Celtic Myths

by Flame Tree Studio

  The Farmer saw that he would be ruined by the Ploughman, and therefore said:

  “’Twas in the Màrt I sowed,

  ’Twas in the Màrt I baked,

  ’Twas in the Màrt I harrowed.

  Thou Who hast ordained the three Màrts,

  Let not my share go in one burden-withe.”

  Instantly the withe broke, and it made a loud report, which echo answered from every rock far and near. Then the corn spread over the field, and the Ploughman went away in a white mist in the skies, and was seen no more.

  Legends & Fables for Children

  Introduction

  The myths and legends told to children over the centuries were largely fictional, and they were developed to instil in children the kind of morality and superstition they would need to live a life of good fortune and good will. The legends were often violent, and many of the events that occurred were so frightening that a child would be shocked into a rigid belief, and good behaviour. For what child would not go straight to bed each night when he heard of the old fairy wife who comes with her brownie child? But there is a certain perverse morality there, too, designed to appeal to children. Bad mothers are punished, sometimes with death, and children can reign supreme in the fantasy world of the imagination. For when animals can talk, and a tall tale has a moral, anything is possible, and that magic is as strong today.

  The Little Bird

  A family once lived in the woods, a man and a woman with their three small children. Now two of these children were boys, but the third was a wee slight girl with a smile that lit the hearts of all who met her. Her face was fair and her eyes held the promise of many dreams, but her mother, who had no time for those dreams, threw up her hands in despair at her fairylike daughter.

  Their cottage was set deep in the woods, and it was a walk indeed to fetch milk from the farm down the hillock. But that wee slight girl was sent on that walk, with her mother’s good jug, every day from the time she could toddle, and so it was that she would make that walk again on this particular day.

  Now the girl had just counted five years, and on the table, laid there surely by the wee folk, was a bright shiny skipping rope, with handles as red as the flowers that gazed into the stream. And the girl wanted nothing more than to skip with that new rope, and to hold those red handles, but it was time, as it always was in the middle of the morning, to fetch the milk from the farm down the hillock.

  “Can I take my skipping-rope with me?” she asked, her eyes shining with excitement.

  But her mother, who had no time for that excitement, threw up her hands in despair at her fairylike daughter. “No, ye can’t,” she said sourly, and turned back to her cooking.

  “But I won’t spill the milk, Mummy, I promise,” said the wee girl.

  And because her mother was not the sort who liked a good chat, or indeed a wee girl with eyes that shone with the promise of dreams, she said tersely, “Well, then. Ye can take the skipping-rope, but if ye spills so much as a drop of the milk, I’ll kill ye.”

  And so it was that the little girl took her new skipping-rope, and skipped pertly down the lane, over the hillock to the farm, the milk jug clasped tightly in a hand that also clutched the shiny red handles of the skipping-rope. She stopped at the farm, and her jug was filled, and her skipping-rope admired, and away she went home again, skipping with the jug in one hand.

  But things being as they are with matters that involve milk jugs and skipping-ropes, it was not long before that jug was dropped and broken, and the wee girl sat sadly in its midst and sobbed.

  Now the girl was a familiar figure down this forest road, and soon enough a woman came along who recognized her, and who knew of the girl’s mother, who was a very stern woman indeed, having no time for the dreams that shone in the eyes of her wee lass. So this kindly woman took it upon herself to right the young thing, and she said to her then, “Now come along with me. I’ve got a jug just the twin of yours there.”

  Then the new jug was filled, and with her skipping rope folded carefully and tucked under an arm, the little girl went home without spilling even a drop of milk.

  But her mother, whose eyes shone not with dreams but with spite, said, “Where did ye get the jug?”

  And the little girl said, “It’s our jug, Mummy, just the same as ye gave me.”

  But she said, “No, this one is different. My jug had a blue stripe and this one has a red one.”

  And with that she killed the wee girl, wrapping that skipping-rope around her thin neck until she was blue and still, and then she baked her in a pie. And being near to dinnertime, it was not long before her father came in, and he asked for the wee girl, for he had a soft spot for her fairylike ways, and those eyes that shone with the promise of dreams reminded him of another wee child with those same bright eyes, and that child had been himself.

  His wife shook her head. “Och, she’s out playing, let her be.”

  “Should we not call her for her dinner?” asked her husband, surprised at this sudden leniency.

  “Na, let her go then.”

  So the man tucked into the pie, with morsels of meat so tender that he ate greedily. And then, as he cut into an even larger piece, he found a finger, with a small silver ring.

  He looked at his wife in horror, and he said, “This is my daughter’s ring. Why is she in this pie?”

  And his wife said then that she had killed her, for she’d broken their milk jug and spilled the milk.

  “Now what have you done?” he cried, and made as if to kill his wife himself. But now that the lass was gone there wouldn’t be a woman around the house to keep it spic and span, and to make great succulent pies, so he thought again, and said, “Och, I’ll let ye live.”

  When the two sons came in they too were distressed by the death of their wee sister, and none could eat his dinner that day.

  Time went by, and nothing changed in the cottage set deep in the woods, except they had a visitor, in the shape of a small brown bird, who peeped into the windows of the house for hours of each day, and who had eyes that shone with the promise of dreams. But with the windows misted with the heat of the fire, the boys and their father couldn’t see those eyes, and so they would shoo away the wee bird.

  But everyday, there it would be again, peeping in the windows of the house.

  By the time Christmas came round, the boys had grown to love the wee bird who sat on the sill, and they fed it with crumbs and bits of seed. They were doing just that, on Christmas Eve, when a voice startled them from their play. It boomed down the chimney and when the two boys reached the hearth it grew quieter, almost plaintive.

  “Brother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and so the first brother looked up and was met by a shower of toys and sweets.

  And then came the voice once again, “Brother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and when the next brother looked up, he too was met by a shower of toys and sweets.

  Then, “Father, Father, look up and see what I’ve got,” and down the chimney came a fine new suit, and a bag of tobacco, and as he was admiring that suit, a letter dropped down the chimney, and on it was written the words, “Open this letter two hours after Christmas night.”

  And into the silence came the voice once more, “Mother, look up and see what I’ve got,” and when the mother looked up she dropped upon her head a great stone and killed her dead.

  When the two hours had passed, the father opened the letter, which said, “Dear Father, this is your daughter. The spell is broken. Once I have killed my mother, I shall return on New Year’s Eve.”

  The days to New Year’s Eve passed slowly, and the father and his boys were filled with fear of what might greet them, for the wee girl had been long dead, and cut into a pie at that. But on that New Year’s Eve there was no sign of her, and they grew more and more worried and frightened. And then, there was a tap tap tap at the w
indow, a pecking sound that was familiar to them all.

  “Och, it’s only the wee bird,” said a brother to the other, but they opened the window anyhow, and prepared to feed it some crumbs. It was then that the bird hopped into the kitchen, and turning to them with eyes that shone with the promise of dreams, said, “It’s me, I’m home.”

  They all stood aghast, the father and his two boys, and then the father spoke tentatively, reaching out to stroke the smooth feathers of the little bird, “But you’re a bird now.”

  “Yes,” said the little bird, “but if you take my mother’s pinkie ring and give it to me now, I’ll come back as a girl.”

  This they did, though it meant digging up the body of the wicked mother from her newly turned grave. But they returned with the ring, and presented it to the bird, who turned at once into a little girl.

  And the girl drew herself up tall, and took the ring that had belonged to her mother, and the ring that had once been hers, and laid them safely away in a box, a reminder of what can happen to girls with skipping ropes, and mothers with no time for fairylike ways or dreams.

  The Fox, The Wolf and The Butter

  Long, long ago, when a fox could befriend a wolf without fear of becoming his midday meal, and when all animals and folk in the woods spoke Gaelic, there was a wee den set deep in the forest, and it was the home of a fox and a wolf who lived there together. Now this fox and this wolf were friends, and firm friends they were, but there would always be that shadow of mistrust that hung between them, for a fox is a wily creature, and it was then, too, even in the days when a fox could befriend a wolf without fear of becoming his midday meal.

  The fox and the wolf walked together each day, along the path overhung by fronded green firs, and over the hills, to the beach. And there they would comb the shores for debris that had blown in from the sea. Often it was, too, that they’d find a choice bit of fish for their dinner, or a bit of salt pork that had fallen over the side of a poor seaman’s ship.

  And so it was one day that they walked together, along the path overhung by fronded green firs, and over the hills to the beach. And there they came across a great cask of pure white butter, cold and creamy and freshly churned. And what delight lit their beady eyes, and their tongues fairly dripped with anticipation of this creamy treat, all cold and freshly churned. They danced about it then, and said to the other, “We’ll hide it now, till we get a chance to take it home.”

  And so the fox and the wolf struggled with this great cask, up the hill and partway along that path overhung by fronded green firs, where they dug a great hole and buried it. And then they went home.

  When they woke the next morning, the wolf yawned, and licked his lips, and thought of all that lovely pure white butter, and he said to the fox, “Shall we bring it a little further today?”

  But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away today.”

  The wolf looked surprised. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

  So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, and he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

  “So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What name was the babe given?” asked the wolf.

  “We called him Mu Bheul (About the Mouth),” said the fox, to which the wolf nodded sagely.

  The fox and wolf settled down for the night, and the next morning the fox rose and made as if to leave. Now it was one thing for the fox to set out alone of a morning, but quite another for him to do it twice, and the wolf felt a funny kind of suspicion, as the shadow of mistrust that hung between them grew ever so slightly larger.

  And he said to the fox, “Shall we bring it a little further today, the cask of butter?”

  But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away today.”

  The wolf looked wary. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

  So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, and he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

  “So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What name was the babe given today?” asked the wolf.

  “We called him Mu Leth (About Half),” said he.

  “I see,” said the wolf, although he didn’t, and as he settled down for the night he felt that shadow of mistrust growing larger still.

  But the wolf wakened fresh and ready for the day, the thought of all that pure, creamy butter making him salivate. And he stood and stretched, and looked for his friend, the fox. But he was not there. So he looked around, outside the den, and the fox was just setting off down the path overhung by fronded green firs, and he called out then, “Fox, where are you going? Shall we bring it a little further today, the cask of butter?”

  But the fox shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, “not today. I am going away again today.”

  The wolf just looked. “Where are you going today?” he asked.

  “I am going,” said the fox, “to a Christening. And then I’ll be back.”

  So the fox went off and he was gone for near a whole day. And when he came back he was smiling and content, licking his chops and smacking his lips. And he laid himself down on a cosy bit of the den as if to sleep.

  “So you’re back,” said the wolf to the fox.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What name was the babe given today?” asked the wolf.

  “We called him Sgrìobadgh a’ Mhàis (Scraping the Bottom),” said he.

  “I see,” said the wolf, although he didn’t again, and as he settled down for the night that shadow of mistrust was firmly between them.

  But he woke again the next morning fresh and hungry, and the thought of that creamy butter made him nearly swoon with expectation. And he said to the fox, his tongue dripping so that he could hardly speak, “Shall we get it today, the cask of butter we hid?”

  And the fox said, “Yes indeed.”

  And so it was that the fox and the wolf set off down the path, overhung by fronded green firs, almost to the hills whereupon lay the shore. And they reached the spot where the great cask of butter was hidden, cold, creamy and freshly churned. They uncovered it then, and lifting off the lid, eager for a succulent pawful, they discovered it ... empty.

  It was awful. They jigged and railed and danced a furious reel round that empty cask. And the fox was so puzzled, and so too was the wolf, for neither knew who had taken their butter.

  “Well,” said the fox at last, when they lay down spent from their angry dance, “this is very queer. For not another creature knew of this cask but you and I, dear wolf. And this terribly queer affair means only one thing to me, and that is this: that it was you or me who took that butter. And that is what I think:

  If I ate the butter, and it was I

  Chiorram chiotam, chiorram, chatam, chiorram chiù

  But if you ate the butter and it was you,

  A galling plague on your grey belly in the dust.”

  There was no great harm in the curse of the fox, for his words were empty, but the curse he had laid on the wolf was poison indeed, for his belly was empty and the butter was gone.

  The Ainsel

  Deep in the heart of the Border country, where the wind howls with cold, lived a wee boy called Parcie. He lived with his mother in a small, snug cottage where the fire burned bright and bathed the stone clad walls in a soft, cosy glow. They lived alone there for his father was long since gone, but they managed with little, living simply and happily among
the trees and the wood folk who inhabited them.

  Now like most small boys, Parcie plotted all day in order to avoid being sent to bed each night. He longed to sit by the hearth with his mother, watching the burning embers cast intriguing shadows which danced and performed a story that seemed to Parcie like it could go on forever. But each night it was cut short, as was the sound of his mother’s mellifluous voice as she sang to him of fairies and sea-folk, and told of stories and legends of long ago. For it was it at this point that Parcie’s mother would close up her bag of mending.

  “It’s time for your bed, Parcie,” she would say, always the same thing, and Parcie would be packed neatly into his tiny box-bed where the fairies had laid a nest of golden slumberdust so potent that his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep as soon as his head touched his soft pillow. And there he’d sleep all the night, until the next morning he struggled to hatch a plan to stay awake all night, to carry on and on the drowsy contentment of the evening.

  But one night Parcie’s tired mother could argue no further and when the fire began to sink down into black-red embers, and she said,

  “It’s time for your bed, Parcie” he would not go. And so she picked up her mending, and tidied it away, setting a bowl of cool, fresh cream by the doorstep as she went along the corridor to her own bed.