman all she had
heard.

“His life is not there,” answered Blaiman; “try him again to-night.”

She searched the whole castle, and what silk or satin or jewels she
found, she dressed with them the block of wood. When Hung Up Naked came
home in the evening, and saw the block so richly decked, he laughed
heartily.

“Why do you laugh?” asked the woman.

“Out of pity for you. It is not there that my life is at all.”

On hearing these words, she fainted, was stiff and cold for some time,
till he began to fear she was dead.

“What is the matter?” asked Hung Up Naked.

“I did not think you would make sport of me. You know that I love you,
and why did you deceive me?”

Hung Up Naked was wonderfully glad. He took her to the window, and,
pointing to a large tree growing opposite, asked, “Do you see that tree?”

“I do.”

“Do you see that axe under my bed-post?” He showed the axe. “I cannot be
killed till a champion with one blow of that axe splits the tree from
the top to the roots of it. Out of the tree a ram will rush forth, and
nothing on earth can come up with the ram but the Hound of Tranamee. If
the ram is caught, he will drop a duck; the duck will fly out on the sea,
and nothing on earth can catch that duck but the Hawk of Cold Cliff.
If the duck is caught, she will drop an egg into the sea, and nothing
on earth can find that egg but the Otter of Frothy Pool. If the egg is
found, the champion must strike with one cast of it this dark spot here
under my left breast, and strike me through the heart. If the tree were
touched, I should feel it, wherever I might be.”

He went away next morning. Blaiman took the axe, and with one blow split
the tree from top to roots; out rushed the ram. Blaiman rushed after him
through the fields. Blaiman hunted the ram till he was dropping from
weariness. Only then did he think of the hound, and cry, “Where are you
now, Little Hound of Tranamee?”

“I am here,” said the hound; “but I could not come till you called me.”

The hound seized the ram in one moment; but, if he did, out sprang a
duck, and away she flew over the sea. Blaiman called for the Hawk of Cold
Cliff. The hawk caught the duck; the duck dropped an egg. He called the
Otter of Frothy Pool; the otter brought the egg in his mouth. Blaiman
took the egg, and ran to the castle, which was whirling no longer; the
enchantment left the place when the tree was split. He opened the door,
and stood inside, but was not long there when he saw Hung Up Naked
coming in haste. When the tree was split, he felt it, and hurried home.
When nearing the castle, his breast open and bare, and he sweating and
sweltering, Blaiman aimed at the black spot, and killed Hung Up Naked.

They were all very glad then. The hawk, hound, and otter were delighted;
they were three sons of the king of that kingdom which Hung Up Naked had
seized; they received their own forms again, and all rejoiced.

Blaiman did not stay long. He left the three brothers in their own
castle and kingdom. “If ever you need my assistance,” said Blaiman to the
brothers, “send for me at my father-in-law’s.” On his return, he spent a
night at each place where he had stopped in going.

When the king saw his daughter and Blaiman, he almost dropped dead from
joy. They all spent some days very happily. Blaiman now thought of his
uncles; and for three days servants were drawing every choice thing to
his vessel. His wife went also to the ship. When all was ready, Blaiman
remembered a present that he had set aside for his mother, and hurried
back to the castle, leaving his wife on the ship with his uncles. The
uncles sailed at once for Erin. When Blaiman came back with the present,
he found neither wife, ship, nor uncles before him. He ran away like one
mad, would not return to his father-in-law, but went wild in the woods,
and began to live like the beasts of the wilderness. One time he came out
on an edge of the forest, which was on a headland running into the sea,
and saw a vessel near land; he was coming that time to his senses, and
signalled. The captain saw him, and said, “That must be a wild beast of
some kind; hair is growing all over his body. Will some of you go to see
what is there? If a man, bring him on board.”

Five men rowed to land, and hailed Blaiman. He answered, “I am from Erin,
and I am perishing here from hunger and cold.” They took him on board.
The captain treated him kindly, had his hair cut, and gave him good
clothing. Where should the captain be sailing to but the very same port
of his grandfather’s kingdom from which Blaiman had sailed. There was a
high tide when the ship neared, and they never stopped till she was in at
the quay. Blaiman went on shore, walked to the chief street, and stood
with his back to a house. Soon he saw men and horses carrying and drawing
many kinds of provisions, and all going one way.

“Why are these people all going one way?” inquired Blaiman of a man in
the crowd.

“You must be a stranger,” answered the man, “since you do not know that
they are going to the castle. The king’s elder son will be married this
evening. The bride is the only daughter of the King of the kingdom of the
White Strand; they brought her to this place twelve months ago.”

“I am a stranger,” said Blaiman, “and have only come now from sea.”

“All are invited to the wedding, high and low, rich and poor.”

“I will go as well as another,” said Blaiman; and he went toward the
castle. He met a sturdy old beggar in a long gray coat. “Will you sell me
the coat?” inquired Blaiman.

“Take your joke to some other man,” answered the beggar.

“I am not joking,” said Blaiman. “I’ll buy your coat.”

The beggar asked more for the coat than he thought would be given by any
one.

“Here is your money,” said Blaiman.

The beggar gave up the coat, and started to go in another direction.

“Come back here,” said Blaiman. “I will do you more good, and I need your
company.”

They went toward the castle together. There was a broad space in front
of the kitchen filled with poor people, for the greater part beggars,
and these were all fighting for places. When Blaiman came, he commanded
the crowd to be quiet, and threatened. He soon controlled all, and was
himself neither eating nor drinking, but seeing justice done those who
were eating and drinking. The servants, astonished that the great,
threatening beggar was neither eating nor drinking, gave a great cup of
wine to him. He took a good draught of the wine, but left still a fair
share in the cup. In this he dropped the ring that he got from his wife
in her own father’s castle, and said to a servant, “Put this cup in the
hand of the bride, and say, ‘’Tis the big beggar that sends back this
much of his wine, and asks you to drink to your own health.’”

She was astonished, and, taking the cup to the window, saw a ring at the
bottom. She took the ring, knew it, and ran out wild with delight through
the people. All thought ’twas enchantment the beggar had used; but she
embraced him and kissed him. The servants surrounded the beggar to seize
him. The king’s daughter ordered them off, and brought him into the
castle; and Blaiman locked the doors. The bride then put a girdle around
the queen’s waist, and this was a girdle of truth. If any one having
it on did not tell the truth, the girdle would shrink and tighten, and
squeeze the life out of that person.

“Tell me now,” said the bride, “who your elder son’s father is.”

“Who is he,” said the queen, “but the king?”

The girdle grew tighter and tighter till the queen screamed, “The
coachman.”

“Who is the second son’s father?”

“The butler.”

“Who is your daughter’s father?”

“The king.”

“I knew,” said the bride, “that there was no kingly blood in the veins
of the two, from the way that they treated my husband.” She told them all
present how the two had taken her away, and left her husband behind. When
Blaiman’s mother saw her son, she dropped almost dead from delight.

The king now commanded his subjects to bring poles and branches and all
dry wood, and put down a great fire. The heads and heels of the queen’s
two sons were tied together, and they were flung in and burned to ashes.

Blaiman remained awhile with his grandfather, and then took his wife back
to her father’s kingdom, where they lived many years.




FIN MACCOOL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE KING OF THE WHITE NATION.


One day Fin MacCool and the Fenians of Erin set out on a hunt from the
Castle of Rahonain, and never stopped till they came near Brandon Creek,
and started a hornless deer in a field called Parcnagri.

Over hills and through valleys they chased the deer till they came to Aun
na Vian (the river of the Fenians). The deer sprang from one side of this
river toward the other, but before reaching the bank was taken on a spear
by Dyeermud.

When the hunt was over, Fin and the Fenians went back to the place where
the deer had been started at Parcnagri, for they always returned to the
spot where they roused the first game, and there they feasted.

The feast was nearly ready when Fin saw a boat sailing in toward the
harbor of Ard na Conye (Smerwick Harbor), and no one on board but a
woman.

“’Tis a wonder to me,” said Fin, “that one woman should manage a boat
under sail on the sea. I have a great wish to know who that woman is.”

“’Tis not long I would be in bringing you tidings,” said Dyeermud.

Fin laughed; for Dyeermud was fond of the women. “I would not refuse you
permission to go, but that I myself will go, and be here before our feast
is ready.”

Fin went down from Parcnagri, and stood at the strand of Ard na Conye.
Though great was his speed, the woman was there before him, and her boat
anchored safely four miles from shore.

Fin saluted the woman with friendly greeting; and she returned the salute
in like manner.

“Will you tell me, kind man, where I am now?” asked the woman.

“In the harbor of Ard na Conye.”

“Thanks to you for that answer,” said the woman. “Can you tell where is
Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place?”

“Wherever Fin MacCool’s dwelling-place is, I am that man myself.”

“Thanks to you a second time,” said the woman; “and would you play a game
of chess for a sentence?”

“I would,” replied Fin, “if I had my own board and chessmen.”

“I will give you as good as your own,” said the woman.

“I have never refused, and never asked another to play,” said Fin. “I
will play with you.”

They sat down, and Fin won the first game.

“What is your sentence, Fin MacCool?” asked the woman.

“I put you under bonds of heavy enchantment,” said Fin, “not to eat twice
at the one table, nor to sleep two nights in the one bed, till you bring
a white steed with red bridle and saddle to me, and the same to each man
of the Fenians of Erin.”

“You are very severe, O Fin,” said the woman. “I beg you to soften the
sentence.”

“No,” answered Fin, “you must give what is asked; I will not soften the
sentence.”

“Look behind,” said the woman.

Fin turned, and saw a white steed for himself, and the like for each man
of the Fenians of Erin, all with red bridles and saddles.

“Play a second game, now,” said the woman.

They played, and she won.

“Hasten, kind woman,” said Fin, “and tell me the sentence.”

“Too soon for you to hear it,” said she.

“The sooner I hear it, the better,” said Fin.

“I put you, O Fin, under bonds of heavy enchantment to be my husband
till a shovel puts seven of its fulls of earth on your head.”

“Soften the sentence, good woman,” said Fin; “for this cannot be.”

“The gad may tighten on my throat if I do,” said the woman; “for you did
not soften your sentence on me.”

“Do you stop here,” said Fin to the woman, “till I give my men the
steeds, tell them how I am, and return. But where are the steeds?”

“If I was bound by sentence to bring you the steeds, I was not bound to
keep them.”

Fin went his way to Parcnagri, where the Fenians were waiting, and though
dinner was ready, no man tasted it from that day to this.

Fin posted his men on watch at various harbors, left Dyeermud on Beann
Dyeermud (Dyeermud’s peak), just above the harbor of Ard na Conye, and
went to the woman. She took his hand; they sprang together, and came down
in the woman’s boat, which was four miles from land.

The woman weighed anchor, raised sails, and never stopped ploughing the
weighty sea till she came to the White Nation in the Eastern World, where
her father was king. She entered the harbor, cast anchor, and landed.

“When you were at home,” said the woman to Fin, “you were Chief of the
Fenians of Erin, and held in great honor; I will not that men in this
kingdom belittle you, and I am the king’s only daughter. From the place
where we are standing to my father’s castle there is a narrow and a short
path. I’ll hasten forward on that. There is another way, a broad and long
one; do you choose that. I fear that for you there will not be suitable
seat and a place in the castle, unless I am there to prepare it before
you.”

Fin went the long way, and the woman took the short path. It was many a
day since the woman had seen her own father. For twenty-one years she
had travelled the world, learning witchcraft and every enchantment. She
hurried, and was soon at the door of the castle. Great was the welcome
before her, and loud was the joy of her father. Servants came running,
one after another, with food, and one thing better than the other.

“Father,” said she, “I will taste neither food nor drink till you tell me
the one thing to please your mind most.”

“My child,” said the king, “you have but small chance of coming at that.
The one thing on earth to delight my mind most is the head of Fin MacCool
of Erin. If there was a poor man of my name, he would not be myself if I
had that head.”

“Many a year do I know your desire, my father; and it was not for me to
come back after twenty-one years without bringing Fin’s head. You have
it now, without losing one drop of your blood or a single night’s rest.
Fin is coming hither over the broad road; and do you put men out over
against him with music to meet him, and when he comes between your two
storehouses, let the men dash him against one corner and the other, and
give every reason worse than another to bring him to death.”

The king obeyed his daughter, and sent out guards and musicians.

Fin, going over the broad road, saw men coming with music, and said to
himself, “Great is my joy, or may be my sorrow, for I fear that my life
will be ended in trouble.”

The men received Fin with shouts, and, running up, pushed him from side
to side till he was bruised and bleeding; then they brought him into the
castle.

Glad was the king, and far was the laugh heard that he let out of himself
at sight of Fin MacCool.

The king gave command then to bind the captive, putting seven knots of
cord on every joint of his body, to throw him into a deep vault, and
give him one ounce of black bread with a pint of cold water each day.

Fin was put in the vault, and a very old little woman brought his daily
allowance of food.

On his eighth day in prison, Fin said to the old little woman, “Go now to
the king, and say that I have a petition. I ask not my head, as I would
not get it; but say that my right arm is rotting. I ask to be free in the
garden for one hour; let him send with me men, if he chooses.”

The old woman told the request; and the king said, “I will grant that
with willingness; for it will not take his head from me.”

Thirty armed men were sent, and Fin was set free in the garden. While
walking, he asked the chief of the thirty, “Have you musical instruments?”

“We have not,” said the chief; “we forgot them. If they were here, we
would give music; for I pity you, Fin MacCool.”

“When I was at home,” said Fin, “having the care and charge over men, we
had music; and, if it please you, I will play some of the music of Erin.”

“I would be more than glad if you would do that,” said the chief.

The Fenians of Erin had a horn called the borabu; and when one of them
went wandering he took the borabu with him, as Fin had done this time. It
was the only instrument on which he could play. Fin blew the horn, and
the sound of it came to Beann Dyeermud from the Eastern World. Dyeermud
himself was in deep sleep at the moment; but the sound entered his right
ear and came out through the left. The spring that he made then took him
across seven ridges of land before he was firm on his feet. Dyeermud,
wiping his eyes, said, “Great is the trouble that is on you, Fin; for the
sound of the borabu has never yet entered my right ear unless you were in
peril.”

Then, going at a spring to Cuas a Wudig, he found the remains of an old
currachan, and, drawing out a chisel, knife, and axe, made a fine boat
of the old one. With one kick of his right foot, he sent the boat seven
leagues from land, and, following with a bound, dropped into it. He
hoisted sails, not knowing whither to go, north, south, east, or west,
but held on his way, and ploughed the mighty ocean before him, till, as
good luck would have it, he reached the same harbor to which the woman
had come with Fin MacCool.

Dyeermud saw the boat which had brought them, and said, laughing
heartily, “I have tidings of Fin; he’s in this kingdom in some place,
for this is the boat that brought him from Erin.”

Dyeermud cast anchor, and, landing, drew his sword; and a man seeing his
look at that moment would have wished to be twenty miles distant. On he
went, walking, till he had passed through a broad tract of country. On
the high-road, he saw men, women, and children all going one way, and
none any other. High and low, they were hurrying and hastening; the man
behind outstripping the man in front.

Dyeermud sat on a ditch to rest, and soon a wayfarer halted in front of
him. “Where are these people all hastening?” asked Dyeermud.

“From what country or place are you,” asked the man, “not to know whither
all these people are going?”

“Surely I am not of this place or your country,” said Dyeermud; “and I
care not to know whither you or these people are going, since you cannot
give a civil answer to an honest question.”

“Be patient, good man,” said the wayfarer “From what country or place are
you?”

“From Erin,” said Dyeermud.

“I suppose, then, you have known Fin MacCool, or have heard of him?”

“I have, indeed,” said Dyeermud.

“If you take my advice,” said the wayfaring man, “you’ll go out on the
same road by which you came in, or else not acknowledge Fin MacCool of
Erin, for that man will be hanged this day before the king’s castle; the
gallows is ready and built for him. When the life is gone out of him, his
head will be struck off, and left as a plaything to please the king’s
mind forever. The body is to be dragged between four wild horses; and the
same will be done to you, if you acknowledge Fin MacCool of Erin.”

“I thank you for your answer,” said Dyeermud; “and only because I don’t
like to lay a weighty hand on you, you would never again give advice like
that to a man of the Fenians of Erin. But show me the way to the castle.”

“If you were on the top of that mountain,” said the wayfarer, pointing
northward, “you would see the king’s castle.”

Dyeermud went on in strong haste, and from the mountain-top saw the
king’s castle. On the green field in front of it so many people had
gathered to see Fin MacCool’s death, that if a pin were to drop from the
middle of the sky it could not fall without striking the head of man,
woman, or child. When Dyeermud came down to the field, it was useless to
ask for room or for passage, since each wished himself to be nearest
the place of Fin’s death. Dyeermud drew his sword; and as a mower goes
through the grass of a meadow on a harvest day, or a hawk through a
flock of starlings on a chilly March morning, so did Dyeermud cut his
way through the crowd till he came to the gallows. He turned then toward
the castle, struck the pole of combat, and far was the sound of his blow
heard. The king put his head through the window.

“Who struck that blow?” asked the king. “He must be an enemy!”

“You could not expect a friend to do the like of that,” replied Dyeermud.
“I struck the blow.”

“Who are you?” cried the king.

“My name when in Erin is Dyeermud.”

“What brought you hither?” asked the king.

“I came,” replied Dyeermud, “to succor my chief, Fin MacCool.”

The king let a laugh out of him, and asked, “Have any more men come
besides you?”

“When you finish with me, you may be looking for others,” said Dyeermud.

“What do you want to-day?” asked the king.

“I want to see Fin MacCool, or to fight for him.”

“Fight you may,” said the king; “but see him you will not.”

“Well,” said Dyeermud, “it is too early in the evening for me to rest
without having the blood of enemies on my sword, so send out against me
seven hundred of your best-armed men on my right hand, seven hundred
on my left, seven hundred behind me, and twenty one hundred before my
eyesight.”

Fin’s death was delayed; and the men that he asked for put out against
Dyeermud. Coming sunset, he had the last head cut from the last body,
and, going through his day’s work, made heaps of the bodies, and piles of
the heads.

“Will you give me shelter from the night air?” asked Dyeermud, then
turning to the castle.

“I will, and welcome,” said the king, pointing to a long house at a
distance.

Dyeermud went to the long house, and to his wonder saw there a troop of
wild small men without faith, but no food, fire, or bed. These men were
the agents of the king, who put to death all people who went against
his law. Though a small race of people, they were strong through their
numbers.

When Dyeermud entered, they rose, and began to fill every cranny and
crack they could find in the building.

“Why are you doing that?” inquired Dyeermud.

“For fear that you might escape; for it’s our duty to eat you.”

Dyeermud then seized by the ankles the one who gave him this answer,
and flailed the others with this man, till he wore him down to the two
shin-bones; all the others were killed saving one, who was chief. The
small chief untouched by Dyeermud fell on his knees, and cried out,
“Spare my head! O Dyeermud, there is not a place where you will put one
foot, in which I will not put my two feet, nor a place on which you’ll
put one hand, in which I will not put my two hands; and I can be a good
servant to you.”

“No man ever asked his head of me with peace, but I gave it to him,” said
Dyeermud.

Sitting down then, Dyeermud asked, “Have you any food?”

“I have not,” said the small chief. “We have nothing to eat but men sent
here from one time to another. If you go to the king’s bakery, you may
find loaves of bread.”

Dyeermud went to the baker, and asked, “Will you give me two loaves of
bread?”

“Hardened ruffian,” said the baker, “how dare you come to this place for
bread, or any other thing, you who killed so many of our friends and near
neighbors? Go out of this, or I’ll burn you in the oven.”

“I am thankful,” said Dyeermud; “but before you can do to me what you
threaten, I will do the same to you.”

With that he opened the oven-door, threw in the baker, and burned him to
death. Then he caught up as much bread as he could carry, and went to the
long house; but, being used to good food, could not eat bread alone, and
asked the small chief, “Where can I find drink and meat to go with the
bread?”

“There is a slaughter-house behind us, not far from here,” said the
chief, “and the head butcher might give you a piece to roast or boil.”

Dyeermud went then to the butcher. “Will you give me meat for supper?”
asked he.

“You scoundrel from Erin, if you don’t leave this place I’ll cut off your
head on the block here, and separate it from the body.”

“Never have I met better people to oblige a stranger; but before you can
do to me what you promise, I will do the like to you.”

So Dyeermud caught the butcher, stretched him across the block, and with
the butcher’s own cleaver struck the head off him.

Turning around, Dyeermud saw two fine stalled bullocks dressed for the
king’s table. Taking one under each arm, he brought them to the long
house, and cut them up with his sword; then the small chief cooked
nicely what was needed. The two ate a hearty supper.

Next morning Dyeermud rose up refreshed, and went to the castle, where he
struck the pole of combat.

“What is your wish?” asked the king.

“To see Fin MacCool, or get battle.”

“How many men do you wish for?”

“One thousand of your best armed men on my right hand, as many on
my left, as many behind me, and twice three thousand in front of my
eyesight.”

The champions were sent out to Dyeermud. They went at him, and he at
them; they were that way all day, and when the sun was setting there was
not a man of the nine thousand that had his head on him.

In the evening he made piles of the bodies and heaps of the heads.

Then he went back to the long house, and it was better there than the
first night; the small chief had food and drink ready in plenty.

The combats continued for seven days in succession as on this day. On the
eighth morning, when Dyeermud appeared, the king asked for a truce.

“I will grant it,” said Dyeermud, “if you give me a sight of Fin
MacCool.”

“A sight of Fin MacCool you are not to have,” said the king, “till you
bring the hound-whelp with the golden chain.”

“Where can I find that Whelp?” inquired Dyeermud.

“The world is wide,” said the king. “Follow your nose. It will lead you.
If I were to say ’tis in the west the whelp is, maybe ’tis in the east
he’d be; or in the north, maybe he’d be in the south. So here and now you
cannot blame me if I say not where he is.”

“Well,” said Dyeermud, “as I am going for the whelp, I ask you to loose
Fin MacCool from what bonds he is in, to place him in the best chamber of
your castle, to give him the best food and drink, the best bed to lie on,
and, besides, the amusements most pleasing to his mind.”

“What you ask shall be granted,” said the king, who thought to himself,
“Your head and Fin’s will be mine in the end.”

Dyeermud went home to the long house, sat down in his chair, and gloomy
was his face.

“O Dyeermud,” said the small chief, “you are not coming in with such
looks, nor so bright in the face, as when you left here this morning.
I’ll lay my head as a wager that you are sent to bring the hound-whelp
with the golden chain.”

“True,” said Dyeermud, “and where to find him I know not.”

“Eat your supper, then sleep, and to-morrow I’ll show you where that
whelp is. Indeed, it is the task you have on you; for many a good
champion lost his head in striving to come at that whelp.”

Next morning Dyeermud and the small chief set out, and toward evening
they came within sight of a grand, splendid castle.

“Now,” said the small chief, “this castle was built by the Red Gruagach
Blind-on-One-Side; within is the hound-whelp with the golden chain; and
now let me see what you’ll do.”

Dyeermud entered the castle, where he found a great chamber, and in it
the gruagach asleep. The hound was tied to the gruagach’s bed with a
golden chain. Untying the chain from the bed, Dyeermud carried whelp and
chain with him under his arm, and hurried on homeward. When he had gone
three miles of road, he turned to the small chief and said, “That was a
mean act I did to the gruagach.”

“What’s on you now?” asked the small chief.

“It would be hard for a man to call me anything higher than a thief; for
I have only stolen the man’s whelp and golden chain.” So Dyeermud went
back to the gruagach, and put the hound-whelp and chain where he had
found them. As the gruagach was sleeping, Dyeermud struck a slight blow
on his face to rouse him.

“Oh,” said the gruagach, “I catch the foul smell of a man from Erin. He
must be Dyeermud, who has destroyed the champions of our country.”

“I am the man that you mention,” said Dyeermud; “and I am not here to ask
satisfaction of you or thanks, but to wear out my anger on your body and
flesh, if you refuse what I want of you.”

“And what is it that you want of me?” asked the gruagach.

“The hound-whelp with the golden chain.”

“You will not get him from me, nor will another.”

“Be on your feet, then,” said Dyeermud. “The whelp is mine, or your head
in place of him; if not, you’ll have my head.”

One champion put his back to the front wall, and the other to the rear
wall; then the two went at each other wrestling, and were that way till
the roof of the house was ready to fly from the walls, such was the
strength in the hands of the combatants.

“Shame on you both!” cried the gruagach’s wife, running out. “Shame on
two men like you to be tumbling the house on my children.”

“True,” said Dyeermud. And the two, without letting go the hold that they
had, went through the roof with one bound, and came down on the field
outside. The first wheel that Dyeermud knocked out of the gruagach, he
put him in the hard ground to his ankles, the second to his hips, and the
third to his neck.

“Suffer your head to be cut off, O gruagach.”

“Spare me, Dyeermud, and you’ll get the hound-whelp with the golden
chain, and my good wish and desire.”

“If you had said that at first, you would not have gone through this
hardship or kindled my anger,” said Dyeermud. With that he pulled out the
gruagach, and spared his head.

The two spent that night as two brothers, eating and drinking of the
best, and in the morning the gruagach gave Dyeermud the whelp with the
golden chain.

Dyeermud went home with the small chief, and went to the castle next
morning.

“Have you brought the hound-whelp with the golden chain?” asked the king.

“I have,” answered Dyeermud; “and I had no trouble in bringing them. Here
they are before you.”

“Well, am I to have them now?” asked the king.

“You are not,” answered Dyeermud. “If I was bound to bring them, I was
not bound to give them to you. The man who reared this whelp has a better
right to him than you or I.”

Then Dyeermud went home to the long house, followed by the small chief;
and the next morning he asked battle of the king.

“I am not ready for battle to-day,” said the king.

“Am I to get sight of Fin MacCool?” inquired Dyeermud.

“You are not,” said the king, “till you bring me an account of how the
Rueful Knight Without-Laughter lost his eye and his laugh.”

“Where can I find that knight?” asked Dyeermud.

“The world is wide,” said the king; “and it is for you alone to make out
where that man is.”

Dyeermud went home to the long house, sat in his chair, dropped his head,
and was gloomy.

“O Dyeermud,” said the small chief, “something has gone wrong to-day, and
I’ll lay my head that you are sent to get knowledge of the Rueful Knight
Without-Laughter; but sit down and take supper, then sleep, and to-morrow
you’ll not go astray; I’ll lead you to where that man lives.”

Next morning the two set out together, that evening reached the
gruagach’s castle, where there was many a welcome before them, and not
like the first time. The whelp was returned to his owner; and that night
was spent in pleasure by the gruagach, Dyeermud, and the small chief.

The next morning Dyeermud went forward attended by his two friends,
and toward evening came in sight of a large splendid castle. Dyeermud
approached it, and when he went in, saw that he had never before set foot
in a grander building.

The Rueful Knight Without-Laughter was sitting alone in his parlor at a
great heavy table. His face, resting on the palm of one hand, was worn by
it; his elbow, placed on the table, had worn a deep trench in the table;
and there he sat, trusting to the one eye that was left him.

Dyeermud shook the sleeping man gently; and when he woke, the knight
welcomed Dyeermud as one of the Fenians of Erin. Dinner was made ready
for all; and when they sat down at the table, Dyeermud thrust his fork
in the meat as a sign of request. “Is there something you wish to know?”
asked the knight.

“There is,” answered Dyeermud.

“All in my power or possession is for you, except one thing,” said the
knight, “and ask not for that.”

“It is that thing that brought me,” said Dyeermud. “I’ll take no refusal.
I’ll have your head or that knowledge.”

“Well, Dyeermud, eat your dinner, and then I will tell you; though I have
never told any one yet, not even my own lawful wife.”

When the dinner was over, the knight told his story to Dyeermud, as
follows,—

“I was living once in this place here, both happy and well. I had twelve
sons of my own and my own wife. Each of my twelve sons had his pack of
hounds. I and my wife had one pack between us. On a May morning after
breakfast, I and my sons set out to hunt. We started a deer without
horns, and, rushing forward in chase of her, followed on swiftly all day.
Toward evening the deer disappeared in a cave. In we raced after her, and
found ourselves soon in the land of small men, but saw not a trace of the
deer.

“Going to a great lofty castle, we entered, and found many people inside.
The king of the small men bade us welcome, and asked had I men to prepare
us a dinner. I said that I had my own twelve sons. The small men then
brought in from a forest twelve wild boars. I put down twelve kettles
with water to scald and dress the game. When the water was boiling, it
was of no use to us; and we could not have softened with it one bristle
on the wild boars from that day to this. Then a small man, putting the
twelve boars in a row with the head of one near the tail of the other,
took from the hall-door a whistle, and, blowing first on one side of the
row and then on the other, made all the twelve white and clean; then he
dressed, cut, and cooked them, and we all ate to our own satisfaction.

“In the course of the evening, the king of the small men asked had I
anyone who could shorten the night by showing action. I said that I
had my own twelve sons. Twelve small men now rose, and drew out a long
weighty chain, holding one end in their hands. My sons caught the other
end, pulled against the twelve small men, and the small men against them;
but the small men soon threw a loop of the chain around the necks of my
twelve sons, and swept the heads off them; one of the small men came
then with a long knife, and, opening the breasts of my sons, took out
their twelve hearts, and put them all on a dish; then they pushed me to a
bench, and I had to sit with my twelve sons stretched dead there before
me. Now they brought the dish to make me eat the twelve hearts for my
supper. When I would not, they drove them down my throat, and gave me a
blow of a fist that knocked one eye out of me. They left me that way in
torment till morning; then they opened the door, and threw me out of the
castle.

“From that day to this I have not seen my children, nor a trace of them;
and ’tis just twenty-one years, coming May-day, since I lost my twelve
sons and my eye. There is not a May-day but the deer comes to this castle
and shouts, ‘Here is the deer; but where are the hunters to follow?’ Now
you have the knowledge, Dyeermud, of how I lost my eye and my laugh.”

“Well,” asked Dyeermud, “will May-day come soon in this country?”

“To-morrow, as early as you will rise.”

“Is there any chance that the deer will come in the morning?”

“There is,” said the knight; “and you’ll not have much of the morning
behind you when she’ll give a call.”

Next morning the deer shouted, “Here is the deer; but where are the
hunters to follow?” and made away swiftly.

Dyeermud, the small chief, the gruagach, and the knight hurried on in
pursuit. Coming evening, the knight saw the cave, and called out to
Dyeermud, “Have a care of that place; for ’tis there she will enter.”

When the deer reached the cave, Dyeermud gave a kick with his right foot,
and struck off one half her hind-quarter.

Barely was this done, when out rushed a dreadful and ugly old hag, with
every tooth in her upper jaw a yard long, and she screaming, “You hungry,
scorched scoundrel from Erin, how dared you ruin the sport of the small
men?”

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Dyeermud made at her with
his fist, and sent jaws and teeth down her throat. What the old hag did
not swallow, went half a mile into the country behind her.

The hag raced on through the land of the small men, and Dyeermud with his
forces made after her. When they came to the castle, the king let a loud
laugh out of him.

“Why do you give such a laugh?” inquired Dyeermud.

“I thought that the knight had enough the first time he came to this
castle.”

“This proves to you that he had not,” said Dyeermud; “or he would not be
in it the second time.”

“Well,” asked the king of the knight, “have you any man now to cook
dinner?”

“He has,” said Dyeermud; “and it’s long since you or he had the like of
him. I’ll cook your dinner, and we’ll find the food.”

Out they went to a forest, and brought in twelve wild boars. Dyeermud
skinned the game with his sword, dressed, cut, and cooked it. All ate to
satisfaction.

Later on in the evening, the king asked the knight, “Have you any man to
show action?”

“He has,” said Dyeermud, “if you will put out the same twelve men as you
did the first evening.”

The king put them out; and Dyeermud took the end of the chain to pull
against them. He pulled till he sank in the floor to his ankles; then he
made a whirl of the chain, and swept their twelve heads off the small
men. He opened the twelve, put their hearts on a plate, and made the king
eat them. “You forced the knight to swallow the hearts of his own sons,”
said Dyeermud.

“Walk out of the castle, and punish us no more,” cried the king. “I’ll
let out to the knight his sons, with their horses and hounds, and his own
horse and hounds, if you will not come to this kingdom again.”

“We will go if you do that,” said Dyeermud; “but you are not to offend
the knight or his people; if you do, I am a better guide to find you a
second time than I was the first.”

The king took his rod of enchantment, went out to twelve stones, struck
the first, out came the first son on horseback, and a pack of hounds
after him. The king struck stone after stone till he put the twelve sons
in front of the castle, with their horses and hounds; then he struck the
thirteenth stone, and the horse and hounds of the knight appeared.

The knight looked around, and saw his eye in the hole of the chimney, and
as much soot on it as would manure land under two stone of seed-potatoes.

“Look at my eye,” said the knight.

Dyeermud looked. Then the king put the eye in the head of the knight, who
could see with it better than when he had it before.

Out they went now from the king, safe and sound, and never stopped till
they reached the knight’s castle for dinner. When dinner was over,
Dyeermud, the gruagach, and the small chief hastened on to the gruagach’s
castle, and slept there.

Next day Dyeermud and the small chief went home. On the following
morning, Dyeermud went to the king, told him the Rueful Knight’s story,
and said, “Now I must have battle, or a sight of Fin MacCool.”

“Battle I’ll not give you,” said the king; “and a sight of Fin MacCool
you’ll not have till you tell me what happened to the Lad of True Tales.”

“I am sorry,” said Dyeermud, “that this was not said by you sooner. It
is late for me now to be tearing my shoes on strange roads, and tiring
my feet in a foreign land.” With that he sprang at the king, brought him
down by the throat from the window to the ground, and there broke every
bone in his body. Then he put the castle foundation upward, looking for
Fin, and destroying all that he met, but could not find Fin till he met
the old little woman.

“O Dyeermud,” said she, “spare my head. I am more than a hundred years
old. I have been faithful to Fin since he came here. I have never refused
to do what he asked of me.”

“Your head shall be spared,” replied Dyeermud, “though old life is as
dear to you as it is to young people; and take me now to where Fin is.”

Dyeermud went with the old little woman to the door of Fin’s chamber, and
knocked. Fin knew the knock, and cried out, “Reach me your sword.”

“Take it,” said Dyeermud.

Fin’s strength was trebled at sight of Dyeermud; and when he grasped the
sword, he swore by it, saying, “I will cut off your head if you come a
foot nearer.”

“You are not in your mind to speak thus to the man who has gone through
so much for you.”

“I am in my mind,” said Fin; “but if we were to close our arms embracing
each other in friendship, we could not open them for seven days and
nights. Now, the woman who brought me from Ard na Conye, the bay which
we love most in Erin, save Fintra, will be here soon. Though there was
nothing on earth to please the King of the White Nation more than my
head, there is another good man in the world, and the king wishes his
head as greatly as mine. The daughter has gone, and is using her highest
endeavor to bring that head to her father; so hasten on to the boat,
Dyeermud, I will follow. If you find food, take it with you.”

Dyeermud hurried off. In passing through the king’s meadow he saw two
fat bullocks grazing. He caught them, and, clapping one under each arm,
ran off to the boat. When Fin came, he found both bullocks skinned and
dressed there before him.

They weighed anchor now and raised sails for Erin, ploughing the weighty
sea before them night and day. Once Fin said to Dyeermud, “Look behind.”
Dyeermud looked, but saw nothing.

Three hours later, Fin said, “Look behind, and look keenly.”

Dyeermud looked, and cried, “I see behind us in the sky some bird like an
eagle, and flashes of fire blazing out from her beak.”

“Oh, we are caught at last, and it’s a bad place we are in on the sea; we
cannot fight here.”

The bird was coming nearer, and gaining; but the wind favored, filled
every sail, and sent them bounding along till they were within five
leagues of land; then they made one spring, and came down in Ferriter’s
Cove.

No sooner had they landed, than the bird perched on the boat, turned it
over, stood on the bottom, and from that saw Fin and Dyeermud on land.
She made for them; and the moment she touched shore became a woman.

She rushed to Fin, caught him in her arms most lovingly, and said,
turning to Dyeermud, “You are the wicked man who put words between me and
my husband and parted us.”

Then, turning to Fin, she said, “Now, my darling, come home with me. You
will be King of the White Nation, and I, your loving wife.”

“Right and true for you,” said Dyeermud. “It’s the good wife and friend
you were to this man; and now I ask how long must he be your husband?”

“Till a shovel puts seven of its fulls of earth on his head.”

Dyeermud drew his sword, and struck a champion’s blow on a ridge of land
that was near him; he was so enraged that he made a deep glen with that
blow; then he caught Fin, and, stretching him in the glen, thrust his
sword in the earth, and, throwing it as with a shovel on Fin, counted
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Your time is up with Fin,”
said he to the king’s daughter; “he is in his own country, and you are a
stranger. Take him a second time if you can, and I pledge you the faith
of a champion that I will not put words between you.”

The woman stooped down to put away the seven shovels of earth, and said
to Fin while she was working, “We’ll both be happy this time.”

With that Dyeermud gave her one blow of his fist on the left ear, and
sent her spinning through the air. She never stopped till she fell at the
edge of the ocean, and became Fail Mahisht; and not another cliff in Erin
has so many limpets and periwinkles on it as that one.

So the daughter of the King of the White Nation gives much food to people
in Erin from that day to this.




FIN MACCOOL, THE THREE GIANTS, AND THE SMALL MEN.


On a day of the days when Fin MacCool was living at Rahin, he went out to
walk near Fintra. He had many cows and sheep at that time, and was going
among his cattle, when all at once he saw a big man coming in from the
sea.

At first he saw the man’s head and shoulders, then half his body, and at
last his whole body. When the big man stood on the strand, he saluted
Fin. Fin returned the salute, and asked, “Who are you, and what brought
you to Erin?”

“I have come from the King of the Big Men; and I want to see Fin MacCool.”

“Fin MacCool is not at home now,” said Fin. “Are you here with a message?”

“I am,” said the big man.

“I will give the message to Fin MacCool when he comes home; there is no
one he trusts more than me.”

“My master, the King of the Big Men, has heard much of Fin MacCool, and
invites him to come to his castle. The king lost two children. Some
one came in the night and stole them. Though guarded with wonderful
strictness, the children were carried away. The king fears to lose a
third child soon, unless Fin MacCool comes to advise and assist him.”

“I will give that message to Fin MacCool,” said Fin.

The big man left good health with Fin, then turned and went forward,
going deeper till his head disappeared under water.

A few days later Fin was walking in the same place where he had met the
messenger from the King of the Big Men, and he saw some very small men
playing hurley on the strand. He went to them, and spoke. They answered,
and called him King of the Fenians.

“You seem to know me,” said Fin.

“We do indeed, and we know you very well,” said the small men.

“Who are you?” asked Fin, “or what can you do?”

“Oh, we have many virtues,” replied they.

“What virtue have you?” asked Fin, turning to the biggest of the small
men.

“Well, whenever I sit down in any place I stay in it as long as I like;
no man can lift me; no power can take me out of it.”

“What is your name?” asked Fin.

“Lazy Back,” said the little fellow. “No man can stir me when I sit down.”

“How am I to know that you have that virtue?” asked Fin.

“You are a strong man yourself,” answered Lazy Back; “give me a trial.”

The little man sat down. Fin caught him with one hand, and tried to raise
him; but not a stir could he take out of Lazy Back.

“Try with both hands now,” said Lazy Back.

Fin tried with both hands, tried with all the strength that was in him,
but could not move the little man.

“What is your virtue?” asked Fin, turning to the second man; “and who are
you?”

“My name is Hearing Ear.”

“What can you hear?”

“I can hear a whisper in the Eastern World, and I sitting in this place.”

“What is your name?” asked Fin of the third player.

“My name is Far Feeler.”

“What can you feel?” asked Fin.

“I can feel an ivy-leaf falling at the Eastern World, and I playing here
at Fintra.”

“What is your name?” asked Fin, turning to the fourth player.

“My name is Knowing Man.”

“What do you know?”

“I know all that will happen in every part of the world.”

“What power have you, and who are you?” asked Fin of the fifth man.

“I am called Always Taking; I steal.”

“What can you steal?”

“Whatever I set my mind on. I can steal the eggs from a snipe, and she
sitting on them; and the snipe is the wariest bird in existence.”

“What can you do?” asked Fin, looking at the sixth man.

“My name is Climber. I can climb the highest castle in the world, though
its sides were as slippery as glass.”

“Who are you?” asked he of the seventh stranger.

“I am called Bowman.”

“What can you do?”

“I can hit any midge out of a cloud of midges dancing in the air.”

“You have good eyesight,” said Fin, “and good aim as well.

“Who are you?” asked Fin of the eighth.

“I am called Three Sticks. I understand woodwork.”

“What can you do?” asked Fin.

“I can make anything I please out of wood.”

“Can you make a ship?”

“I can.”

“How long would it take you to make one?”

“While you would be turning on your heel.”

He took a chip of wood then from the shore, and asked Fin to turn on his
heel. While Fin was turning, Three Sticks flung the piece of wood out on
the sea, and there it became a beautiful ship.

“Well, have you the ship made?” asked Fin, looking on the strand.

“There it is,” said Three Sticks, “floating outside.”

Fin looked, and saw the finest vessel that ever sailed on the deep
sea; the butt of no feather was in, nor the tip of one out, except one
brown-backed red feather that stood at the top of the mast, and that
making music and sport to encourage whatever champion would come on board.

“Will you all take service with me?” asked Fin, looking at the eight
small strangers. “I wish to go to the kingdom of the Big Men. Will you
guide me on the journey, and help me?”

“We are willing to serve you,” answered they. “There is no part of the
world to which we cannot guide you.”

“What are your wages?” asked Fin.

“Five gold-pieces to each man of us for a day and a year.”

“How much time do we need for the journey to the kingdom of the Big Men?”

“Not many days,” said Knowing Man.

Stores and provisions were put on the ship. Fin and the small men went
on board, and set sail; before many days they arrived at the kingdom of
the Big Men, and drew up their ship high and dry. They set out then for
the castle of the king; and no greater wonder was ever seen in that place
than Fin and his eight little men.

The king invited Fin and his company to a great feast. At the end of the
feast, the king said, “My third son was born to-day. My first son was
taken away on the night after his birth, and so was my second. I am full
sure that this one will be taken from me to-night.”

“I will guard the child,” said Fin; “and if I let your son go with any
one, I will give you my head.”

The king was satisfied. Fin asked for a strong chamber and two nurses.
The strongest chamber in the castle was made ready; then Fin and his men,
with the child and two nurses, took their places inside.

“Do you know what will happen to-night?” asked Knowing Man.

“I do not,” replied Fin; “and I do not like to chew my thumb.[5] You can
tell me.”

“You gave your head in pledge,” said Knowing Man, “for the safety of the
child; and you were a strange man to do so, for the child will be taken
from this to-night.”

“Do you say that?” asked Fin.

“I do. And do you know who will do it?”

“I do not.”

“I will tell you. In the Eastern World lives a sister of this king, a
savage hag and a terrible witch. This hag went to the Eastern World
because she had a dispute with her brother. She is ungrateful, and full
of malice; she comes now and steals away her brother’s children to leave
him without heirs to his kingdom. When she finds this room closed on
every side, and sees no other way of reaching the child, she will climb
to the roof, and stretch her arm down to catch the king’s little son, and
take him away with her.”

Lazy Back sat down near the hearth, and swore a great oath that if the
hag thrust her hand down, he would hold her or keep the hand.

A little after midnight, Hearing Ear said, “I hear the hag; she is making
ready to leave her castle in the Eastern World, and giving strict orders
to guard the two children while she is gone.”

“Well,” said Far Feeler, “now I feel her going up through her own castle;
now I feel her going out through the door on the roof. Her castle has
no entrance except an opening in the roof, and the walls of it are as
slippery as glass.”

“You will warn me when she is coming,” said Fin to Hearing Ear.

“Oh, I will,” said Hearing Ear; “I will not forget that.”

In a little while the hag was at the castle, and going around it trying
to enter. Although the castle was surrounded by sentries, not one of them
saw her; for she was invisible, through power of enchantment.

“She has come,” said Hearing Ear; “she is walking around the castle. Now
is the time to watch her well.”

A few moments later, she thrust her arm down the chimney; and no sooner
was it down than Lazy Back caught her hand. When she felt her hand
caught, she struggled greatly; but Lazy Back kept the hold that he had,
and nothing could stir him. At last the arm left the shoulder of the
hag. Lazy Back drew the arm down the chimney. All looked at it with
amazement; and while the nurses were wondering at the arm, and Fin
measuring its length and its thickness, they forgot the child. The hag
thrust her other arm down then, caught the child, and hurried away home
with it. When the nurses saw that the child was gone, they screamed; and
Fin said,—

“It would be better for us to hurry to our vessel, and leave the country
before the king is up in the morning; he will destroy us all for losing
his son.”

“We will not do that,” said the little men. “Late as it is, we will
follow the hag, and bring back the child.”

They set out that moment; and since Fin could not keep up with the little
men, Lazy Back took him on his shoulder: and, in the twinkle of an eye,
they reached the ship, and set sail for the Eastern World.

Indeed, they were not long on the journey; for they were enchanted. When
they came to land near the hag’s castle, Fin, Bowman, and two others
remained on the vessel. Climber, Thief, and the rest went for the child.

“Where are you, Climber?” asked Thief, when they were at the wall.

“Here,” said Climber.

“Take me to the top of the castle.”

Climber took Thief on his back, and climbed like a butterfly to the top
of the building; then Thief crept down into the castle, and returned
quickly with the youngest of the children.

“Take this one down to our comrades, and hurry back to me.”

Climber went down, and hastened up again. Thief had another of the
children at the top of the castle before him. Climber took that down,
with orders from Thief to carry the two children to the vessel. Then he
returned a third time, and Thief had the third child.

“Take this one, and come for me,” said Thief.

The little men at the foot of the castle ran off to the ship with the
last child. Nimble as Thief was, he could not have taken the children
at another time. All the servants were busied with the hag, who was
suffering terribly from the loss of her arm. They forgot the children for
a short time.

Climber took Thief to the ground, and they started at full speed toward
the ship. When they came, Fin set sail for the kingdom of the Big Men.

“We shall be pursued right away,” said Knowing Man. “If the hag comes up
with the ship, she will destroy every man of us.”

“She will not,” said Bowman. “If I get one glimpse of that hag, I will
put an end to her life; and do you listen, Hearing Ear, to know is she
coming, and tell me when you hear her.”

“I hear her now,” said Hearing Ear. “She is raging, and she is cursing
those who were minding the children, and let them be taken. Now she is
leaving the castle; now she is racing on after us.”

“Tell us, Far Feeler, when she is coming near,” said Fin.

“She is making a terrible uproar,” said Hearing Ear.

“She is coming toward us. She is very near,” said Far Feeler.

Bowman saw her, rested his bow on the shoulder of another, aimed, and
sent an arrow through the one eye in the middle of the hag’s forehead.
She fell flat on the sea, and lay dead there. Fin and his small men moved
forward swiftly to the castle. They arrived one hour before the end of
night, and from that time till daybreak there was joy in the chamber.
The small men and the two children of the king were playing together and
enjoying themselves. Just before day, the king sent a servant to know
what had happened in the chamber where his son was. The man could not
enter, for they would not let him; but he looked through the keyhole. He
went back then, and said to the king,—

“They seem to be very merry inside; and there are two lads in the room
bigger than any of the small men.”

The king knew they would not be merry unless the child was there. What he
did was to throw on his mantle, and go himself to see. He knocked at the
door.

“Who is there?” asked Fin.

“I,—the king.”

The door was thrown open, and in walked the king. He saw the child in the
cradle; but what was his wonder when he saw the other two. Without saying
a word, he seized Fin’s hand and shook it; and then he thanked him.

“There are your other two children,” said Fin; “and do you know who stole
them?”

“I do not.”

“I will tell you,” said Fin. “Have you a sister?”

“I had,” answered the king, “but we became enemies; and I know not where
she is at this moment.”

Then Fin told everything that had happened in the night. “And now you
have your three sons,” said he to the king.

The king made a feast, which lasted seven days and seven nights. Never
had there been such a feast in the kingdom of the Big Men as that; and
sure why not, for wasn’t it a great thing for the king to have his three
sons home with him? When the feast was over, the king sent his men to
carry all kinds of riches and treasures to Fin’s ship; and for three days
they were carrying them. At parting, the king said to Fin, “If ever you
need my assistance, you have only to send for it.”

Fin and his men sailed homeward then swiftly; and it was not long till
they reached Fintra. The ship was unloaded; and Fin was glad, looking at
his treasures, and thinking of his adventures in the land of the Big Men.

Some time after Fin had come from the land of the Big Men, he sent
warriors to the chief ports of Erin to guard against enemies. One day his
face was anxious and gloomy.

“You seem to be grieving,” said Dyeermud; “you would better tell us what
trouble is on you.”

“Some trouble is near me,” said Fin.

“By my hand,” said Oscar, “if you do not tell me your trouble, I will not
eat one morsel to-day.”

“Trouble is near me; but I know not yet what it is.”

“Chew your thumb then,” said Oscar.

Fin chewed his thumb from the flesh to the bone, from the bone to the
marrow, from the marrow to the quick, and found out that there were three
giants in the Eastern World who were coming to attack himself and his
forces, drive them into the sea like sheep, and leave not a man of them
living.

Fin knew not what to do; and he was in great grief that there should be
three men who could invade all Erin, and destroy its defenders.

“Chew your thumb a second time,” said Oscar, “to know is there any way to
conquer them. We have travelled the world, and no people have the upper
hand of us so far. There must be arms against these three.”

Fin chewed his thumb the second time; and the knowledge he got was this,
that fire would not burn, water would not drown, swords would not cut
either of the three giants. There was nothing to kill them but three
things which their father had at home in the Eastern World; and if they
saw those three things, they would fall dead, and dissolve into three
heaps of jelly. What the three things were, was not told. “Go now,” said
Fin to Dyeermud, “and find the forces, and I will watch myself for the
enemy.”

Next morning Fin took his sword under his arm, went to Fintra, and began
to herd bullocks. He did this for some time, till one day above another
he saw three giants coming in toward him, the water not past their hips.
He wasn’t long waiting when they came near the cliff where he was; and he
saw their hearts, their mouths were stretched open so widely, laughing at
the boy herding the cattle.

“Where is Fin MacCool and his forces?” asked one of the giants.

“Well,” said Fin, “it is not for me to tell you where Fin MacCool is;
I am only his herder. But is there anything in the world to kill you?
It must be there is not, and ye to have the courage to face Fin MacCool
and his forces; for no people in the world have ever yet beaten them in
battle.”

“We have come to Erin,” said the giants, “to find Fin MacCool; and we
will drive him and his forces into the sea, like sheep from the side of
a mountain. Fire cannot burn us; swords do not cut us; and water will
not drown us. Nothing in the world can cause our death but our own three
caps; and where they are, neither you nor Fin will ever know.”

“How am I to know,” asked the herdsman, “that fire will not burn you, or
water drown you, or swords cut you? Let me give you a blow; and I’ll know
will swords cut you.”

“Oh, little man,” said one of the giants, “how could you reach us with a
sword?”

“I will show you a place,” said Fin, “where I may be strong enough to
give a blow ye would remember.”

He led the giants to a narrow place between two cliffs, and stood himself
on the top of one cliff. He gave then a terrible blow of his sword to the
head of one giant, but left not a sign of blood on him.

“By my hand!” said the giant, “if every warrior in Fin MacCool’s forces
is as good at the sword as you, he need not be in dread of any men but
us.”

Fin gave the second giant a terrible blow, and staggered him.

“Oh!” said the giant, “no man ever gave me the like of that.”

He struck the third giant a blow, and knocked him to his knees; but not a
drop of blood came.

“Such a blow as that,” said the giant, “I never got from any man before.
Now, how are you to know that water will not drown us?”

“There is a place which I will show you,” said Fin. “If ye sleep in it
to-night, and rise up in the morning before me, I shall know that water
does not drown you.”

Fin showed a place where the water was twenty fathoms deep. The three
lay down together under the water to stay till next morning. Fin hurried
home then, gathered the Fenians together, and said,—

“I am in dread that these are the right giants. I knocked one trial out
of them; swords will not cut them. They are sleeping to-night under
twenty fathoms of water; but I am full sure that they will rise from it
healthy and sound in the morning. Now, be ready, all of you, to scatter
and go here and there throughout Erin. To-morrow, I am to try will fire
burn them; when I know that, I will tell you what to do.”

The following morning, Fin went to where the giants had spent the night,
and whistled. The three rose up to him at once, and came to land.

“Now,” said the eldest, as he looked around and saw the cattle, “a bite
to eat would not harm us.”

With that he faced one of the bullocks, and caught the beast by one horn.

“Leave him,” said Fin; “you have no call to that bullock.”

Fin caught the bullock by the other horn. The giant pulled, and Fin held
his own. One pulled, the other pulled, till between them they split the
bullock from his muzzle to the tip of his tail, and made two equal parts
of him.

“’Tis a deal for me to have this much itself,” said Fin. “I have saved
half of my master’s property. If ye want food, ye will get it at Fin’s
house. I will show the way; but first let me see will fire burn you.”

“Very well; we will make a great fire, and go into it; we’ll stay in the
fire till the wood is burned down, and then rise out of it as well as
ever.”

There were many trees in the country at that time. The giants and Fin
were not long making a great pile of dry limbs and logs. When the pile
was finished, the giants sat on the top of it, and Fin brought fire. The
flames rose as high as the tree-tops.

“’Tis too hot here for me,” said Fin.

“This is pleasant for us,” said the giants; and they laughed as Fin went
from the heat.

Fin could not come within ten perches of the fire. It burned all day, and
the blaze of it was seen all the following night. In the afternoon of the
next day, the pile had burned down, and the three giants were sitting at
their ease on the hot coals.

“Fire does not harm us; you see that,” said the giants.

“I do, indeed,” said Fin; “and now ye may go to Fin’s house for
refreshment.”

Fin showed them a long road, hurried home himself by a short one, and
gave command to the Fenians to scatter through Erin, and escape. Then,
turning to his mother, he said, “Make three cakes for the giants, put
iron griddles in the middle of them, and bake them a little in the ashes.
You will give these to the giants to eat. You will say that they are
soft, not well baked; that we complain when the bread is not hard. I will
lie down in the dark corner, in that big box there. Do you bind my head
and face with a cloth, and say, when the giants are eating, ‘This poor
child is sick; I think his teeth are coming.’”

The old woman put three cakes in the ashes, and the griddles inside in
them. When the giants came, the cakes were ready, and the old woman was
sitting near the cradle.

“Is this Fin MacCool’s house?” asked the giants.

“It is,” said the old woman.

“And is Fin himself in the house?”

“He is not then,” said the old woman; “and it is seldom he is in it.”

“Have you any food to give us?”

“I have nothing but three loaves of bread; ye may have these, and
welcome.”

“Give us the bread,” said the giants.

The old woman put the cakes on the table. One took a bite, another took
a bite, then the third took a bite; and they all looked at one another.

“I know ye think the bread too soft,” said Fin’s mother. “The Fenians
always blame me for making it too soft; and these cakes are not baked
very well. They are softer than the usual bread of the Fenians.”

From shame, the giants ate the cakes, griddles and all. “Well,” muttered
they, “to say that men would eat the like of that bread, and call it too
soft! It is no wonder that they walked the world without finding their
equals.”

“What exercise do the Fenians have after meals?” asked the giants.

“There is a stone outside,” said the old woman, “which they throw over
the house. They throw the stone, run in one door, run out the door
opposite, and catch the stone before it comes to the earth.”

One giant caught the stone, but did not throw it. “What is that?” said
the other, running up and lifting the stone. To show his power, he threw
it over the house, ran through both doors, and caught it coming down. The
same giant threw the stone back again, and left it in its old place. Each
of the others then did the same as the first. The life came near leaving
Fin when he heard the giants throwing the stone, and racing to catch it.
He was in dread they’d make bits of the house, and kill his old mother
and himself.

“Oh, then,” said the giants, when they left the stone, “it is no wonder
that other people get no hand of the Fenians.”

“Well, old woman,” said the eldest giant, “what is that you have there in
the dark corner?”

“My grandson, and it is sick and peevish he is.”

“I suppose the child is getting his teeth?” said the giant.

“Indeed, then, I don’t know,” said the old woman; “but maybe it is the
teeth that are troubling him.”

With that the eldest giant walked up to the cradle, and put his finger in
the child’s mouth; but if he did, Fin took two joints off his finger with
a bite.

“Oh!” said the giant, “if the child grows like that till he is a man, he
will be the greatest champion in the world. To say that a child could
take the finger off me, and he in the cradle!”

Away went the giants; and when they were gone, Fin called his eight
small men, and hurried to the ship. They hoisted sails, and went. They
raised gravel from the bottom of the sea, and put the foam of the waves
in the place of the gravel; and with every bound the ship made, she went
forward ten leagues. Never before did a ship cross the water so swiftly;
and Fin never stopped till he anchored in the Eastern World. He put the
fastenings of a day and a year on the ship, though he might not be absent
one hour, and went away with his men. They were going on and travelling,
and where did they come at last but to the castle of the old King of the
Eastern World, the father of the three giants. The old king laughed when
he saw Fin and the eight small men with him.

“In what part of the world do such people live, and where are you going?”
asked the king. “You would better stay with me till my three sons come
home.”

“Where are your sons?” asked Fin.

“They are in Erin. They went to that country to bring me the head of Fin
MacCool, and to drown all his forces in the deep ocean.”

“They must be great men,” said Fin, “to go against Fin MacCool, and to
think of drowning his forces, and bringing Fin’s head to you. Do you know
that no man ever got the better of Fin, or made any hand of the Fenians
of Erin?”

“My sons are not like others,” said the king; “but will you stay with me?”

“I will,” said Fin, “and why not?”

The old king was very fond of amusement; and after a while Fin told what
a wonderful archer one of his little boys was. The king appointed a day
for a trial of skill in archery. All the greatest marksmen in the Eastern
World were invited.

“Where does the king keep his sons’ three caps?” asked Fin of Knowing Man.

“There is a secret chamber in the castle; no one here but the king knows
where it is. In that chamber are the caps. The king always keeps the key
of that chamber in his pocket.”

“You must show the chamber to Thief, to-morrow,” said Fin.

Next day, while the king was looking at the archery, and wondering at the
skill of Bowman, who sent an arrow through the two eyes of a bird on the
wing, Thief stole the key, and Knowing Man showed the secret chamber.

Thief stole the three caps, and gave them to Fin. Lazy Back ran for
Bowman; and all were soon on the ship sailing for Erin as swiftly as they
had come.

When the ship was near land in Erin, what should Fin see but all the
Fenians coming down from the hilltops, and the three giants behind,
driving them toward the water? He went to the top of the mast then, and
raised the three caps on three sticks.

The giants looked at the vessel sailing in, and saw their own caps. That
moment there was neither strength nor life left in them. They fell to the
ground, and turned into three heaps of jelly. Fin had come just in season
to rescue his forces; in another half hour, he would not have found a man
of the Fenians alive in Erin.

“Oh, but you are here in time!” said Oscar.

“I am,” said Fin; “and it is well for you that I was able to come.”

Fin and the Fenians had a great feast in Rahin, and a joyful night of it;
and no wonder, for life is sweet.

Next day the time of the small men was out; and Fin went to the strand
with them.

“I will pay you your wages to-day,” said Fin. “To each man five
gold-pieces. I am willing and glad to give more; for ye were the good
servants to me.”

“We want nothing but our wages,” said the small men.

Fin paid each five gold-pieces. He wanted the ship in which he had sailed
to the Eastern World, and kept his eye on it.

“Oh,” said Three Sticks, “don’t mind that ship; look at the one beyond.”

Fin turned in the other direction, and saw nothing but water.

“There is no ship there,” said he, turning to Three Sticks.

But Three Sticks and all his comrades were gone. Fin looked out on the
water; the ship was gone too. He was sorry for the ship, and sorry for
the small men; he would rather have them than all the Fenians of Erin.




FIN MACCOOL, CEADACH OG, AND THE FISH-HAG.


On a time Fin MacCool and the Fenians were living at Rahonain, a mile
distant from Fintra. While Fin and his men were near Fintra, a champion
called Ceadach Og, son of the King of Sorach, came to them to learn
feats of skill. They received Ceadach with gladness; and after a time he
learned all their feats, and departed. Fin and the Fenians were pleased
with his company; and Ceadach was grateful to Fin and the Fenians.

At some distance from Fintra, there lived at that time a famed champion,
who taught feats of valor and arms, and was surnamed the Knight of
Instruction. With this man Ceadach engaged to gain still more knowledge.

The Knight of Instruction had a daughter; and there was with him a second
man learning, whose nickname was Red Face.

When the champions had learned all the feats from the knight, the two
were in love with his daughter. Not wishing that one of his pupils
should envy the other, the knight could not settle which man to choose.
He called then his druid, and laid the whole question before him.

“My advice,” said the druid, “is this: Open two opposite doors in your
castle; place your daughter half-way between them; and let the two
champions pass out, one through one door, and one through the other.
Whomever your daughter will follow, let her be the wife of that man.”

The champions had their own compact, that the man whom the young woman
would follow should let the other have three casts of a spear at him, and
he without right of defence; but if another would defend, he might let
him.

The knight brought his daughter to the middle of the chamber, and opened
the doors. The young woman went out after Ceadach.

Ceadach and his wife went their way then together; and he feared to stop
at any place till he came to a great lonesome forest. He went to the
middle of the forest, built a house there, and lived with his wife for a
season.

One day as Fin was walking near the water at Fintra, he met a strange
creature,—a woman to the waist, from the waist a fish. The human half was
like an old hag. When Fin stopped before her, he greeted the hag. She
returned the greeting, and asked him to play chess for a sentence.

“I would,” answered Fin, “if I had my own board and chessmen.”

“I have a good board,” said the fish-hag.

“If you have,” said Fin, “we will play; but if you win the first game, I
must go for my own board, and you will play the second on that.”

The hag consented. They played on her chessboard, and the hag won that
game.

“Well,” said Fin, “I must go for my own board, and do you wait till I
bring it.”

“I will,” said the fish-hag.

Fin brought his own board; and they played, and he won.

“Now,” said Fin, “pass your sentence on me, since you won the first game.”

“I will,” said the hag; “and I place you under sentence of weighty
druidic spells not to eat two meals off the one table, nor to sleep two
nights in the one bed, nor to pass out by the door through which you came
in, till you bring me the head of the Red Ox, and an account of what took
the eye from the Doleful Knight of the Island, and how he lost speech and
laughter. Now pass sentence on me.”

“You will think it too soon when you hear it,” said Fin, “but here it is
for you. I place you under bonds of weighty druidic spells to stand on
the top of that gable above there, to have a sheaf of oats fixed on the
gable beyond you, and to have no earthly food while I’m gone, except what
the wind will blow through the eye of a needle fixed in front of you.”

“Hard is your sentence, O Fin,” said the fish-hag. “Forgive me, and I’ll
take from your head my sentence.”

“Never,” said Fin. “Go to your place without waiting.”

Before Fin departed, the fish hag had mounted the gable.

The fame of the Red Ox had spread through all lands in the world, and
no man could go near him without losing life. The Fenians were greatly
unwilling to face the Red Ox, and thought that no man could match him,
unless, perhaps, Ceadach.

Though they knew not where Ceadach was living, nor where they were likely
to find him, they started in search of that champion. They played with a
ball, as they travelled, driving it forward before them, knowing that if
Ceadach saw the ball he would give it a blow.

While passing the forest where Ceadach and his wife, the knight’s
daughter, were hiding, one of the Fenians gave the ball a great blow;
but as he aimed badly, the ball flew to one side, went far away, and fell
into the forest.

Ceadach was walking away from his house when the ball fell, and he saw
it. He pulled down a tree-branch, and, giving a strong, direct blow,
drove the ball high in the air, and out of the forest.

“No one struck that blow,” said the Fenians, “but Ceadach, and he is here
surely.” They went then toward the point from which they had seen the
ball coming, and there they found Ceadach.

“A thousand welcomes, Fin MacCool,” said Ceadach. “Where are you going?”

“I am under sentence to bring the head of the Red Ox; and ’tis for it
that I am going: but I never can bring it unless you assist me. Without
you, I cannot lift from my head the sentence that is on it.”

“If it lay with me, I would go with you gladly; but I know that my wife
will not let me leave her. But do as I tell you now. When you come to
us to eat dinner, taste nothing, and when my wife asks you to eat, say
that you will not eat till she grants a request: if she will not grant
it, leave the house, and let all the Fenians follow; if she grants you a
request, you are to ask that I go with you. I know that she will grant
you any request, except to take me in your company; for she is in dread
that I may meet Red Face.”

They went to the house; the wife welcomed Fin with the others, and
prepared dinner. When meat was placed before Fin, he would not taste it.

“Why not eat, O King of the Fenians?”

“I have a request to make. If you grant it, I will eat; if not, neither I
nor my men will taste food.”

“Any request in my power, I will grant,” said she, “except one.”

“What is that?” inquired Fin.

“If you want Ceadach to go with you, I’ll not grant that.”

“’Tis he that I want,” answered Fin.

“You’ll not get him.”

“Well, you may keep him,” said Fin, rising from the table; and all the
men followed. Conan Maol, who was with them, thought it hard to leave the
dinner untasted, so he took a joint of meat with him.

When Fin and the Fenians had gone, Ceadach said to his wife, “It is a
great shame to us that Fin and the Fenians have left our house without
tasting food, and this their first visit. Never can I face a man of the
Fenians after what has happened this day.” And he talked till the wife
consented to let him go with them.

Ceadach then whistled after Fin, who came back with his men; and they
raised three shouts of joy when they heard that Ceadach would go with
them. They entered the house then; all sat down to dinner, and they
needed it badly.

After dinner, all set out together, and went to Ceadach’s father, the
King of Sorach, who was very powerful, and had many ships (Fin and the
Fenians had no ships at that time). Ceadach’s father had received no
account of his son from the time that he left him at first, and was
rejoiced at his coming.

Said Fin to the King of Sorach, “I need a ship to bear me to the land
where the Red Ox is kept.”

“You may take the best ship I have,” said the king.

Fin chose the best ship, and was going on board with his men when
Ceadach’s wife said to him, “When coming back, you are to raise black
sails if Ceadach is killed, but white sails if he is living.”

Fin commanded, and the men turned the prow to the sea, and the
stern to land; they raised the great sweeping sails, and took their
smoothly-polished ship past harbors with gently-sloping shores, and there
the ship left behind it pale-green wavelets. Then a mighty wind swept
through great flashing waves with such force that not a nail in the ship
was left unheated, nor the finger of a man inactive; and the ship raised
with its sailing a proud, haughty ridge in the sea. When the wind failed,
they sat down with their oars of fragrant beech or white ash, and with
every stroke they sent the ship forward three leagues through the water,
where fishes, seals, and monsters rose around them, making music and
sport, and giving courage to the men; and they never stopped nor cooled
till they entered the chief port of the land where the Red Ox was kept.

When all had landed; Ceadach said, “I need the fleetest man of the
Fenians to help me against the Red Ox; and now tell me what each of you
can do, and how fast he can run.”

“Let out,” said one man, “twelve hares in a field with twelve gaps in it,
and I will not let a hare out through any gap of the twelve.”

“Take a sieve full of chaff,” said a second man, “to the top of a
mountain; let the chaff go out with the wind; and I will gather all in
again before as much as one bit of it comes to the ground.”

“When I run at full speed,” said a third man, “my tread is so light that
the dry, withered grass is not crushed underneath me.”

“Now, Dyeermud,” said Ceadach, “I think that you were the swiftest of all
when I was the guest of Fin MacCool and the Fenians of Erin; tell me, how
swift are you now?”

“I am swifter,” said Dyeermud, “than the thought of a woman when she is
thinking of two men.”

“Oh, you will do,” said Ceadach; “you are the fleetest of the Fenians;
come with me.”

Fin and the Fenians remained near the ship, while Ceadach and Dyeermud
went off to face the Red Ox.

The Red Ox’s resting-place was enclosed by a wall and a hedge; outside
was a lofty stone pillar; on this pillar the Red Ox used to rub his two
sides. The Ox had but one horn, and that in the middle of his forehead.
With that horn, which was four feet in length, he let neither fly, wasp,
gnat, nor biting insect come near, and whatever creature came toward him,
he sniffed from a distance.

When he sniffed the two champions, he rushed at them. Ceadach bounded
toward the pillar.

Dyeermud took shelter at the hedge, and waited to see what would happen.

Ceadach ran round the pillar, and the Red Ox ran after him. Three days
and three nights did they run; such was the speed of the two that
Dyeermud never caught sight of them during that time, nor did they have
sight of each other: the Red Ox followed by scent. Near the close of the
third day, when both were growing tired, the Ox, seeing Ceadach, stopped
for an instant to run across and pierce him with his horn. Dyeermud got a
glimpse of the Ox, then rose in the air like a bird, split the forehead
of the Ox with one blow, and stretched him.

“My love on your blow,” said Ceadach; “and it was time for you to give
it.”

“Purblindness and blindness to me,” replied Dyeermud, “if I saw the Ox
till that instant.”

Both were now joyful; for they had the head to take with them.

“If Fin and his men had this carcass,” said Dyeermud, “it would give them
beef for many a day.”

“Well, Dyeermud,” asked Ceadach, “how much of the Ox can you carry?”

“I think I can take one quarter, with the head.”

“If you can do that,” said Ceadach, “I’ll take the rest of the carcass
myself.”

Cutting off one quarter, he thrust through it the point of the horn, put
the horn on Dyeermud’s shoulder, with the head and quarter before and
behind him. Ceadach took the other three quarters himself. Before they
had gone half the way to the vessel, Dyeermud was tired, and Ceadach had
to take that quarter as well as his own three; the head was as much as
Dyeermud could carry.

When the two men appeared at the ship, all rejoiced greatly, and welcomed
them. Fin took the borabu then, and sounded it from joy; this sound
could be heard through the world. As the report had gone to all regions
that Fin was under sentence to kill the Red Ox, when Red Face heard the
borabu, he said to himself, “That is Fin; the Red Ox is killed; no one
could kill him but Ceadach, and Ceadach is where the borabu is.” Red Face
had the power of druidic spells; so he rose in the air, and soon dropped
down near the Fenians, and was unseen till he stood there before them.

Said Red Face to Ceadach, “’Tis many a day that I am following you; you
must stand your ground now.”

“What you ask is but fair,” answered Ceadach.

Red Face went to the distance of a spear’s cast, and hurled his spear at
Ceadach; but Dyeermud sprang up and caught it on his heel. Red Face made
a second cast. Goll MacMorna raised his hand to stop the spear; but it
went through his hand, and, going farther, pierced Ceadach, and killed
him.

Red Face then vanished; and no man knew when he vanished, or to what
place he went.

When Ceadach fell, the Fenians raised seven loud cries of grief that
drove the badgers from the glens in which they were sleeping.

Said Dyeermud to Fin, “Chew your thumb to know how we can bring Ceadach
to life.”

Fin chewed his thumb from the skin to the flesh, from the flesh to the
bone, from the bone to the marrow, from the marrow to the juice, and then
he knew that there was a sow with three pigs in the Eastern World, and if
blood from one of these pigs were put on Ceadach’s wound, he would rise
up well and healthy.

Fin took some men, and, leaving others to watch over Ceadach, set sail
for the Eastern World, and never stopped till he anchored in a port near
the place where the sow and her pigs were.

Fin knew all paths to the lair of the sow; and they went to it
straightway. When they came, she was away hunting food; so they took the
three pigs, hurried back to the vessel, set sail in all haste, and were
soon out at sea. When the sow came back to her lair, it was empty. Then
she found the scent of the men, followed it to the sea, and swam after
the ship.

When the ship had made one-third of the voyage, the sow came in sight,
and was soon near the stern. Fin ordered his men to throw out one pig
of the three. The sow took the pig in her mouth, turned back, swam home,
and left it in her lair. She turned a second time, followed the ship,
and such was her speed and her venom, that little more than one-half of
the voyage was over when the sow was in sight again. When near the ship,
they threw her the second pig. The mother went back to her lair with the
second pig, left it with the first, and rushed after the ship a third
time. Land was in sight when they saw the sow raging on after them.

“Oh, we are lost!” cried the Fenians.

Dyeermud then took a bow with an arrow, and, resting the bow on another
man’s shoulder, aimed so truly at the widely-opened mouth of the sow,
that the arrow, going in through her mouth, pierced her blood veins, and
in no long time she turned her back downward and died.

They landed in safety, bled the pig; and when they let some of the blood
into Ceadach’s spear-wound, he sprang up alive.

When Ceadach was restored, Fin blew the borabu, and the Fenians raised
seven shouts of joy that were heard throughout the whole kingdom. Then
they set sail for Sorach.

Ceadach’s wife thought her husband long in coming, and was watching and
waiting every day for him. At last she saw the ship with white sails,
and was glad.

Fin and his men landed, but left Ceadach on board.

“Where is Ceadach?” asked the wife, running out to meet Fin.

“He is dead on the vessel,” said Fin.

“Why did you not raise black sails as you promised?”

“We were so troubled that we forgot it.”

“It was well for you to forget; for if you had raised black sails, I
should have drowned every man of you.”

“Ceadach is living and well; have no fear,” said Fin, and he sounded the
borabu.

Ceadach landed. His father and wife were so glad to see him that they
feasted Fin and the Fenians for seven days and seven nights.

Fin told Ceadach’s wife of all their adventures, and what struggles they
had in bringing her husband to life. She was glad; for the trouble with
Red Face was ended.

Ceadach went now with Fin to visit the Doleful Knight of the Island; and
they never halted nor stopped till they came to his castle.

Fin found the knight sitting at a great heavy table, his head on his
hand, his elbow on the table, into which it had worn a deep hole; a
stream of tears was flowing from his eye to the table, and from the table
to the floor.

“A hundred thousand welcomes to you, Fin MacCool,” said the knight; and
he began to weep more than ever. “I was once in prosperity, and at that
time this was a pleasant place for a good man to visit; but now it is
different. I have food in plenty, but no one to cook it.”

“If that’s all your trouble,” said Fin, “we can cure it.”

Fin’s men were not slow in preparing a dinner. When the dinner was eaten,
the knight turned to Fin and inquired, “Why have you come to my castle,
Chief of the Fenians of Erin?”

“I will tell you,” said Fin. Then he related his story, and all his
adventures with Ceadach.

“Well,” said the knight, “it will shorten my life by seven years to give
the tale of my sufferings; for they will be as fresh to me now, as when
first I went through them. But as you are under bonds to know them, I
will tell you.

“I was here in wealth and prosperity, myself and my three sons. We used
to hunt beasts and birds with our dogs when it pleased us. On a May
morning a hare came, and frisked before my hall-door. Myself and my three
sons then followed her with dogs, and followed all day till the height of
the evening. Then we saw the hare enter an old fairy fort. The opening
was wide; we were able to follow. In we rushed, all of us, and the next
thing we saw was a fine roomy building. We went in, looked around for the
hare, but saw not a sight of her. There was no one within but an old man
and woman. We were not long inside till three gruagachs came, each with a
wild boar on his shoulders. They threw the wild boars on the floor, and
told me to clean them, and cook them for dinner. One of my sons fell to
cleaning a boar; but for every hair that he took from him, ten new ones
came out, so the sooner he stopped work the better.

“Then one of the old gruagach’s sons placed the boars in a row, the head
of the one near the tail of the other, and, taking a reed, blew once,
the hair was gone from all three; twice, the three boars were dressed; a
third time, all were swept into one caldron.

“When the meal was cooked and ready, a gruagach brought two spits to me,
one of dull wood, the other formed of sharp iron. The old man asked,
‘Which will you choose?’

“I chose the sharp iron spit, went to the caldron, and thrust in the
spit; but if I did, I raised only a poor, small bit of meat, mostly bone.
That was what I and my three sons had for dinner.

“After dinner, the old man said, ‘Your sons may perform now a feat for
amusement.’

“In three rooms were three cross-beams, as high from the floor as a man’s
throat. In the middle of each beam was a hole. Through this hole passed
a chain, with a loop at each end of it. In front of the hole on each
side of the beam was a knife, broad and sharp. One loop of each chain
was put on the neck of a son of mine, and one on the neck of a gruagach.
Then each of the six was striving to save his own throat, and to cut off
the head of the other man; but the gruagachs pulled my three sons to the
cross-beams, and took the three heads off them.

“Then they dressed them, and boiled them for supper. When that supper was
ready, they struggled to force me to eat some, but could not. Next they
threw me across the broad table, plucked out one eye from my head, thrust
a light in the socket, and made me lie there, and serve as a candlestick.
In the morning, I was flung out through the door, while the gruagach
cried after me, ‘You’ll not come to this castle a second time!’”

“Have you seen that hare since?” inquired Ceadach.

“I have, for she comes each May morning, and that renews and gives
strength to my sorrow.”

“To-morrow will be May day; come with me, and we’ll hunt her,” said
Ceadach.

“I will not,” said the Knight of the Island.

The hare came after breakfast next morning, and halted in front of the
castle. The knight was unwilling to hunt, but still yielded to Ceadach,
and followed with the others.

Time after time, they came close to the hare, but never could catch her.
At last, in the height of the evening, when nearing the same fairy fort,
the hound Bran snapped at the haunch of the hare, and took a full bite
from her. All passed through the entrance, found the house, and no person
inside but an old man and woman. The old woman was lying in bed, and she
groaning.

“Have you seen a hare in this house?” inquired Ceadach.

“I have not,” said the old man.

Ceadach saw traces of blood on the bed, and went toward the old woman,
who was covered up closely; raising the clothes, he said, “Maybe ’tis
here that the hare is.”

The old woman was covered with blood, and wounded in the very same way as
the hare. They knew then who was the cause of misfortune to the Knight of
the Island, and who made the visits each year on May morning.

They were not long in the house when the gruagachs, the sons of the old
man, came in, each with a wild boar on his shoulders. Seeing the Knight
of the Island, they laughed, and said, “We thought you had enough of this
place the first time that you came here.”

“I saw more than I wished to see,” said the Knight of the Island; “but I
had to come this time.”

“Have you any man to cook dinner for us?” asked the old gruagach of Fin.

“I’ll do that myself,” put in Ceadach, who turned to one of the brothers,
and asked, “Where is your reed; I must use it.”

The reed was brought. Ceadach blew once, the boars were clean; twice,
they were dressed, and ready; thrice, they were in the caldron.

When the spits were brought, Ceadach took the dull wooden spit, thrust it
into the pot, and took up all that was in there.

Fin, Ceadach, and the knight ate to their own satisfaction; then they
invited the old gruagach and his three sons to dinner.

“What amusement have you in this place?” asked Fin, later in the evening.

“We have nothing,” said the old gruagach and his sons.

“Where are your chains?” asked Ceadach.

“We make no use of them now,” said the young gruagachs.

“You must bring them,” said Ceadach.

The chains were brought, drawn through the cross-beams, and three loops
of them put on the necks of the gruagachs. No matter what strength was in
the three brothers, nor how they struggled, Ceadach brought their throats
to the knives, and took the three heads off them. Next they were boiled
in the caldron, as the knight’s three sons had been boiled the first
time. Then Ceadach seized the old gruagach, flung him across the broad
table, plucked out one eye from his head, and fixed a light in the empty
socket.

At sight of what the gruagachs passed through, the Doleful Knight of the
Island let one roaring laugh out of him, his first laugh in seven years.

Next morning Ceadach, pointing to the Knight of the Island, said to the
old gruagach, “Unless you bring this man’s three sons to life, I will
take your own head from you.”

The bones of the three sons were in three heaps of dust outside the door.
The gruagach took a rod of enchantment, and struck the bones. The three
sons of the knight rose up as well and strong as ever, and went home. The
Knight of the Island gave a feast to Fin and Ceadach. After that Fin,
with his men and Ceadach, sailed back to the King of Sorach. Ceadach
remained with his wife and father. Fin went to the harbor of Fintra,
taking with him the head of the Red Ox, and the story of the Doleful
Knight, to the fish-hag.

“Have you the head of the Red Ox?” asked the hag.

“I have,” answered Fin.

“You will give it to me,” said the hag.

“I will not,” answered Fin. “If I was bound to bring it, I was not bound
to give it.”

When she heard that, the hag dropped to the earth, and became a few
bones.




FIN MACCOOL, FAOLAN, AND THE MOUNTAIN OF HAPPINESS.


When Fin MacCool and the Fenians of Erin were at Fintra, they went
hunting one day; and the man who killed the first deer was Dyeermud.
When the hunt was over, they returned to the place where the first deer
was started, and began, as was usual, to prepare the day’s feast. While
preparing the feast, they saw a ship sailing into the harbor, with only
one woman on board. The Fenians were greatly surprised at the speed of
the vessel; and Dyeermud said to Fin, “I will go and see who is the woman
coming in that vessel.”

“You killed the first deer,” replied Fin, “and the honors of the feast on
this day are yours. I myself will go down and see who the woman is.”

The woman cast anchor, sprang ashore, and saluted Fin, when he came to
the strand. Fin returned the salute, and, after a while, she asked, “Will
you play a game of chess for a sentence?”

“I will,” answered Fin.

They played, and she won.

“What is your sentence on me?” inquired Fin.

“I sentence you, under bonds of heavy enchantment,” said she, “to take me
for your wife.”

Fin had to marry the woman. After a time, she said, “I must leave you now
for a season.”

Fin drove his sword then, with one mighty blow, into a tree-stump, and
said, “Call your son Faolan [little wolf], and never send him to me until
he is able to draw the sword from this stump.”

She took the stump with her, and sailed away homeward. She nursed her son
for only three days, and preserved the rest of the milk for a different
use. The boy was called Faolan, was trained well in the use of all arms,
and when ten years of age, he was skilled beyond any master. One day
there was a game of hurley, and Faolan played alone, against twenty one
others. The rule of that game was that whoever won was to get three blows
of his club on each one who played against him. Faolan gave three blows
to each of the twenty-one men; among them was one who was very much hurt
by the blows, and he began to say harsh words to Faolan, and added, “You
don’t know your own father.”

Faolan was greatly offended at this. He went home to his mother, in
tears, and asked, “Who is my father? I will never stop nor stay till I
find him.”

“What caused your vexation?” asked the mother. “Why do you ask such a
question at this time?”

Faolan told her the words of the player. At last she said, “Your father
is Fin MacCool, Chief of the Fenians of Erin; but you are not to be sent
to him till you can draw his sword from the tree-stump into which he
drove it with one blow.”

“Show me the sword and the tree-stump,” said Faolan.

She took him then to the stump. With one pull, he drew out the sword.

“Prepare me food for the road,” said Faolan. “I will go to my father.”

The mother made ready three loaves of bread, kneaded them with the milk
which she had saved, and baked them.

“My son,” said she, “do not refuse bread on the journey to any one whom
you meet; give it from these loaves, even should you meet your worst
enemy.”

She took down a sword then, gave it to him, and said, “This was your
grandfather’s sword; keep it, and use it till a better one comes to you.”

Faolan took a blessing of his mother, set out on his journey, and was
walking always, till he came to a harbor where he found a ship bound for
Erin. He went on board, and was not sailing long, when a venomous hound
rose up in the sea, and cast such high waves at the vessel as to throw it
back a long distance.

Remembering his mother’s advice about sharing the bread, Faolan threw one
loaf to the hound. This seemed to appease him. He had not sailed much
further, when the hound rose again. Faolan threw out the second loaf; and
the beast disappeared for a while, but rose the third time, and drove
back the vessel. Faolan threw the third loaf; and, after disappearing
the third time, the hound rose the fourth time. Having nothing to give,
Faolan seized a brazen ball which his mother had given him, and, hurling
it at the hound with good aim, killed him on the spot. As soon as the
hound fell, there rose up a splendid youth, who came on board, and,
shaking Faolan’s hand, said,—

“I thank you; you delivered me from enchantment. I am your mother’s
brother; and there was nothing to free me till I ate three loaves kneaded
with your mother’s milk, and was then killed by you with that brazen
ball. You are near Ventry Strand now; among the first men you meet will
be your own father. You will know him by his dress; and when you meet
him, kneel down and ask for his blessing. As I have nothing else to give,
here is a ring to wear on your finger, and whenever you look at it you
will feel neither cold, thirst, nor hunger.”

When they landed, the uncle went his own way and vanished. Faolan saw
champions playing on the strand, throwing a great weighty sledge.

Knowing Fin from his mother’s description, he knelt down at his feet, and
asked for his blessing.

“If you are a son of mine,” said Fin, “you are able to hurl this sledge.”

“He is too young,” said Dyeermud, “to throw such a weight; and it is a
shame for you to ask him to throw it.”

The youth then, growing angry, caught the sledge, and hurled it seven
paces beyond the best man of the Fenians.

Fin shook hands with the youth; and his heart grew big at having such a
son. Dyeermud shook his hand also, and swore that as long as he lived he
would be to him a true comrade.

When dinner-time came, Fin bade Faolan sit down at his right hand, where
Conan Maol, son of Morna, sat usually. Fin gave this place to Conan
to keep him in humor. Conan grew enraged now, and said, “It is great
impudence for a stripling to sit in my place.”

“I know not who you are,” said Faolan, “but from what I hear you must be
Conan Maol, who has never a good word for any man; and I would break your
head on the wall, but I don’t wish to annoy people present.”

It was a custom of the Fenians in eating to set aside every bone that
had marrow for Oscar, and as Faolan had a thick marrow-bone in his hand,
he began to pick out the marrow, and eat it. This enraged Oscar, and he
said, “You must put that bone aside as the others put their bones; that
is my due, and I will have it.”

“As the meat is mine,” said Faolan, “so is the marrow.”

Oscar snatched at the youth, and caught the bone by one end. Faolan
held the other end. Both pulled till they broke the bone, then, seizing
each other, they went outside for a struggle. As the two were so nearly
related, the other men stopped them. Fin took Oscar aside then, and
asked, “How long could you live if we let the youth keep his grip on you?”

“If he kept his grip with the same strength, I could not live five
minutes longer.”

Fin took Faolan aside then, and asked the same question.

“I could live for twelve months, if he squeezed me no tighter.”

The two then kept peace with each other. All were very fond of Faolan,
especially Dyeermud, who was a good, loyal comrade; and he warned Faolan
to distrust and avoid Grainne, Fin’s wife, as much as he could. The youth
was learning, meanwhile, to practise feats of activity and bravery. At
the end of twelve months, the Fenians were setting out on a distant hunt,
for which they had long been preparing. On the eve of the hunt, Grainne
dropped on her knees before Fin, and begged him to leave Faolan with
her for company, until he and the rest would return. Fin consented, and
Faolan stayed with Grainne.

When all the others had gone to the great hunt, Faolan and Grainne went
also to hunt in the neighborhood. They did not go far, and returned.
After dinner, Grainne asked Faolan would he play a game of chess for a
small sentence. He said that he would. They played, and he won.

“What is your sentence on me?” asked Grainne.

“I have no sentence at this time,” replied Faolan.

They played again, and she won.

“Now put your sentence on me,” said the youth.

“You will think it soon enough when you hear it. You are not to eat two
meals off the same table, nor sleep two nights on the same bed, till
you bring me the tallow of the three oxen on Sliav Sein [Mountain of
Happiness].”

When he heard this sentence, he went off, threw himself face downward on
his bed, and remained there without eating or drinking till the Fenians
came back from the hunt. Fin and Dyeermud, not seeing Faolan when they
came, went in search of him.

“Have you found Faolan?” asked Dyeermud of Fin, when he met him soon
after.

“I have not,” answered Fin.

Dyeermud then went to see if he could find Faolan in bed. As the door of
his chamber was fastened, and no one gave answer, Dyeermud forced it, and
found Faolan on his face in the bed. After they had greeted each other,
Faolan told of the trouble that was on him.

“I gave you warning against Grainne,” said Dyeermud; “but did you win any
game of her?”

“I did; but have put no sentence on her yet.”

“I am glad,” answered Dyeermud; “and let me frame the sentence. I swear
by my sword to be loyal to you; and where you fall, I will fall also.
But be cheerful, and come to the feast.”

They went together, and Fin, seeing them, was glad. He knew, however,
that something had happened to Faolan. Dyeermud went to Fin, and told him
of the mishap to the youth. Fin was troubled at what had come on his son.

“I have sworn,” said Dyeermud, “to follow Faolan wherever he may be.”

“I will send with him,” said Fin, “the best man of the Fenians.”

Dyeermud, Oscar, and Goll, son of Morna, were summoned.

“What is your greatest feat?” inquired Fin of Goll.

“If I were to stand in the middle of a field with my sword in my hand on
the rainiest day that ever rose, I could keep my head dry with my sword,
not for that day alone, but for a day and a year,” answered Goll.

“That is a good feat,” said Fin. “What is your greatest feat, Oscar?”

“If I open a bag filled with feathers on a mountain-top of a stormy day,
and let the feathers fly with the wind, the last feather will barely be
out of the bag, when I will have every feather of them back into the bag
again.”

“That is a very good feat,” answered Fin, “but it is not enough yet.
Now, Dyeermud, what is your feat of swiftness?”

“If I were put on a space of seven hundred acres, and each acre with a
hedge around it, and there were seven hundred gaps in the hedge of each
acre, and seven hundred hares were put on each acre of the seven hundred,
I would not let one hare out of the seven hundred acres for a day and a
year.”

“That is a great feat,” remarked Fin; “that will do.”

“Chew your thumb, O Fin,” said Dyeermud, “and tell me if it is fated to
us to come back from the journey?”

Fin chewed his thumb. “You will come back; but the journey will be a hard
and a long one: you will be ankle deep in your own blood.”

Dyeermud went to Faolan, and told him what sentence to put upon Grainne.

On the following day, Fin led Grainne forth for her sentence; and Faolan
said, “You are to stand on the top of Sliav Iolar [Mount Eagle], till I
come back to Fintra; you are to hold in your hand a fine needle; you are
to have no drink saving what rain you can suck through the eye of that
needle, no food except what oats will be blown through the eye of that
very needle from a sheaf on Sliav Varhin; and Dyeermud will give three
blows of a flail to the sheaf to loosen the grain.”

Faolan and Dyeermud set out on their journey. They travelled three days,
and saw no house in which they could rest for the night.

“When we find a house,” said Dyeermud, “we will have from the people a
lodging, either with their good will, or in spite of them.”

“I will help you in that,” said Faolan.

On the evening of the fourth day, a large white-fronted castle appeared
in the distance. They went toward it, and knocked at the door. A fine
young woman welcomed them kindly, and kissed Faolan. “You and I,” said
she, “were born at the same hour, and betrothed at our birth. Your mother
married Fin to rescue her brothers, your uncles, from the bonds of
enchantment.”

They sat down to eat and drink, the young woman, Dyeermud, and Faolan;
they were not long eating when in came four champions, all torn, cut, and
bleeding. When Dyeermud saw these, he started up, and seized his sword.

“Have no fear,” said the young woman to Dyeermud.

“We are returning from battle with a wild hag in the neighborhood,” said
the four champions. “She is trying to take our land from us; and this is
the seventh year that we are battling with the hag. All of her warriors
that we kill in the daytime, she raises at night; and we have to fight
them again the next day.”

“No man killed by my sword revives; and these will not, if I kill them,”
said Dyeermud.

“They would revive after your sword,” said the four champions.

“Do you stay at home to-morrow,” said Dyeermud; “Faolan and I will give
battle to the hag and her forces; no one whom we slay will trouble you
hereafter.”

The four champions agreed, and gave every direction how to find the wild
hag and her army. Faolan and Dyeermud went to the field; one began at
one end, and one at the other, and fought till they met in the middle at
sunset, and slew all the hag’s warriors.

“Go back to the castle,” said Faolan to Dyeermud; “I will rest here
to-night, and see what gives life to the corpses.”

“I will stay,” replied Dyeermud, “and you may return.”

“No, I will stay here,” said Faolan; “if I want help, I will run to the
castle.”

Dyeermud went back to the castle. About midnight, Faolan heard the voice
of a man in the air just above him. “Is there any one living?” asked the
voice. Faolan, with a bound, grasped the man, and, drawing him down with
one hand, pierced him through with a sword in his other hand. The man
fell dead; and then, instead of the old man that he seemed at first, he
rose up a fresh young man of twenty two years. The young man embraced and
thanked Faolan. “I am your uncle,” said he, “brother of the poisonous
hound that you freed from enchantment at sea. I was fourteen years in
the power of the wild hag, and could not be freed till my father’s sword
pierced me. Give me that sword which belonged to my father. It was to
deliver me that your mother gave you that blade. I will give you a better
one still, since you are a greater champion than I. I will give you my
grandfather’s sword; here it is. When the wild hag grows uneasy at my
delay, she herself will hasten hither. She knew that you were to come and
release me, and she is preparing this long time to meet you. For seven
years, she has been making steel nails to tear you to pieces; and she has
sweet music which she will play when she sees you: that music makes every
man sleep when he hears it. When you feel the sleep coming, stab your leg
with your sword; that will keep you awake. She will then give you battle;
and if you chance to cut off her head, let not the head come to the body:
for if it comes on the body, all the world could not take it away. When
you cut off her head, grasp it in one hand, and hold it till all the
blood flows out; make two halves of the head, holding it in your hand
all the while; and I will remove the stone cover from a very deep well
here at hand; and do you throw the split head into that well, and put the
cover on again.”

The uncle went aside then; and soon the hag came through the air. Seeing
Faolan, she began to play strains of beautiful music, which were putting
him to sleep; but he thrust his new sword in the calf of his leg, and
kept away sleep. The wild hag, outwitted, attacked the youth fiercely,
and he went at her in earnest. Every time that she caught him with her
nails, she scraped skin and flesh from his head to his heels; and then,
remembering his mother, and being aroused by his uncle, he collected his
strength, and with one blow cut the head off the hag; but he was so spent
from the struggle that it took him some time to seize the head, and so
weak was he that he could not raise his hand to split it.

“Lay your sword on the head; the blade alone will split it!” cried the
uncle.

Faolan did this. The sword cut the head; and then Faolan threw the head
into the well. Just as he was going to cover the well, the head spoke,
and said, “I put you under bonds of heavy enchantment not to eat two
meals off the same table, nor sleep two nights on the same bed, till
you tell the Cat of Gray Fort that you destroyed the wild hag out of her
kingdom.”

The uncle embraced Faolan then, and said, “Now I will go to my sister,
your mother; but first I will guide you to this hag’s enchanted well: if
you bathe in its water, you will be as sound and well as ever.”

Faolan went, bathed in the well, and, when fully recovered, returned
to the castle. Thinking Gray Fort must be near by, he did not rouse
Dyeermud, but went alone in search of the cat. He travelled all day, and
at last saw a great fort with the tail of a cat sticking out of it. “This
may be the cat,” thought he, and he went around the whole fort to find
the head. He found it thrust out just beyond the tail.

“Are you the Cat of Gray Fort?” inquired Faolan.

“I am,” said the cat.

“If you are,” said Faolan, “I destroyed the wild hag out of her kingdom.”

“If you did,” said the cat, “you will kill no one else; for the hag was
my sister.”

The cat rushed at Faolan then; and, bad as the hag had been, the cat
was far worse. The two fought that night furiously, till the following
morning, when Faolan cut the cat in two halves across the middle. The
half that the head was on ran around trying to meet the other half; but
before it could do so, Faolan cut the head off the front half. Then the
head spoke, and said,—

“I put you under bonds of enchantment not to eat two meals off the one
table, nor sleep two nights on the one bed, till you tell the Kitten of
Cul MacKip that you killed the Cat of Gray Fort and destroyed the wild
hag out of her kingdom.”

Faolan then hurried forward to find the kitten. Thinking that her place
was near, he did not go back to the castle for Dyeermud, but held on the
whole day, walking always. Toward evening, he saw a castle, went toward
it, and entered it. When inside he saw half a loaf of barley-bread and a
quart of ale placed on the window. “Whoever owns these, I will use them,”
said the youth.

When he had eaten and drunk, he put down a fire for the night, and saw
a kitten lying near the ashes. “This may be the Kitten of Cul MacKip,”
thought he; and, shaking it, he asked, “Are you the Kitten of Cul MacKip?”

“I am,” said the kitten.

“If you are,” said Faolan, “then I tell you that I killed the Cat of Gray
Fort and destroyed the wild hag out of her kingdom.”

“If you did,” said the kitten, “you will never kill any one else,” and,
starting up, the kitten stretched, and was as big as a horse in a moment.
She sprang at Faolan, and he at her. They fought fiercely that night, and
the following day, but Faolan, toward evening, swept the head off the
kitten; but as he did, the head spoke, and said, “I put you under bonds
of heavy enchantment not to eat two meals off the same table, nor sleep
two nights on the same bed, till you tell the Dun Ox that you slew the
Kitten of Cul MacKip, killed the Cat of Gray Fort, and destroyed the wild
hag out of her kingdom.”

Before setting out, Faolan saw a brass ball on the window, and, taking
it, said to himself, “I may kill some game with this on the road.”

Away he went then, and walked on till he came to where the road lay
through a wood; near the road was a forester’s cabin. Out came the
forester with a hundred thousand welcomes.

“Glad am I to see you; gladder still would I be if your comrade,
Dyeermud, were with you,” said the forester.

“Can you tell me where the Dun Ox is?” asked Faolan.

“In this wood,” said the forester; “but do you bring your comrade to help
you against the Dun Ox; by no chance can you slay him alone. The Dun Ox
has only one eye, and that in the middle of his forehead; over that eye
is a shield of white metal; from that shield two bars of iron run back
to the tail of the ox. Behind him, two champions are on guard always;
and when any one nears him, the ox sniffs the stranger, and roars; the
champions lean on the bars then, and raise up the shield. When the one
eye of the ox sees the person approaching, that moment the person falls
dead. What are your chances of slaying that ox? Go back for your comrade.”

“I will not,” said Faolan; “the ox will fall by me, or I by the ox.”

“It is you that will fall,” said the forester.

Faolan entered the cabin, where the forester treated him well. Next
morning the forester showed the path that lay toward the place where the
ox was. Faolan had not gone far when the ox roared, and, looking in the
direction of the roar, he saw the two champions just seizing the bars
to raise up the shield, so, failing other means, he sent the ball, with
a well-aimed cast, and crushed in the forehead of the ox through the
shield. The ox fell dead, but, before falling, his eye turned on Faolan,
who dropped dead also.

Dyeermud slept a hero’s sleep of seven days and seven nights. When he
woke, and found no tidings of Faolan, he was furious; but the four
champions calmed him; and the young woman said, “The wild hag may have
killed him; but if as much as one bone of his body can be found, I will
bring him to life again.”

Dyeermud, Faolan’s betrothed, and her four brothers set out, and, coming
to the battle-field, found the army of the wild hag slain, but no trace
of Faolan. They went to the well then, and saw the split head there.

The six went to Gray Fort, and found the cat dead, the hind-part in one
place, the fore-part in a second, and the head in a third.

“The head must have sent him to the Kitten of Cul MacKip,” said the young
woman; “that kitten has twice as much witch power as the cat and the old
hag; all three are sisters.”

They went farther, and, finding the kitten dead, went to find the Dun
Ox; “for Faolan must be dead near him,” said the young woman. When they
came to his cabin, the forester greeted them, and gave a hundred thousand
welcomes to Dyeermud, who was surprised, and inquired, “How do you know
me? I have never been in this country before.”

“I know you well; for I saw you two years ago in combat with the Champion
of the Eastern World on Ventry Strand. Many persons were looking at that
combat, but you did not see them. I was there with the others.”

“Have you seen a young champion pass this way?” asked Dyeermud.

“I have,” said the forester; “but he must have perished by the Dun Ox,
for I have not heard the ox bellow this long time.”

The six spent that night at the forester’s cabin; and, setting out next
morning early, they soon found Faolan. The young woman bathed him with
some fluid from a vial, and, opening his mouth, poured the rest down
his throat. He rose up at once, as sound and healthy as ever. All went
to the ox, which they found lying dead, and the two champions also;
and, searching about, they found the brazen ball sunk in the earth
some distance away. Faolan took it up carefully. They went back to the
forester’s cabin, and enjoyed themselves well.

“Do you know where the Mountain of Happiness is?” inquired Dyeermud of
the forester, during the night.

“I do not,” said the forester; “but I know where the Black-Blue Giant
lives, and he knows every place in the world. That giant has never given
a meal or a night’s lodging to any man. He has an only daughter, who is
in love with you, since she saw you two years ago in combat with the
Champion of the Eastern World on Ventry Strand, although you did not see
her. This daughter is closely confined by the giant, fearing she may
escape to you; and if you succeed in reaching her, she is likely to know,
if her father knows, where the Mountain of Happiness is.”

“How did you get tidings of the giant’s daughter?” asked Dyeermud.

“I will not tell you now,” said the forester, “but I will go with you to
guide you to the giant, and I may give you assistance. Here are three
keys,—the keys of the castles of the Dun Ox, of the Kitten of Cul MacKip,
and of the Cat of Gray Fort; they are yours now.”

“Those keys are not mine,” said Dyeermud; “they belong to Faolan, who
slew the three owners.”

“If Faolan slew them,” said the forester, “he had assistance, which
caused you to come to him.”

“Keep the keys till we come back,” said Dyeermud.

The seven travelled on then, and were going ten days when they saw the
giant’s castle. Now this castle stood on one leg, and whirled around
always.

“I will use my strength on that castle, to know can I stop it,” said
Dyeermud.

“You cannot stop it,” said the forester. “I will stop it myself. Do you
watch the door of the castle, which is on the top of the roof, and, when
the castle stops, spring in through the door, and seize the giant, if he
is inside, and compel him to give a night’s lodging.”

The forester then made for the castle, and, placing his shoulder against
one of the corners, kept it standing still; and Dyeermud, leaping in
by the roof, came down before the giant, who had started up, knowing
something was wrong when the castle stood still.

Dyeermud and the giant grappled each other so fiercely, and fought with
such fury, that the castle was shivering. The giant’s wife begged them to
go out of the castle, and fight on the open, and not frighten the life
out of herself and the child in her arms.

Out went the Black-Blue Giant and Dyeermud, and fought until Dyeermud
brought down the giant and sprained his back. The giant let a roar out of
him, and begged there for quarter.

“Your head is mine,” answered Dyeermud.

“It is,” said the giant; “but spare me, and I will give you whatever you
ask for.”

“I want lodging for myself and my company.”

“You will get that,” said the giant.

All then went into the giant’s castle; and when they were sitting at
dinner, Dyeermud ate nothing.

“Why is this?” asked the giant.

“It is the custom of the Fenians of Erin,” said he, “not to eat at a
table where all the members of the house are not present.”

“All my people are here,” said the giant.

“They are not,” answered Dyeermud; “you have one daughter not present.”

The giant had to bring the daughter. They ate then. The forester talked
after dinner with Dyeermud, and said, “The giant’s daughter has a maid;
you must bribe her to give you the key of her mistress’s chamber; and
if you come by the young woman’s secrets, she may tell you where the
Mountain of Happiness is, if she knows.”

Dyeermud went to the maid. “You will not be here always,” said he;
“your mistress will marry me, and leave this castle; then you’ll have
no business here. I will take you with us if you give me the key of the
chamber.”

“The giant himself keeps that key under his pillow at night; he sleeps
only one nap, like a bird, but sleeps heavily that time. If you promise
to take me with my mistress, I’ll strive to bring the key hither.”

“I promise,” said Dyeermud.

The maid brought the key, and gave it on condition that she was to have
it again within an hour. Dyeermud went then to the giant’s daughter, and
when her first wonder was over, he asked, “Do you know where the Mountain
of Happiness is?”

“I do not. My father knows well, but for some reason he has never told
me, so he must have fared very badly there; but if you lay his head on a
block, and threaten to cut it off with your sword, he will tell you, if
you ask him; but otherwise he will not tell.”

“I will do that; and I will take you to Erin when I go,” answered
Dyeermud.

“Where is the Mountain of Happiness?” asked Dyeermud of the giant, next
morning.

He would not tell. Dyeermud caught the giant, who could not resist him
on account of his sprained back; he drew him out, placed his head on a
block, and said, “I will cut the head off you now, unless you tell me
what you know of the Mountain of Happiness. The Fenians of Erin have but
the one word, and it is useless for you to resist me; you must go with
us, and show us the way to the mountain.”

The giant, finding no escape possible, promised to go. They set out soon,
taking all the arms needed. As the mountain was not far distant, they
reached the place without great delay. The giant showed them the lair of
the oxen, but after a promise that he should be free to escape should
danger threaten.

“I know all the rest now,” said the forester. “Do you,” said he to
Dyeermud, “stand straight in front of the lair, and I, with Faolan, will
stand with drawn swords, one on each side of the entrance; and do you,”
said he to the four brothers, “knock down the entrance, and open the
place for the oxen to rush out. If the head of each ox is not cut off
when he stands in the entrance, the world would not kill him from that
out.”

All was done at the forester’s word. The entrance was not long open, when
out rushed an ox; but his head was knocked off by the forester. Faolan
slew the second ox; but the third ox followed the second so quickly that
he broke away, took Dyeermud on his horns, and went like a flash to the
top of the Mountain of Happiness. This mountain stood straight in front
of the lair, but was far away. On the mountain, the ox attacked Dyeermud;
and they fought for seven days and nights in a savage encounter. At the
end of seven days, Dyeermud remembered that there was no help for him
there, that he was far from his mother and sister, who were all he had
living, and that if he himself did not slay the fierce ox, he would never
see home again; so, with one final effort, he drove his sword through
the heart of the ox. He himself was so spent from the struggle and
blood-loss that he fainted, and would have died on the mountain, but for
his companions, who came now. They were seven days on the road over which
the ox passed in a very few minutes.

The forester rubbed Dyeermud with ointment, and all his strength came to
him. They opened the ox, took out all the tallow, and, going back to the
other two oxen, did in like manner, saving the tallow of each of them
separately. They went next to the castle of the Black-Blue Giant.

“Will you set out for home to-morrow?” asked the forester, turning to
Dyeermud.

“We will,” answered Dyeermud.

“Oh, foolish people!” said the forester. “Those three oxen were brothers
of Grainne, and were living in enchantment; should she get the tallow of
each ox by itself and entire, she would bring back the three brothers to
life, and they would destroy all the Fenians of Erin. We will hang up
the tallow in the smoke of the Black-Blue Giant’s chimney; it will lose
some of itself there. When she gets it, it will not have full weight. We
will change your beds and your tables while you are waiting, so as to
observe the injunction. You must do this; for if you do not make an end
of Grainne, Grainne will make an end of you.”

All was done as the forester said. At the end of a week, when Faolan and
his friend were setting out for Erin, the giant and his wife fell to
weeping and wailing after their daughter, who was going with Dyeermud.

“We will come back again soon,” said Dyeermud, “and then will have a
great feast for this marriage.”

“It is here that I will have my marriage feast, too,” said Faolan.

The forester, who was an old man, said perhaps he might have a marriage
feast at that time as well as the others. At this they all laughed.

The giant and his wife were then satisfied; and the company set out for
the forester’s cabin. When they reached the cabin, the forester said to
Dyeermud, “As I served you, I hope that you will do me a good turn.”

“I will do you a good turn,” said Dyeermud, “if I lose my life in doing
it.”

“Cut off my head,” said the forester.

“I will not,” replied Dyeermud.

“Well,” said the old man, “if you do not, you will leave me in great
distress; for I, too, am under enchantment, and there is no power to save
me unless you, Dyeermud, cut off my head with the sword that killed the
oldest of the oxen.”

When Dyeermud saw how he could serve the forester, he cut off his head
with one blow, and there rose up before him a young man of twenty-one
years.

“My name is Arthur, son of Deara,” said the young man to Dyeermud; “I was
enchanted by my stepmother, and I am in love with your sister since I
saw her two years ago on Ventry Strand, when you were in combat with the
Champion of the Eastern World. Will you let your sister marry me?”

“I will,” replied Dyeermud; “and she will not marry any man but the one
that I will choose for her.”

“I helped Faolan,” said Arthur, “in all his struggles, except that
against the Dun Ox.”

Next day all went to the castle of the four champions and their sister,
and, leaving the women in that place, they set out for Erin.

When the Fenians of Erin saw them sailing in toward Ventry Strand, they
raised three shouts of joyous welcome. Whoever was glad, or was not
glad, Grainne was glad, because there was an end, as she thought, to
her suffering. Indeed, she would not have lived at all had she kept the
injunctions, but she did not; she received meat and eggs on Sliav Iolar
from all the women who took pity on her and went to visit her. So when
she got the tallow, she weighed it, and finding it some ounces short,
gave out three piercing wails of distress, and when Dyeermud, who was of
fiery temper, saw that Faolan was not willing to punish the woman, he
raised his own sword, and swept the head off her.

Fin embraced Faolan and welcomed him. Dyeermud went to his mother and
sister.

“Will you marry a young champion whom I have brought with me?” asked he
of the sister.

“I will marry no one,” said she, “but the man you will choose for me.”

“Very well,” said Dyeermud, “there is such a man outside.” He led her
out, and she and Arthur were well pleased with each other.

Dyeermud, with his sister and Arthur and Faolan, set out on the following
day, and never stopped nor stayed till they reached the castle of the
four champions and their sister; and, taking Faolan’s betrothed and
Dyeermud along with them, they travelled on till they stopped at the
castle of the Black-Blue Giant. Faolan’s mother was there before him; and
glad was she, and rejoiced, to see her own son.

There were three weddings in one at the castle of the giant: Arthur and
Dyeermud’s sister; Faolan and the sister of the four champions; Dyeermud
and the daughter of the Black-Blue Giant.

When the feasting was over, Faolan’s mother called him, and asked, “Will
you go to my kingdom, which is yours by inheritance, the country of the
Dark Men, and rule there?”

“I will,” said Faolan, “on condition that I am to be sent for if ever the
Fenians should need my assistance.” He then gave his share in the land of
the wild hag, and his claim to the castles of the Cat of Gray Fort, the
Kitten of Cul MacKip, and the Dun Ox, to Arthur and Dyeermud, and these
two shared those places between them. They attended Faolan and his wife
to the country of the Dark Men, and then returned. Faolan’s mother went
to Fintra, and lived with Fin MacCool.




FIN MACCOOL, THE HARD GILLA, AND THE HIGH KING.


On a day when the Fenians were living at Fintra, Fin MacCool called them
together, held a council, complained of remissness, and warned the men to
be cautious, to keep a better watch on the harbors, and to take good care
of their arms. They promised to do better in future, and asked Fin to
forgive them for that time. Fin forgave them, and sent men to keep watch
on Cruach Varhin.

When on the mountain awhile, the chief sentry saw, in the distance, a man
leading a horse toward Fintra. He thought to run down with word to Fin,
but did not; he waited to see what kind of person was coming. The man
leading the horse was far from being tidy: his shoes were untied, and the
strings hanging down; on his shoulders was a mantle, flapping around in
the wind. The horse had a broad, surly face; his neck was thick at the
throat, and thin toward the body: the beast was scrawny, long-legged,
lean, thin-maned, and ugly to look at. The only bridle on the horse was
a long, heavy chain; the whip in the hand of the man was a strong iron
staff. Each blow that the man gave his steed was heard through the glens
and the mountains, and knocked echoes out of every cliff in that region.
Each pull that the man gave the bridle was that strong, that you would
think he’d tear the head off the ugly beast’s body. Every clump of earth
that the horse rooted up with his feet, in striving to hold back, was
three times the size of a sod of turf ready for burning.

“It is time for me now,” said the watchman, at last, “to hurry from this,
and tell Fin,” and with that he rushed down from Cruach Varhin.

Fin saw him coming, and was ready for his story; and not too soon was it
told; for just then the horseman came up to the King of the Fenians at
Fintra.

“Who are you?” inquired Fin.

“I do not know who my father was,” said the stranger. “I am of one place
as well as another. Men call me the Hard Gilla; and it is a good name:
for no matter how well people treat me I forget all they do. I have
heard, though, that you give most wages, and best treatment of any man.”

“I will give you good wages,” said Fin, “and fair treatment; but how much
do you want of me?”

“I want whatever I ask.”

“I will give you that and more, if I promise,” said Fin.

“I am your man,” said the Gilla. “Now that we have agreed, I may let my
horse out to graze, I suppose?”

“You may,” answered Fin.

The Gilla untied the chain bridle from his horse, and struck him with
the chain. The beast went to the other horses; but if he did, he fell to
eating the mane, legs, ears, and tail of each one of them, and ate all
till he came to a steed grazing apart, and this steed belonged to Conan
Maol. Conan ran, caught the ugly old horse by the skull, and pulled him
up to his owner.

“Mind your wicked old cripple!” cried Conan, in anger.

“If any man does not like how my horse feeds, he may herd the good steed
himself.”

When Conan heard this insolence, he went to the adviser for counsel. The
adviser told him to go upon the back of the horse, and to ride till he
broke him. Conan mounted the horse; but not a stir could he get from the
stubborn beast.

“He is used to heavy loads,” said the adviser. “Let others mount with
you.”

The Fenians were mounting the horse till twenty-eight men of them went up
with Conan. The twenty-nine began then to wallop the horse, but could
not raise a stir out of him. The old horse only cocked one ear. When the
Gilla saw the twenty-nine on his horse, he called out, “It seems that we
do not agree; and the sooner I go from this place the better.”

He tightened his cloak, flapping loose on his body, tied his shoes, and
said, “In place of praising, I will dispraise you.” Then he went in
front of the horse. The horse raised his tail and his head, and between
his tail and his neck he held the men firmly. Some tried to jump off,
but were as secure on the horse as his own skin. Conan was the first to
speak. When he saw that he could not spring from the horse, he turned to
Fin, and cried out, “I bind you, O Fin, not to eat two meals off the one
table, or sleep two nights on the one bed, till you have me freed from
this serpent.”

When Fin and the Fenians heard this, they looked at one another. The
adviser spoke then, and said, “There is no time for delay. We have here a
man to follow, and he is Leeagawn of Lúachar Garv.”

Fin called Leeagawn, and he went after the steed quickly, caught him
at the edge of the strand, and seized him by the tail; but if he did,
he grew fast to the tail of the horse, and was pulled forward to the
strand. He tried to loose himself from the tail, but no use for him to
try. The horse drew him into the water. The sea opened before the strange
steed, and closed behind. The Gilla ran in front. Twenty-nine men were on
the back of the horse, and one fixed to his tail.

Fin and the Fenians were greatly distressed at the sight, but could give
no assistance. They held council; and the druid said, “There is an old
ship in Ben Eadan; put that ship in repair, and sail after the steed.”

“Let us go,” said the Fenians, “for the ship.”

As they were making ready to start, two young champions hurried up to
Fin, and saluted him.

“Who are ye?” asked Fin, returning the salute; “and whither are ye going?”

“We are the two sons of a king,” replied they; “each has a gift, and we
have come to you to know which is the better gift to live by. The two
gifts are two powers left us by our father.”

“What is your power?” asked Fin of the elder brother.

“Do you see this branch?” said he. “If I strike the water of the harbor
with this branch, the harbor will be filled with ships till they are
crushing one another. When you choose the one you like, I will make the
others disappear as quickly as you can bow your head.”

“What can you do?” asked Fin of the younger brother.

“If a wild duck were to dart forth from her nest, I could keep in sight
of the bird, and she going straight or crooked, high or low, I could
catch her before she could fly back to the nest from which she came.”

When they had done speaking, Fin said, “I have never been in more need
of your help than I am at this moment.” He told them then of the Gilla,
and of all that had happened. The elder brother struck the harbor with
his branch; the harbor was filled with ships in one minute. Fin chose
the ship he liked best, and said, “I’ll take that one.” In a twinkle the
other ships vanished.

When the men were all ready to go on the ship, Fin called Oisin, and said
to him, “I leave the ruling of Erin with you, till I come back to this
harbor.” He bade farewell then to Oisin and the Fenians. The younger of
the two champions stood at the prow, the elder at the stern. The younger
followed the horse in crooked and straight paths through the sea, told
his brother how to steer on the voyage. They kept on till, at length, and
at last, they came to a haven with a steep, rugged shore, and no ship
could enter.

“This is where the steed went in,” said the younger brother.

When the Fenians saw the haven, they looked at one another. It was a very
steep place; and all said, “We cannot land here.”

“There will be an evil report for the Fenians of Erin, or for men trained
by Fin, if no one can spring to land,” said the druid.

“Well,” said Dyeermud, “there was never a man at Fintra who could make
such a spring, if I cannot make it.”

He buckled his belt firmly, and went to the stern of the ship to find
space for a run; then he rushed to the prow, and rose with one bound to
the top of the cliff. When he looked back, and saw his comrades below, he
was frightened.

Dyeermud left the ship and the Fenians, and walked forward alone. Toward
evening, he saw a herd of deer; he pursued them, and caught a doe, which
he killed; he made a fire, roasted the carcass, ate of it, and drank
pure spring water. He made a hut then of limbs, and slept quietly till
morning. After breakfast, a gruagach came the way, and called out to him,
“Is not Erin wide enough for you to live in, instead of coming hither to
steal my herds from me?”

“Though I might have been willing to go when you came,” replied Dyeermud,
“I will not go now since you speak so unmannerly.”

“You must fight with me then,” said the gruagach.

“I will indeed,” said Dyeermud.

They took their spears and swords, and fought all that day until evening,
when the gruagach saw that Dyeermud was getting the upper hand. He leaped
into the spring from which Dyeermud had drunk the cool water. Dyeermud
ran quickly, and thrust his sword into the water, but no sign of the
gruagach.

“I will watch for you to-morrow,” said Dyeermud to himself; so he waited
near the spring until morning.

The gruagach stood before him next day more threatening to look at than
ever, and said, “It seems you hadn’t fighting enough from me yesterday.”

“I told you that I would not go,” answered Dyeermud, “till I had knocked
satisfaction out of you for your ugly speech.”

They went at each other then, and fought fiercely till very near evening.
Dyeermud watched the spring closely, and when the gruagach leaped in, he
was with him. In the side of the spring was a passage; the two walked
through that passage, and came out in a kingdom where there was a grand
castle, and seven men at each side of the door. When Dyeermud went toward
the castle, the fourteen rushed against him. He slew these, and all
others who faced him till nightfall. He would not enter the castle, but
stretched himself on the ground, and fell fast asleep. Soon a champion
came, tapped him lightly with a sword, and said, “Rise now, and speak to
me.”

Dyeermud sprang up, and grasped his sword.

“I am not an enemy, but a friend,” said the champion. “It is not proper
for you to be sleeping in the midst of your enemies. Come to my castle; I
will entertain you, and give you good keeping.”

Dyeermud went with the stranger; and they became faithful friends. “The
king of this country, which is called Tir Fohin [Land Under the Wave], is
my brother,” said the champion. “The kingdom is rightfully mine, and ’tis
I that should be King of Tir Fohin; but my brother corrupted my warriors
with promises, so that all except thirty men of them left me.”

This champion was called the Knight of Valor. Dyeermud told this knight
his whole story,—told of the Hard Gilla, and his long-legged, scrawny,
thin-maned, ugly old horse.

“I am the man,” said the knight, “that will find out the Hard Gilla for
you. That Gilla is the best swordsman and champion in this land, and the
greatest enchanter. Your men, brought away by him, are as safe and as
sound as when they left Erin. He is a good friend of mine.”

“Now,” said Dyeermud, “for your kindness (you might have killed me when I
was asleep), and for your entertainment, I give my word to fight against
your brother, and win back your kingdom.”

Dyeermud sent a challenge to the King of Tir Fohin. The knight and
Dyeermud, with the knight’s thirty men, fought against the king’s forces,
fought all that day until evening; then the king withdrew to the castle
to keep his hold firm on the chief place, but Dyeermud rushed in, brought
him out to the green, threw him on the flat of his back, and shouted,
“Are you not satisfied yet?”

“I am if the men are,” said the king.

“Will you obey the Knight of Valor?” asked Dyeermud of the men.

“We will,” answered they.

The men gave their word to obey with all faithfulness. Dyeermud gave the
false king thirty men then; and the Knight of Valor became king in his
own land. On the morrow, Dyeermud and the king went with forces to the
Gilla’s castle; and when they entered the gates, the Gilla came out,
received them with welcome and hand-shaking. There was great rejoicing,
and good cheer at the Gilla’s castle.

When Dyeermud did not return to the vessel, Fin and the two young
champions thought to find an easier landing in some place; they put their
ship around, and sailed forward, sailed and sailed; and where should
they come at last but to the castle of the King of Sorách (Light), who
received them with welcome, and entertained them with the best that he
had in his castle.

But they were hardly seated at table, when the chief messenger of the
King of Sorách came hurrying in and said, that there was a fleet sailing
toward them, which was as numerous as the sands on the seashore, that it
was coming for tribute, which had not been collected for many a year.

The king had a grieved and sorrowful face. “That is the High King of the
World coming against me,” said he.

“Never fear,” said Fin MacCool. “Cheer up, and have courage. I and my men
will stand up for you. We will fight to the death to defend you.”

On the following day, the High King sent forces to land, to attack the
King of Sorách in his castle. These forces were under command of Borb
Sinnsior na Gah, son of the High King. The greatest delight of the High
King was his daughter, a beautiful maiden called Teasa Taov Geal; and the
thought came to her that day to see the battle. “I will go,” said she,
“with my brother, and see him take the king’s castle.”

On Fin’s side, the two young champions his guides were eager to be in the
struggle; but Fin would not hear of that. “You must stay with the ship,”
said he, “and take us to Erin, when the time comes.”

As soon as Fin saw the attack was led by the son of the High King, he
said, “I will take command in the battle, and lead the men in action
to-day. We will show the invaders what the Fenians do in battle.”

Oscar went with Fin, and so did Goll MacMorna. The battle raged grandly;
the men of the High King fell in crowds until evening, what was left of
them then went to the ships, and sailed back in haste to their master.

When the news reached the High King, he called his druid for advice.

“This is not the time to make war on the King of Sorách,” said the druid;
“for Fin MacCool and his men are living in friendship at his castle; they
will help him to the end of this struggle. Go home for the present, and
come again when Fin has gone back to Erin.”

The king was inclined to do this; but his daughter had seen Fin MacCool
in the battle, and fallen in love with him. She sent him a message,
saying, “I will go with you. I will leave my father for your sake. I love
you.”

The answer that Fin sent, was to come to him; he would take her with
gladness to Erin.

The king was grieved at the loss of his daughter. “I might go home now,”
said he, “and come back at another time; but how can I go, and leave my
daughter behind me?”

There was a champion called Lavran MacSuain, who could steal anything
while men were asleep, and make them sleep all the more, but could not do
harm to them. Lavran volunteered to bring back the daughter.

“If I find them asleep,” said he, “I will bring her back; if you give me
a reward.”

“I will pay you well,” said the king. “I will not spare rewards on you,
if you bring me my daughter.”

When Lavran came to where Fin was, he found him and the Fenians asleep,
and put them in a still deeper sleep. He brought Teasa Taov Geal to her
father’s ship then. The fleet sailed away in the night; and at daybreak
there was not a trace of it.

Next morning when Fin woke, and found that the king’s daughter was gone,
he sprang up, and was raging with anger. He sent men to look for the
fleet; but not a boat nor a ship was in sight.

Oscar and Goll, seeing Fin in such passion, said, “We will go, if a druid
goes with us. He will find out the castle by his knowledge; and we will
bring the woman back, or die while striving to bring her.”

Next morning, Goll and Oscar took a ready ship from the fleet of the King
of Sorách, set sail, and never stopped till they touched land near the
castle of the High King.

“The best way for us,” said the druid, on landing, “is to say that we are
bards, till we learn where the strength of the king is.”

“We will not do that,” said Oscar. “We will go straight forward, and
bring the woman back with the strength of our arms.”

They went straight from the strand toward the castle. At the wayside was
a rath where the daughter of the king was at that time, and no great
number of men there to guard her. Goll and Oscar attacked the guards, cut
them down, and took Taov Geal.

“The king is coming home from a hunt,” said the druid; “it is better to
hurry back to our ship.”

“We will sharpen our weapons,” said Oscar, “and strike the king’s men, if
they come toward us; but do you take the woman, and go in all haste to
the ship. We will stay behind to protect you.”

The druid took Taov Geal, who was willing and glad, when she heard who
had come for her. They reached the ship safely. Goll and Oscar came
soon after, sprang into the ship, set sail, and never stopped till they
brought Teasa Taov Geal to Fin at the castle of the King of Sorách.
There was a feast then far greater than the one which the High King had
interrupted the first day.

“I will take you to Erin,” said Fin to Taov Geal.

“I will go with you,” said she.

“I know the Hard Gilla well,” said the King of Sorách to Fin MacCool. “I
will go with you to him; he is a great champion, and a mighty enchanter.”

The king and his men, with Fin and the Fenians, went to the lands of the
Gilla; and when he saw them all, he brought them into his castle, and
treated them well. Dyeermud and the King of Tir Fohin were there also;
they had been enjoying themselves, and feasting with the Gilla, while
Fin and the others were fighting with the High King, and stealing his
daughter.

Conan and the twenty-nine Fenians were all in good health; and Fin had
the daughter of the High King in the castle, intending to take her to
Erin.

Said Fin to the Gilla one day, “It was you and Conan who had the first
quarrel, he and you are the men who began these adventures. I will leave
him and you to end the whole story. Conan is not easy to talk with, and
you are a hard man to conquer.”

Conan was called up.

“What have you to say of our host,” inquired Fin; “and what would you do
for him?”

“I was treated here as well as you have ever treated me in Fintra, or as
any man treated me in another place,” said Conan. “My sentence is this,
Let him come to Erin with us in our ship, feast with us in Fintra, and
ride home on his own horse.”

“I will do that,” said the Gilla.

Conan and the Gilla, with all the Fenians, went to the ship. Fin brought
the daughter of the High King on board, and all sailed away to Erin.

The Gilla was entertained to his heart’s content, till one day he said,
“I must leave you now, and go to my own place.”

Conan and a number of Fenians went to the seashore to see him ride away.
“Where is your horse?” asked Conan.

“Here,” said the Gilla.

Conan turned to see the ugly long-legged beast, but saw nothing. He
turned then to look at the Gilla, but saw only mist stretching out toward
the water.




THE BATTLE OF VENTRY.


It was predicted seven years before the battle of Ventry, that Daire
Donn, High King of the Great World, would invade Erin to conquer it. Fin
MacCool, for this reason, placed sentries at the chief ports of Erin. At
Ventry, Conn Crithir was stationed on the top of Cruach Varhin to give
warning; but he overslept when the fleet came: and the first news he had
of its coming was from the cries of people attacked by the invaders. Conn
Crithir sprang up, and said,—

“Great is the misery that has come by my sleep; but Fin and the Fenians
will not see me alive after this. I will rush into the midst of the
foreigners; and they will fall by me, till I fall by them.”

So he ran down toward the strand. On the way, he saw three strange women
running before him. He increased his speed; but, unable to overtake them,
he caught his spear to hurl it at the one nearest him.

The women stopped that moment, and cried, “Stay your hand, and do not
kill innocent women who have come not to harm but to help you.”

“Who are ye?” asked Conn Crithir.

“We are three sisters who have come from Tirnanog. We are all three in
love with you; but no one of us is jealous of the other. We will hide
you with an enchanted cloud, so that you can attack the foreign forces
unseen. We have a well of healing at the foot of Sliav Iolar; and its
waters will cure every wound made in battle. After bathing in it, you
will be as sound as the day you were born.”

Conn Crithir was grateful, and hurried to the strand, where he slew four
hundred men of the enemy on the first day. He was covered with wounds
himself; but the three sisters took him to the well. He bathed in it, and
was as sound as on the day he was born.

Conn Crithir was this way in struggle and combat, till Teastalach
Treunmhar, the chief courier of Fin MacCool, came to Ventry.

“Have you tidings of Fin and the Fenians?” asked Conn.

“I have. They are at the River Lee,” said Teastalach.

“Go to them quickly,” said Conn, “and tell how we are here. Let them
come hither to save us.”

“It would ill become me to go till I had moistened my sword in the blood
of the enemy,” said Teastalach; and he sent a challenge for single combat
to the High King.

“I am the man to meet that warrior,” said Colahan MacDochar, the king’s
champion; and he went on shore without waiting.

Colahan was thirty feet in height, and fifteen around the waist. When he
landed, he went at Teastalach. They fought one hour, and fought with such
fury, the two of them, that their swords and spears went to pieces. The
sword of Colahan was broken at the hilt; but of Teastalach’s blade there
remained a piece as long as the breadth of a man’s palm.

Colahan, who was enraged that any champion could stand against him for
the space of even one hour, seized Teastalach in his arms, to carry him
living to the ship of the High King, twist off his head there, and raise
it on a stake before the forces of the world. When he came to deep water,
he raised Teastalach on his shoulder; but Teastalach, the swift courier
of Fin MacCool, turned quickly, cut the head off his enemy, brought that
head to the strand, and made boast of his deed.

Now Teastalach went to where Fin and his forces were, and told him of all
that happened. Fin marched straightway, and never stopped nor rested till
he came to Maminch, within twenty miles of Ventry. Fin rested there for
the night; but Oscar, son of Oisin, with Conn Ceadach and one other, went
forward. Before going, Oscar turned to Fin, and said, “Chew your thumb,
and tell us what will be the end of our struggle.”

Fin chewed his thumb from the skin to the flesh, from the flesh to the
bone, from the bone to the marrow, from the marrow to the juice, and
said, “The victory will be on our side, but little else will be with us.
The battle will last for a day and a year, and every day will be a day of
fierce struggle. No man of the foreigners will escape; and on our side
few will be left living, and none without wounds.”

Oscar went his way then till he reached Ventry. Fin came on the second
day, and stopped with all his forces at Rahonáin. Next morning, he asked,
“Who will command the battle to-day?”

“We will go with two hundred,” said Oisin and Oscar.

They went toward the harbor; and a great troop landed to meet them. The
two parties faced each other then, and fought till near evening; when
all were killed on the side of the foreigners except three smiths, and of
Fin’s men there remained only Oisin, Oscar, and Goll, son of Morna.

On the following morning, Oisin and Oscar went with two hundred more,
but without Goll. The foreign troop came in numbers as before: and at
midday there was no man left living of Fin’s men but Oisin and Oscar; on
the foreign side all had fallen except the three smiths, who were mighty
champions. Oscar and Oisin faced the smiths. Oscar had two men against
him; and Oisin’s enemy was forcing him backward toward the water. Fin,
seeing this, feared for his son, and sent a poet to praise and encourage
him.

“Now is the time to prove your valor and greatness, Oisin”, said the
poet. “You never went to any place but a king’s daughter, or a high
beauty, fell in love with you. Many are looking this day at you; and now
is your time to show bravery.”

Oisin was greatly encouraged; so he grew in fury and increased on his
blows, till at last he swept the head off his enemy. About the same time,
Oscar killed the two other smiths; but, being faint from open wounds and
blood-loss, he fell senseless on the strand. Oisin, his father, rushed
to him, and held him till aid came. They carried him to Rahonáin, where,
after a long time, he revived.

The smiths had one brother in the fleet of the High King, and his name
was Dealv Dura. This man, who was the first champion in the armies of the
High King, fell into great grief, and swore to have vengeance for his
brothers. He went to the High King, and said, “I will go alone to the
strand, and will slay two hundred men every day till I have slain all the
forces of Erin; and if any man of your troops interfere, I will kill him.”

Next morning, Fin asked who would conduct the battle on that day.

“I will,” said Duvan, son of Donn, “with two hundred men.”

“Go not,” said Fin. “Let another go.”

But Duvan went to the strand with two hundred; and there was no one
before him but Dealv Dura, who demanded two hundred men in combat. A
shout of derision went up from Duvan’s men; but Dealv rushed at them,
and he slew the two hundred without a man of them being able to put a
sword-cut on him. Then, taking a hurley and ball, Dealv Dura threw up
the ball, and kept it in the air with the hurley from the western to the
eastern end of the strand, without letting it touch the ground even one
time. Then, he put the ball on his right foot, and kicked it high in the
air; when it was near the earth, he sent it up with the left foot, and
kept the ball in the air with his two feet, and never let it touch the
earth once, while he was rushing from one end of the strand to the other.
Next, he put the ball on his right knee, sent it up with that, caught it
on the left knee, and kept the ball in the air with his two knees while
he was running from one end of the strand to the other. Last, he put the
ball on one shoulder, threw it up with that shoulder, caught it on the
other, and kept the ball in the air with his two shoulders while he was
rushing like a blast of March wind from one end of the strand to the
other.

When he had finished, he walked back and forth on the strand vauntingly,
and challenged the men of Erin to do the like of those feats.

Next day, Fin sent out two hundred men. Dealv Dura was down on the strand
before them, and not a man of the two hundred returned.

Day after day, two hundred went out, and all fell before Dealv Dura. A
report ran now through all Erin that Fin’s troops were perishing daily
from one man; and this report reached at last the castle of the King
of Ulster. The king had one son, and he only thirteen years of age.
This son, who was the fairest and shapeliest youth in Erin, said to his
father, “Let me go to help Fin MacCool and his men.”

“You are not old enough, nor strong enough, my son; your bones are too
soft.”

When the youth insisted, his father confined him, and set twelve youths,
his own foster-brothers, to guard him, lest he might escape to Ventry
Strand.

The king’s son was enraged at being confined, and said to his
foster-brothers, “It is through valor and daring that my father gained
glory in his young years; and why should I not win a name as well as he?
Help me, and I will be a friend to you forever.”

He talked and persuaded, till they agreed to go with him to Fin MacCool.
They took arms then, hurried across Erin, and, when they came to Ventry,
Dealv Dura was on the strand reviling the Fenians.

“O Fenians of Erin,” said Oisin, “many have fallen by Dealv Dura; and I
would rather die in combat against him, than see the ruin he brings every
day!”

A great cry was raised by all at these words.

Now the son of the King of Ulster stood before Fin, and saluted him.

“Who are you?” asked Fin.

“I am Goll, son of the King of Ulster, and these twelve are my
foster-brothers. We have come to give you what assistance we can.”

“My welcome to you,” said Fin.

The reviling of Dealv Dura was heard now again.

“Who is that?” asked the king’s son from Ulster.

“An enemy asking for two hundred warriors of mine to meet him,” said Fin.

Here the twelve foster-brothers went to the strand, unknown to the king’s
son.

“You are not a man,” said Conan Maol, “and none of these twelve could
face any warrior.”

“I have never seen the Fenians till this day,” said the king’s son,
“still I know that you are Conan Maol, who never speaks well of any man;
but you will see that I am not in dread of Dealv Dura, or any champion on
earth. I will go down now, and meet the warrior single-handed.”

Fin and the Fenians stopped the young hero, and detained him, and talked
to him. Then, Conan began again, and said, “In six days that champion has
slain twelve hundred men; and there was not a man of the twelve hundred
who could not have killed twelve hundred like you every day.”

These words enraged the king’s son. He sprang up, and then heard the
shouting of Dealv Dura on the strand. “What does he want now?” asked the
king’s son.

“More men for combat,” said Conan. “He has just slain your twelve
body-guards.”

With that the king’s son seized his weapons, and no man could stop or
delay him. He rushed to the strand, and went toward Dealv Dura. When the
champion saw the youth coming, he sneered, and the hosts of the High King
sent up a roar of laughter; for they thought Fin’s men were all killed,
since he had sent a stripling to meet Dealv Dura. The courage of the boy
was all the greater from the derision; and he rushed on Dealv Dura, who
got many wounds from the youth before he knew it.

They fought a sharp, bloody combat; and no matter how the champion, Dealv
Dura, used his strength, swiftness, and skill, he was met by the king’s
son: and if the world could be searched, from its eastern edge to its
western border, no braver battle would be found than was that one.

The two fought through the day, the hosts of the Great World and the
Fenians cheering and urging them on. Toward evening their shields were
hacked to pieces, and their weapons all shivered, but they did not stop
the battle; they grappled and caught each other, and fought so that the
sand on the beach was boiling like water beneath them. They wrestled that
way, seeing nothing in the world but each other, till the tide of the sea
went over them, and drowned the two there before the eyes of the Fenians
and the hosts of the High King.

A great cry of wailing and sorrow was raised on both sides, when the
water closed over the champions. Next morning, after the tide-ebb, the
two bodies were found stiff and cold, each one in the grasp of the other;
but Dealv Dura was under the king’s son, so it was known that the youth
was a better man than the other.

The king’s son was buried with great honor by the Fenians; and never
before did they mourn for a hero as on that day.

“Who will command the battle this time?” asked Fin, on the following
morning.

“I and my son Oscar,” said Oisin.

They went to the strand with two hundred men; and against them came the
King of France with his forces. The two sides fought with such venom that
at midday there was no one alive on either side but Oscar, Oisin, and
the King of France. The king and Oisin were fighting at the eastern end
of Ventry; and the king gave such a blow that he knocked a groan from
Oisin. Oscar, who was at the western end of the strand then,—Oscar, of
noble deeds, the man with a heart that never knew fear, and a foot that
never stepped back before many or few,—rushed to see who had injured his
father; and the noise that he made was like the noise of fifty horses
while racing.

The king looked toward the point where the thundering sound was, and saw
Oscar coming. He knew then that unless he escaped he had not long to
live; his beauty and bravery left him, and his terror was like that of
a hundred horses at the sound of a thunderbolt. Lightness of mind and
body came on him; he stretched himself, sprang up, flew through the air,
and never stopped till he came down in Glean nan Allt,—a place to which,
since that time, insane persons go, and every madman in Erin would go
there in twenty four hours, if people would let him.

In the battle of the next day, the King of Norway was chief; and there
was never such destruction of men in Erin before as on that day. This
king had a venomous shield with red flames, and if it were put under the
sea not one of its flames would stop blazing, and the king himself was
not hotter from any of them. When he had the shield on his arm no man
could come near him; and he went against the Fenians with only a sword.
Not to use weapon had he come, but to let the poison of his shield fly
among them. The balls of fire that he sent from the shield went through
the bodies of men, so that each blazed up like a splinter of oak which
had hung a whole year in the smoke of a chimney, and whoever touched the
burning man, blazed up as well as he; and small was every evil that came
into Erin before, when compared with that evil.

“Lift up your hands,” said Fin, “and give three shouts of blessing to the
man who will put some delay on that foreigner.”

A smile came on the king’s face when he heard the shouts that Fin’s men
were giving. It was then that the Chief of the Fenians of Ulster came
near; and he had a venomous spear, the Crodearg. He looked at the King of
Norway, and saw nothing of him without armor, save his mouth, and that
open wide in laughter at the Fenians. He made a cast of his venomous
spear, which entered the king’s mouth, and went out through his neck. The
shield fell, and its blazing was quenched with the life of its master.
The chief cut the head off the king, and made boast of the deed; and his
help was the best that the Fenians received from any man of their own
men. Many were the deeds of that day; and but few of the forces of the
High King went back to their ships in the evening.

On the following day, the foreigners came in thousands; for the High King
had resolved to put an end to the struggle. Conan Maol, who never spoke
well of any man, had a power which he knew not himself, and which no one
in Erin knew except Fin. When Conan looked through his fingers at any
man, that man fell dead the next instant.

Fin never told Conan of this, and never told any one; for he knew that
Conan would kill all the Fenians when he got vexed if he knew his own
power. When the foreigners landed, Fin sent a party of men with Conan
to a suitable place, so that when the enemy were attacking, these men
would look with Conan through their fingers at the enemy, and pray for
assistance against them.

When Conan and his men looked through their fingers, the enemy fell dead
in great numbers, and no one knew that it was Conan’s look alone, without
prayers or assistance from others, that slew them.

Conan and his company stood there all day, looking through their fingers
and praying, whenever a new face made its way from the harbor.

The struggle lasted day after day, till his men spoke to the High King
and said to him, “We can never conquer unless you meet Fin in single
combat.”

The king challenged Fin to meet him on the third day. Fin accepted,
though he was greatly in dread; for he knew that the trunk of the High
King’s body was formed of one bone, and that no sword in the world could
cut it but the king’s own sword, which was kept in the Eastern World by
his grandsire, the King of the Land of the White Men. That old king had
seven chambers in a part of his castle, one inside the other. On the
door of the outer chamber was one lock, on the second two, and so on to
the door of the seventh and innermost chamber, which had seven locks,
and in that chamber the sword and shield of the High King were kept. In
the service of Daire Donn was a champion, a great wizard, who wished ill
to the High King. This man went to Fin, and said, “I will bring you the
sword and shield from the Eastern World.”

“Good will be my reward to you,” said Fin, “if you bring them in time.”

Away went the man in a cloud of enchantment, and soon stood before the
old king. “Your grandson,” said he, “is to fight with Fin MacCool, and
has sent me for his weapons.”

The old king had the sword and shield brought quickly, and gave them. The
man hurried back to Erin, and gave the weapons to Fin on the eve of the
battle.

Next morning, the High King came to the strand full of confidence.
Believing himself safe, he thought he could kill Fin MacCool easily;
but when he stood in front of the chief of the Fenians, and saw his own
venomous sword unsheathed in the hand of his enemy, and knew that death
was fated him from that blade, his face left him for a moment, and his
fingers were unsteady.

He rallied, and thinking to win by surprise, rushed suddenly, fiercely
and mightily, to combat. One of Fin’s men sprang out, and dealt a great
blow with a broadaxe; it laid open the helmet, cut some of the hair of
the High King, but touched not the skin of his body. The High King with
one blow made two parts of the Fenian, and, rushing at Fin, cut a slice
from his shield, and a strip of flesh from his thigh. Fin gave one blow
then in answer, which made two equal parts of the king, so that one eye,
one ear, one arm, and one leg of him dropped on one side, and the other
eye, ear, arm, and leg went to the other side.

Now, the hosts of the High King, and the Fenians of Erin, fought till
there was no man standing in the field except one. He raised the body of
the High King, and said, “It was bad for us, O Fenians of Erin, but worse
for you; I go home in health, and ye have fallen side by side. I will
come again soon, and take all Erin.”

“Sad am I,” said Fin, as he lay on the field, “that I did not find death
before I heard these words from the mouth of a foreigner, and he going
into the Great World with tidings. Is there any man alive near me?”

“I am,” said Fergus Finbel; “and there is no warrior who is not lying in
his blood save the chief man of the High King and your own foster-son,
Caol.”

“Go to seek my foster-son,” said Fin.

Fergus went to Caol, and asked him how his health was. “If my
battle-harness were loosened, my body would fall asunder from wounds; but
more grieved am I at the escape of the foreigner with tidings than at my
own woful state. Take me to the sea, Fergus, that I may swim after the
foreigner; perhaps he will fall by this hand before the life leaves me.”

Fergus took him to the sea; and he swam to the ship. The foreigner
thought him one of his own men, and reached down to raise him to the
ship-board; but Caol grasped the man firmly and drew him to the water.
Both sank in the clear, cold sea, and were drowned.

No man saw the foreigner afterward; but Caol’s body was carried by the
waves, borne northward, and past the islands, till it came to land, at
the port which is now called Caoil Cuan (Caol’s Harbor).




FOOTNOTES


[1] This Winishuyat is represented as no larger than a man’s thumb, and
confined under the hair on the top of the head, the hair being tied over
him. He is foresight itself. _Winis_ means “he sees,” what _huyat_ means
I have not discovered yet.

[2] _Sprisawn_, in Gaelic _spriosan_, a small twig, and, figuratively, a
poor little creature, a sorry little fellow.

[3] Pronounced Shawn,—John.

[4] This is the high point, “the size of a pig’s back,” which the sailor
saw from the topmast.

[5] Fin’s wisdom came in each case from chewing his thumb, which he
pressed once on the Salmon of Knowledge. An account of this is given in a
tale in my “Myths and Folk-Lore of Ireland,” p. 211.




NOTES.


The tales in this volume were told me by the following persons:—

Nos. 1, 5, 18, 21. Maurice Lynch, Mount Eagle, West of Dingle, Kerry.

Nos. 2, 11, 24. John Malone, Rahonain, West of Dingle.

Nos. 3, 15. Shea, Kil Vicadowny, West of Dingle.

No. 4. Thomas Brady, Teelin, County Donegal.

No. 6. Maurice Fitzgerald, Emilich Slat, West of Dingle.

Nos. 7, 9, 12, 17. John O’Brien, Connemara.

No. 8. James Byrne, Glen Columkil, County Donegal.

Nos. 10, 14. Colman Gorm, Connemara.

No. 13. Michael Curran, Gortahork, County Donegal.

No. 16. Michael O’Conor, six miles north of Newcastle West, County
Limerick.

Nos. 19, 20. Michael Sullivan, Dingle.

No. 22. Dyeermud Duvane, Milltown, County Kerry.

No. 23. Daniel Sheehy, Dunquin, Kerry, a man over a hundred years old.


_Elin Gow, the Swordsmith from Erin, and the Cow Glas Gainach._

_Glas Gainach._ In this name of the celebrated cow _glas_ means gray;
_gainach_ is a corruption of _gaunach_, written _gamhnach_, which means a
cow whose calf is a year old, that is, a cow without a calf that year, a
farrow cow. _Gamhnach_ is an adjective from _gamhan_, a yearling calf.

In Donegal, _gavlen_ is used instead of _gaunach_; and the best
story-teller informed me that _gavlen_ means a cow that has not had a
calf for five years. He gave the terms for cows that have not had calves
for one, two, three, four, and five years. These terms I wrote down; but
unfortunately they are not accessible at present. The first in the series
is _gaunach_, the last _gavlen_; the intervening ones I cannot recall.

_King Under the Wave_ is a personage met with frequently in Gaelic; his
name is descriptive enough, and his character more or less clear in other
tales.

_Cluainte_ is a place in the parish of Bally Ferriter, the westernmost
district in Ireland. The site of Elin Gow’s house and forge was pointed
out by the man who told the story, also the stone pillars between which
the cow used to stand and scratch her two sides at once when coming home
from pasture in the evening. The pillars are thirteen feet and a half
apart, so that Glas Gainach had a bulky body.

Glas Gainach went away finally through the bay called Ferriter’s Cove.
In Gaelic, this bay is Caoil Cuan (Caol’s harbor), so called because the
body of Caol, foster-son of Fin MacCool, was washed in there after the
Battle of Ventry. (See last paragraph of the Battle of Ventry.)


_Saudan Og and the Daughter of the King of Spain, &c._

_Saudan Og_ means young Sultan. This is a curious naturalization of
the son of the Sultan in Ireland, a very striking example of the
substitution of new heroes in old tales.

_Conal Gulban_ was the great grandfather of Columbkil, founder of Iona
and apostle of Scotland; hence, he lived a good many years before any
King of the Turks could be in any place. In a certain tale of three
brothers which I have heard, the narrator made “two halves” of Mark
Antony, the three heroes being Mark, Antony, and Lepidus.

_Laian_, written _Laighean_ in Gaelic, means Leinster; the King of Laian
is King of Leinster.


_The Black Thief._

There are many variants of this tale, both in the north and south of
Ireland. It seems to have been a great favorite, and is mentioned often,
though few know it well.

There are versions connected with Killarney and the O’Donohue.

The adventures in the present tale are very striking. It would be
difficult indeed to have narrower escapes than those of the Black Thief.

The racing of the cats through all underground Erin is paralleled in
Indian tales, especially those of the Modocs, in which immense journeys
are made underground.


_The King’s Son from Erin, the Sprisawn, and the Dark King._

_Lochlinn_ is used to mean Denmark, though there is no connection
whatever between the names. Lochlinn is doubtless one of the old names
in Gaelic tales, and referred to some kind of water region. Instead of
putting the name “Denmark” in place of the name “Lochlinn,” it was
said in this case that Lochlinn was Denmark. Other regions or kingdoms
in the old tales lost their names: Spain, Sicily, Greece, France were
put in place of them; we have lost the clew to what they were. Lochlinn
has a look that invites investigation. Were all the people of Lochlinn,
creatures of the water, turned by Gaelic tale-tellers into Scandinavians?
Very likely.

In the stealing of Manus, we have a case similar to that of Tobit in the
Apocrypha.

I know of no parallel to the scene in the three chambers with the chains
and the cross-beams. It is terribly grim and merciless. There was no
chance for the weak in those chambers.

The work of the serpent in drying the lake by lashing it, and sending the
water in showers over the country, is equalled in an Indian tale by ducks
which rise from a lake suddenly, and in such incredible numbers that they
take all the water away, carry off the lake with them.


_Amadan Mor._

The boyhood of the Amadan Mor has some resemblance to that of the Russian
hero, Ilyá Múromets, who sat so many years in the ashes without power to
rise.

The fear of stopping in unknown places finds expression frequently in
Indian tales, and arises from the fact that the visitor does not know
what spirits inhabit them, and therefore does not know how to avoid
offending those spirits. Eilin Og seems to have a similar idea in the
dark glen.


_Cud, Cad, and Micad._

_Urhu_ is called _Nurhu_ sometimes, and appears to be the same as the old
English Norroway, Norway. _Hadone_ is said to be Sicily.


_Cahal, Son of King Conor._

In this tale we have a number of elemental heroes, such as Striker and
Wet Mantle. Against Striker, the great blower, no one can do anything at
sea. This is the kind of hero who can walk on the water, or at least who
never sinks in it much beyond his ankles. This Striker appears in another
story as a giant out in the ocean, which he is beating with a club.

In Wet Mantle, whose virtue is in his cloak, which is rain itself, we
have an excellent friend for a rain-maker.


_Coldfeet._

This is a good hero, an excellent herdsman and cattle-thief. What a
splendid cowboy he would be in the Indian Territory or Wyoming. He has a
good strain of simplicity and heroism in him. The bottle of water that is
never drained, is like the basket of trout’s blood (also water) in the
Indian tale of Walokit and Tumukit.


_Lawn Dyarrig, Son of the King of Erin, and the Knight of Terrible
Valley._

The serpent that sleeps seven years can be matched by monsters in
American tales. The hearts of these creatures are sliced away by heroes
who go down their throats and find other people before them, alive,
but unable to escape. Sometimes the monster is killed; sometimes it is
weakened and rendered comparatively harmless. There was an Indian monster
of this kind in the Columbia River, near the Dalles, and one in the
Klamath River, near its mouth.


_Balor and Glas Gavlen._

This was a great tale in the old time; but it is badly broken up now.
If we could discover who Balor and his daughter were really, we might,
perhaps, be able to understand why his grandson was fated to kill him.
The theft of Glas Gavlen is the first act in a series which ends with
the death of Balor. No doubt the whole story is as natural as that of
Wimaloimis, the grisly-bear cloud-woman (Introduction) who tries to eat
her own sons, lightning and thunder, and is killed by them afterward.


_Art, the King’s Son._

This is a striking tale, the head following the body of the gruagach
into the earth is peculiar. The pursuit of Art by Balor is as vigorous
as it could be. Shall we say that the blade of the screeching sword is
lightning, and the screech itself thunder?

In Balor’s account of how his wife maltreated him, we have the incident
of the infant saved by the faithful animal. Balor, however, when a wolf,
saved himself by prompt action from the fate of Llewelyn’s dog and that
of the ichneumen in the Sanscrit tale.

There is no more interesting fact than this in myth tales, that no
matter how good the hero, he must have the right weapon. Often there is
only one spear or sword, or one kind of spear or sword, in the world with
which a certain deed can be done. The hero must have that weapon or fail.


_Shawn Mac Breogan._

In Gaelic, we meet more frequently the cloak of darkness, a cloak of
effacement. In this tale we have a cloak or mantle of power, one that
makes the wearer the finest person in the world. This is like the mantle
of the prophet, which, if it falls on a successor to the office, gives
him power equal to that of his predecessor. Of a similar character is the
garment of the Wet Mantle Hero, in Cahal, son of King Conor, whose power
is in his mantle, which is rain itself.

In a certain Indian tale, two skins are described,—one the skin of a
black rain cloud, the other the skin of a gray snow cloud; whenever
rain is wanted, the black skin is shaken out in the air, when snow is
desired, the gray one is shaken. This shaking is done by two deities in
the sky (stones at present), who thus produce rain and snow _ad libitum_.
The mantles of power were skins originally. When people had forgotten
the special virtue of the skins, and mantles were of cloth or skin
indifferently, or later on of cloth exclusively, the virtue connected
with mantles by tradition remained to them without reference to material.

In Hungarian tales the food of the steed, very often a mare, is glowing
coals. There are Hungarian tales in which little if any doubt is left
that the steed is lightning. It was a steed of this character that
carried Cahal, son of King Conor, to Striker’s castle, a place to which
no ship could go.

The skin of the white mare is like the skin of Klakherrit or Pitis in the
Indian tale. When the young woman puts on the skin, she becomes the white
mare; when she takes it off, she is herself again.


_The Cotter’s Son and the Half Slim Champion._

Instead of a king’s son, the more usual substitute for an earlier hero,
we have in this tale a cotter’s son. The scene of shaking ashes from
his person by a mourner who has sat by the fire for a long time, finds
a parallel in Indian stories. The Gaelic heroes, however, manage to get
vastly more ashes onto themselves than the Indians. The son of the King
of Lochlin in this case shakes off seven tons. In one Irish tale that I
know, the hero goes out into the field after mourning long at the hearth,
and shakes from his person an amount of ashes that covers seven acres in
front of him, seven acres behind him, seven acres on his right hand, and
seven acres on his left.

The old King of Lochlin, who has the same kind of story to tell as Balor,
is a tremendously stubborn old fellow; there is a savage cruelty in the
torture which his son inflicts on him that is without parallel, even
in myth tales. The old man goes through the roasting with a strength
which no stoic or martyr could equal. When he yields at last, he does so
serenely, and tells a tale which solves the conundrum completely.


_Fin MacCool, the three Giants, and the Small Men._

The theft of the children of the King of the Big Men has an interesting
parallel in an Indian tale from California, a part of which is as
follows:—

    There was a man named Kuril (which means rib). He didn’t seem
    to know much; but he could walk right through rocks, in at one
    side and out at the other. He walked across gullies, through
    thickets, and over precipices, as easily as on a smooth road.
    One evening people saw him coming from the west toward the
    village. When he had come near, the sun went down, and Kuril
    disappeared right before their eyes. They saw this several
    times afterwards. He came always just before sunset, never came
    quite to the village. The children used to play in the evening;
    and he would stop and look at them, and at sunset he would be
    gone, turned into something.

    One evening a very poor man saw Kuril pass his thumbnail
    along the top of his head, and split himself, the left half
    of him became a woman, and the right half remained a man.
    That night the new pair appeared to the poor man who had seen
    the splitting, they said that each of them was to be called
    Kukupiwit now (crooked breast), and talked with him. After that
    the poor man had great luck, killed many deer; what he wanted,
    he had. The male Kukupiwit came home late every evening. His
    other half watched the village children playing; if one stepped
    aside, or left the others, she thrust it into a basket, and
    ran home. People looked for their children, but never found
    them. She would listen, climb a house where she heard a child
    cry, and look down the smoke-hole. One evening a little boy
    was crying; his mother could not stop him. At last she said,
    “Cry away; I’ll go to sleep.” The woman fell asleep; the boy
    sat crying by the hearth. Soon he saw a piece of roast venison
    hanging by a string over the fire. He took a piece, ate it,
    stopped crying, took another; the string was drawn up a little.
    He reached after it; the string was drawn farther. He reached
    higher; Kukupiwit the woman caught his hand, pulled him up, put
    him in her basket, and ran home.

    The mother woke now; the boy was gone. She roused her husband;
    they looked everywhere, found no trace of their son. Next night
    all in the village were watching. In one house a baby cried,
    and soon the men who were there heard creeping on the house.
    One man took the baby, held it high over the fire, and said,
    “Take this baby!” Kukupiwit reached down; the man lowered the
    child a little. She reached farther; that moment five or six
    men caught her arm, and tried to pull her down; but all who
    were in the house could not do that. One man chopped her arm
    right off with a flint knife, and threw it out; she fell to the
    ground where her arm was, she picked it up, and ran home.


_The Hard Gilla._

This tale has a special interest, in that it gives the cause of the
Battle of Ventry, described in the next tale. The cause, like that of the
Trojan war, was a woman. The daughter of the High King of the World goes
to Fin at first, and is then stolen away by him afterwards.


THE END.





End of Project Gutenberg's Hero-Tales of Ireland, by Jeremiah Curtin