Book: Irish Fairy Tales

J >> James Stephens >> Irish Fairy Tales




It was a woeful combat, for there was no craft or sagacity
unknown to her, and Art would infallibly have perished by her
hand but that her days were numbered, her star was out, and her
time had come. It was her head that rolled on the ground when the
combat was over, and it was her head that grinned and shrivelled
on the vacant spike which she had reserved for Art's.

Then Art liberated Delvcaem from her prison at the top of the
pillar and they were affianced together. But the ceremony had
scarcely been completed when the tread of a single man caused the
palace to quake and seemed to jar the world.

It was Morgan returning to the palace.

The gloomy king challenged him to combat also, and in his honour
Art put on the battle harness which he had brought from Ireland.
He wore a breastplate and helmet of gold, a mantle of blue satin
swung from his shoulders, his left hand was thrust into the grips
of a purple shield, deeply bossed with silver, and in the other
hand he held the wide-grooved, blue hilted sword which had rung
so often into fights and combats, and joyous feats and exercises.

Up to this time the trials through which he had passed had seemed
so great that they could not easily be added to. But if all those
trials had been gathered into one vast calamity they would not
equal one half of the rage and catastrophe of his war with
Morgan.

For what he could not effect by arms Morgan would endeavour by
guile, so that while Art drove at him or parried a crafty blow,
the shape of Morgan changed before his eyes, and the monstrous
king was having at him in another form, and from a new direction.

It was well for the son of the Ard-Ri' that he had been beloved
by the poets and magicians of his land, and that they had taught
him all that was known of shape-changing and words of power.

He had need of all these.

At times, for the weapon must change with the enemy, they fought
with their foreheads as two giant stags, and the crash of their
monstrous onslaught rolled and lingered on the air long after
their skulls had parted. Then as two lions, long-clawed,
deep-mouthed, snarling, with rigid mane, with red-eyed glare,
with flashing, sharp-white fangs, they prowled lithely about each
other seeking for an opening. And then as two green-ridged,
white-topped, broad-swung, overwhelming, vehement billows of the
deep, they met and crashed and sunk into and rolled away from
each other; and the noise of these two waves was as the roar of
all ocean when the howl of the tempest is drowned in the
league-long fury of the surge.

But when the wife's time has come the husband is doomed. He is
required elsewhere by his beloved, and Morgan went to rejoin his
queen in the world that comes after the Many-Coloured Land, and
his victor shore that knowledgeable head away from its giant
shoulders.

He did not tarry in the Many-Coloured Land, for he had nothing
further to seek there. He gathered the things which pleased him
best from among the treasures of its grisly king, and with
Delvcaem by his side they stepped into the coracle.

Then, setting their minds on Ireland, they went there as it were
in a flash.

The waves of all the world seemed to whirl past them in one huge,
green cataract. The sound of all these oceans boomed in their
ears for one eternal instant. Nothing was for that moment but a
vast roar and pour of waters. Thence they swung into a silence
equally vast, and so sudden that it was as thunderous in the
comparison as was the elemental rage they quitted. For a time
they sat panting, staring at each other, holding each other, lest
not only their lives but their very souls should be swirled away
in the gusty passage of world within world; and then, looking
abroad, they saw the small bright waves creaming by the rocks of
Ben Edair, and they blessed the power that had guided and
protected them, and they blessed the comely land of Ir.

On reaching Tara, Delvcaem, who was more powerful in art and
magic than Becuma, ordered the latter to go away, and she did so.

She left the king's side. She came from the midst of the
counsellors and magicians. She did not bid farewell to any one.
She did not say good-bye to the king as she set out for Ben
Edair.

Where she could go to no man knew, for she had been ban-ished
from the Many-Coloured Land and could not return there. She was
forbidden entry to the Shi' by Angus Og, and she could not remain
in Ireland. She went to Sasana and she became a queen in that
country, and it was she who fostered the rage against the Holy
Land which has not ceased to this day.




MONGAN'S FRENZY


CHAPTER I

The abbot of the Monastery of Moville sent word to the
story-tellers of Ireland that when they were in his neighbourhood
they should call at the monastery, for he wished to collect and
write down the stories which were in danger of being forgotten.

"These things also must he told," said he.

In particular he wished to gather tales which told of the deeds
that had been done before the Gospel came to Ireland.

"For," said he, "there are very good tales among those ones, and
it would be a pity if the people who come after us should be
ignorant of what happened long ago, and of the deeds of their
fathers."

So, whenever a story-teller chanced in that neighbourhood he was
directed to the monastery, and there he received a welcome and
his fill of all that is good for man.

The abbot's manuscript boxes began to fill up, and he used to
regard that growing store with pride and joy. In the evenings,
when the days grew short and the light went early, he would call
for some one of these manuscripts and have it read to him by
candle-light, in order that he might satisfy himself that it was
as good as he had judged it to be on the previous hearing.

One day a story-teller came to the monastery, and, like all the
others, he was heartily welcomed and given a great deal more than
his need.

He said that his name was Cairide', and that he had a story to
tell which could not be bettered among the stories of Ireland.

The abbot's eyes glistened when he heard that. He rubbed his
hands together and smiled on his guest.

"What is the name of your story?" he asked.

"It is called 'Mongan's Frenzy.'"

"I never heard of it before," cried the abbot joyfully.

"I am the only man that knows it," Cairide' replied.

"But how does that come about?" the abbot inquired.

"Because it belongs to my family," the story-teller answered.
"There was a Cairide' of my nation with Mongan when he went into
Faery. This Cairide' listened to the story when it was first
told. Then he told it to his son, and his son told it to his son,
and that son's great-great-grandson's son told it to his son's
son, and he told it to my father, and my father told it to me."

"And you shall tell it to me," cried the abbot triumphantly.

"I will indeed," said Cairide'. Vellum was then brought and
quills. The copyists sat at their tables. Ale was placed beside
the story-teller, and he told this tale to the abbot.



CHAPTER II

Said Cairide':

Mongan's wife at that time was Bro'tiarna, the Flame Lady. She
was passionate and fierce, and because the blood would flood
suddenly to her cheek, so that she who had seemed a lily became,
while you looked upon her, a rose, she was called Flame Lady. She
loved Mongan with ecstasy and abandon, and for that also he
called her Flame Lady.

But there may have been something of calculation even in her
wildest moment, for if she was delighted in her affection she was
tormented in it also, as are all those who love the great ones of
life and strive to equal themselves where equality is not
possible.

For her husband was at once more than himself and less than
himself. He was less than himself because he was now Mongan. He
was more than himself because he was one who had long disappeared
from the world of men. His lament had been sung and his funeral
games played many, many years before, and Bro'tiarna sensed in
him secrets, experiences, knowledges in which she could have no
part, and for which she was greedily envious.

So she was continually asking him little, simple questions a'
propos of every kind of thing.

She weighed all that he said on whatever subject, and when he
talked in his sleep she listened to his dream.

The knowledge that she gleaned from those listenings tormented
her far more than it satisfied her, for the names of other women
were continually on his lips, sometimes in terms of dear
affection, sometimes in accents of anger or despair, and in his
sleep he spoke familiarly of people whom the story-tellers told
of, but who had been dead for centuries. Therefore she was
perplexed, and became filled with a very rage of curiosity.

Among the names which her husband mentioned there was one which,
because of the frequency with which it appeared, and because of
the tone of anguish and love and longing in which it was uttered,
she thought of oftener than the others: this name was Duv Laca.
Although she questioned and cross-questioned Cairide', her
story-teller, she could discover nothing about a lady who had
been known as the Black Duck. But one night when Mongan seemed to
speak with Duv Laca he mentioned her father as Fiachna Duv mac
Demain, and the story-teller said that king had been dead for a
vast number of years.

She asked her husband then, boldly, to tell her the story of Duv
Laca, and under the influence of their mutual love he promised to
tell it to her some time, but each time she reminded him of his
promise he became confused, and said that he would tell it some
other time.

As time went on the poor Flame Lady grew more and more jealous of
Duv Laca, and more and more certain that, if only she could know
what had happened, she would get some ease to her tormented heart
and some assuagement of her perfectly natural curiosity.
Therefore she lost no opportunity of reminding Mongan of his
promise, and on each occasion he renewed the promise and put it
back to another time.



CHAPTER III

In the year when Ciaran the son of the Carpenter died, the same
year when Tuathal Maelgariv was killed and the year when Diarmait
the son of Cerrbel became king of all Ireland, the year 538 of
our era in short, it happened that there was a great gathering of
the men of Ireland at the Hill of Uisneach in Royal Meath.

In addition to the Council which was being held, there were games
and tournaments and brilliant deployments of troops, and
universal feastings and enjoyments. The gathering lasted for a
week, and on the last day of the week Mongan was moving through
the crowd with seven guards, his story-teller Cairide', and his
wife.

It had been a beautiful day, with brilliant sunshine and great
sport, but suddenly clouds began to gather in the sky to the
west, and others came rushing blackly from the east. When these
clouds met the world went dark for a space, and there fell from
the sky a shower of hailstones, so large that each man wondered
at their size, and so swift and heavy that the women and young
people of the host screamed from the pain of the blows they
received.

Mongan's men made a roof of their shields, and the hailstones
battered on the shields so terribly that even under them they
were afraid. They began to move away from the host looking for
shelter, and when they had gone apart a little way they turned
the edge of a small hill and a knoll of trees, and in the
twinkling of an eye they were in fair weather.

One minute they heard the clashing and bashing of the hailstones,
the howling of the venomous wind, the screams of women and the
uproar of the crowd on the Hill of Uisneach, and the next minute
they heard nothing more of those sounds and saw nothing more of
these sights, for they had been permitted to go at one step out
of the world of men and into the world of Faery.



CHAPTER IV

There is a difference between this world and the world of Faery,
but it is not immediately perceptible. Everything that is here is
there, but the things that are there are better than those that
are here. All things that are bright are there brighter. There is
more gold in the sun and more silver in the moon of that land.
There is more scent in the flowers, more savour in the fruit.
There is more comeliness in the men and more tenderness in the
women. Everything in Faery is better by this one wonderful
degree, and it is by this betterness you will know that you are
there if you should ever happen to get there.

Mongan and his companions stepped from the world of storm into
sunshine and a scented world. The instant they stepped they
stood, bewildered, looking at each other silently, questioningly,
and then with one accord they turned to look back whence they had
come.

There was no storm behind them. The sunlight drowsed there as it
did in front, a peaceful flooding of living gold. They saw the
shapes of the country to which their eyes were accustomed, and
recognised the well-known landmarks, but it seemed that the
distant hills were a trifle higher, and the grass which clothed
them and stretched between was greener, was more velvety: that
the trees were better clothed and had more of peace as they hung
over the quiet ground.

But Mongan knew what had happened, and he smiled with glee as he
watched his astonished companions, and he sniffed that balmy air
as one whose nostrils remembered it.

"You had better come with me," he said.

"Where are we?" his wife asked. "Why, we are here," cried Mongan;
"where else should we be?"

He set off then, and the others followed, staring about them
cautiously, and each man keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Are we in Faery?" the Flame Lady asked.

"We are," said Mongan.

When they had gone a little distance they came to a grove of
ancient trees. Mightily tail and well grown these trees were, and
the trunk of each could not have been spanned by ten broad men.
As they went among these quiet giants into the dappled obscurity
and silence, their thoughts became grave, and all the motions of
their minds elevated as though they must equal in greatness and
dignity those ancient and glorious trees. When they passed
through the grove they saw a lovely house before them, built of
mellow wood and with a roof of bronze--it was like the dwelling
of a king, and over the windows of the Sunny Room there was a
balcony. There were ladies on this balcony, and when they saw the
travellers approaching they sent messengers to welcome them.

Mongan and his companions were then brought into the house, and
all was done for them that could be done for honoured guests.
Everything within the house was as excellent as all without, and
it was inhabited by seven men and seven women, and it was evident
that Mongan and these people were well acquainted.

In the evening a feast was prepared, and when they had eaten well
there was a banquet. There were seven vats of wine, and as Mongan
loved wine he was very happy, and he drank more on that occasion
than any one had ever noticed him to drink before.

It was while he was in this condition of glee and expansion that
the Flame Lady put her arms about his neck and begged he would
tell her the story of Duv Laca, and, being boisterous then and
full of good spirits, he agreed to her request, and he prepared
to tell the tale.

The seven men and seven women of tile Fairy Palace then took
their places about him in a half-circle; his own seven guards sat
behind them; his wife, the Flame Lady, sat by his side; and at
the back of all Cairid~ his story-teller sat, listening with all
his ears, and remembering every word that was uttered.



CHAPTER V

Said Mongan:

In the days of long ago and the times that have disappeared for
ever, there was one Fiachna Finn the son of Baltan, the son of
Murchertach, the son of Muredach, the son of Eogan, the son of
Neill. He went from his own country when he was young, for he
wished to see the land of Lochlann, and he knew that he would be
welcomed by the king of that country, for Fiachna's father and
Eolgarg's father had done deeds in common and were obliged to
each other.

He was welcomed, and he stayed at the Court of Lochlann in great
ease and in the midst of pleasures.

It then happened that Eolgarg Mor fell sick and the doctors could
not cure him. They sent for other doctors, but they could not
cure him, nor could any one say what he was suffering from,
beyond that he was wasting visibly before their eyes, and would
certainly become a shadow and disappear in air unless he was
healed and fattened and made visible.

They sent for more distant doctors, and then for others more
distant still, and at last they found a man who claimed that he
could make a cure if the king were supplied with the medicine
which he would order.

"What medicine is that?" said they all.

"This is the medicine," said the doctor. "Find a per-fectly white
cow with red ears, and boil it down in the lump, and if the king
drinks that rendering he will recover."

Before he had well said it messengers were going from the palace
in all directions looking for such a cow. They found lots of cows
which were nearly like what they wanted, but it was only by
chance they came on the cow which would do the work, and that
beast belonged to the most notorious and malicious and
cantankerous female in Lochlann, the Black Hag. Now the Black Hag
was not only those things that have been said; she was also
whiskered and warty and one-eyed and obstreperous, and she was
notorious and ill-favoured in many other ways also.

They offered her a cow in the place of her own cow, but she
refused to give it. Then they offered a cow for each leg of her
cow, but she would not accept that offer unless Fiachna went bail
for the payment. He agreed to do so, and they drove the beast
away.

On the return journey he was met by messengers who brought news
from Ireland. They said that the King of Ulster was dead, and
that he, Fiachna Finn, had been elected king in the dead king's
place. He at once took ship for Ireland, and found that all he
had been told was true, and he took up the government of Ulster.



CHAPTER VI

A year passed, and one day as he was sitting at judgement there
came a great noise from without, and this noise was so persistent
that the people and suitors were scandalised, and Fiachna at last
ordered that the noisy person should be brought before him to be
judged.

It was done, and to his surprise the person turned out to be the
Black Hag.

She blamed him in the court before his people, and complained
that he had taken away her cow, and that she had not been paid
the four cows he had gone bail for, and she demanded judgement
from him and justice.

"If you will consider it to be justice, I will give you twenty
cows myself," said Fiachna.

"I would not take all the cows in Ulster," she screamed.

"Pronounce judgement yourself," said the king, "and if I can do
what you demand I will do it." For he did not like to be in the
wrong, and he did not wish that any person should have an
unsatisfied claim upon him.

The Black Hag then pronounced judgement, and the king had to
fulfil it.

"I have come," said she, "from the east to the west; you must
come from the west to the east and make war for me, and revenge
me on the King of Lochlann."

Fiachna had to do as she demanded, and, although it was with a
heavy heart, he set out in three days' time for Lochlann, and he
brought with him ten battalions.

He sent messengers before him to Big Eolgarg warning him of his
coming, of his intention, and of the number of troops he was
bringing; and when he landed Eolgarg met him with an equal force,
and they fought together.

In the first battle three hundred of the men of Lochlann were
killed, but in the next battle Eolgarg Mor did not fight fair,
for he let some venomous sheep out of a tent, and these attacked
the men of Ulster and killed nine hundred of them.

So vast was the slaughter made by these sheep and so great the
terror they caused, that no one could stand before them, but by
great good luck there was a wood at hand, and the men of Ulster,
warriors and princes and charioteers, were forced to climb up the
trees, and they roosted among the branches like great birds,
while the venomous sheep ranged below bleating terribly and
tearing up the ground.

Fiachna Fi,m was also sitting in a tree, very high up, and he was
disconsolate.

"We are disgraced{" said he.

"It is very lucky," said the man in the branch below, "that a
sheep cannot climb a tree."

"We are disgraced for ever{" said the King of Ulster.

"If those sheep learn how to climb, we are undone surely," said
the man below.

"I will go down and fight the sheep," said Fiachna. But the
others would not let the king go.

"It is not right," they said, "that you should fight sheep."

"Some one must fight them," said Fiachna Finn, "but no more of my
men shall die until I fight myself; for if I am fated to die, I
will die and I cannot escape it, and if it is the sheep's fate to
die, then die they will; for there is no man can avoid destiny,
and there is no sheep can dodge it either."

"Praise be to god!" said the warrior that was higher up.

"Amen!' said the man who was higher than he, and the rest of the
warriors wished good luck to the king.

He started then to climb down the tree with a heavy heart, but
while he hung from the last branch and was about to let go, he
noticed a tall warrior walking towards him. The king pulled
himself up on the branch again and sat dangle-legged on it to see
what the warrior would do.

The stranger was a very tall man, dressed in a green cloak with a
silver brooch at the shoulder. He had a golden band about his
hair and golden sandals on his feet, and he was laughing heartily
at the plight of the men of Ireland.


CHAPTER VII

"It is not nice of you to laugh at us," said Fiachna Finn.

"Who could help laughing at a king hunkering on a branch and his
army roosting around him like hens?" said the stranger.

"Nevertheless," the king replied, "it would be courteous of you
not to laugh at misfortune."

"We laugh when we can," commented the stranger, "and are thankful
for the chance."

"You may come up into the tree," said Fiachna, "for I perceive
that you are a mannerly person, and I see that some of the
venomous sheep are charging in this direction. I would rather
protect you," he continued, "than see you killed; for," said he
lamentably, "I am getting down now to fight the sheep."

"They will not hurt me," said the stranger. "Who are you?" the
king asked.

"I am Mananna'n, the son of Lir."

Fiachna knew then that the stranger could not be hurt.

"What will you give me if I deliver you from the sheep?" asked
Manann,Sn.

"I will give you anything you ask, if I have that thing."

"I ask the rights of your crown and of your household for one
day."

Fiachna's breath was taken away by that request, and he took a
little time to compose himself, then he said mildly:

"I will not have one man of Ireland killed if I can save him. All
that I have they give me, all that I have I give to them, and if
I must give this also, then I will give this, although it would
be easier for me to give my life." "That is agreed," said
Mannana'n.

He had something wrapped in a fold of his cloak, and he unwrapped
and produced this thing.

It was a dog.

Now if the sheep were venomous, this dog was more venomous still,
for it was fearful to look at. In body it was not large, but its
head was of a great size, and the mouth that was shaped in that
head was able to open like the lid of a pot. It was not teeth
which were in that head, but hooks and fangs and prongs. Dreadful
was that mouth to look at, terrible to look into, woeful to think
about; and from it, or from the broad, loose nose that waggled
above it, there came a sound which no word of man could describe,
for it was not a snarl, nor was it a howl, although it was both
of these. It was neither a growl nor a grunt, although it was
both of these; it was not a yowl nor a groan, although it was
both of these: for it was one sound made up of these sounds, and
there was in it, too, a whine and a yelp, and a long-drawn
snoring noise, and a deep purring noise, and a noise that was
like the squeal of a rusty hinge, and there were other noises in
it also.

"The gods be praised!" said the man who was in the branch above
the king.

"What for this time?" said the king.

"Because that dog cannot climb a tree," said the man.

And the man on a branch yet above him groaned out "Amen !"

"There is nothing to frighten sheep like a dog," said Mananna'n,
"and there is nothing to frighten these sheep like this dog."

He put the dog on the ground then.

"Little dogeen, little treasure," said he, "go and kill the
sheep."

And when he said that the dog put an addition and an addendum on
to the noise he had been making before, so that the men of
Ireland stuck their fingers into their ears and turned the whites
of their eyes upwards, and nearly fell off their branches with
the fear and the fright which that sound put into them.

It did not take the dog long to do what he had been ordered. He
went forward, at first, with a slow waddle, and as the venomous
sheep came to meet him in bounces, he then went to meet them in
wriggles; so that in a while he went so fast that you could see
nothing of him but a head and a wriggle. He dealt with the sheep
in this way, a jump and a chop for each, and he never missed his
jump and he never missed his chop. When he got his grip he swung
round on it as if it was a hinge. The swing began with the chop,
and it ended with the bit loose and the sheep giving its last
kick. At the end of ten minutes all the sheep were lying on the
ground, and the same bit was out of every sheep, and every sheep
was dead.

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