Myths and Legends of the Celts (Penguin Reference)

by James MacKillop

  While grieving for a wife named Maignis, Fionn complains that a man alone cannot sleep well and so goes in search of a new mate. His retainers tell him of the lovely Gráinne, daughter of King Cormac mac Airt, who is reported willing, if he can only prove a worthy son-in-law. Fionn succeeds, but at the betrothal feast Gráinne is disappointed to see that her prospective husband is older than her father. Her eye travels to other members of the party, first Oisín, who rebuffs her, and then to dark, curly-haired Diarmait Ua Duibne, with whom she is soon smitten. In versions of the story in oral tradition Gráinne cannot resist Diarmait’s mysterious ball seirce [love spot], which he usually keeps modestly covered with a cap. Listeners familiar with Fenian stories would know two of Diarmait’s aspects without their being explained in this text. One is that he is Fionn’s favourite among the Fianna, and the other that he must constantly be on the lookout for a wild boar, the transformed spirit of a murdered half-brother. Taking the initiative, Gráinne slips a sleeping potion to all present except Diarmait, whom she entices to run away with her. When he delays out of loyalty to Fionn, she threatens him with a geis of destruction, and so, somewhat shrug-shouldered, he follows her. The lovers flee to a forest across the Shannon River, where Diarmait builds a dwelling with seven doors. Fionn and the Fianna are upon the couple in no time, but the men restrain their leader’s hunger for vengeance. Oisín sends two warnings to the lovers, but Diarmait ignores both. Instead he plants three kisses on Gráinne’s compliant mouth in full view of the enraged Fionn. At this the lovers, aided by Diarmait’s patron Angus Óg, the god of poetry, envelop themselves in a cloak of invisibility and make a magical escape in one bold leap over the heads of Fionn and the Fianna.

  The route of the fugitive lovers takes them to all corners of the Gaelic world, in Ireland and Scotland. The fever of the chase does not quickly light Diarmait’s passions, however, which may be restrained by a reserve of respect for Fionn. This disappoints Gráinne. When they are crossing a stream, some water splashes her leg, prompting her taunt that it is more daring than he. Not long afterwards their love is consummated, and soon Gráinne is with child. The pregnancy causes Gráinne to crave the red berries of the rowan tree retrieved from Tír Tairngire [the land of promise] – now found in the forest of Dubros in Co. Sligo – and guarded by a one-eyed surly troll named Searbhán. This ugly ogre, skilled in magical arts, is a formidable guard of the berries, but Diarmait learns how to turn his own weapon, an iron club, against him. Both mother- and father-to-be feast on the berries, finding those on the highest branch to be the most delicious.

  While Diarmait is aloft, Fionn and the pursuing fianna come to rest under the very same rowan tree. The men try to relax by playing the chess-like board-game of fidchell. Looking down, undetected, Diarmait sees that his ally Oisín is getting the worst of the match with Fionn. The skilful lover then aims berries toward specific points on the board, indicating the best next move, and so determines the outcome of three successive matches. Recognizing how the games have been won, Fionn demands that Diarmait show himself. In complying, though, Diarmait gives Gráinne three more kisses before Angus Óg can spirit her off to his residence at Brug na Bóinne in the Boyne valley. Diarmait once more escapes by leaping over the heads of his pursuers.

  The lovers retreat to safety at Céis Chorrain [Keshcorran], Co. Sligo, where they rear four or five children and live peacefully. Diarmait easily turns back further attempts to capture them. In some versions Fionn contents himself with another of Cormac’s daughters, but in most he still longs for his betrothed. Eventually, Angus Óg negotiates a peace between the chieftain and the pursued, and so the fugitive lovers can come to rest, almost like a settled domestic couple. One night Diarmait’s sleep is troubled by the cry of a hound on the scent, a beckoning to return to the chase. Ignoring Gráinne’s warning of the implicit danger, he leaves his bed to join the hunt with his former comrades. Fionn has organized a boar hunt near Ben Bulben in Sligo. In some versions Fionn warns Diarmait of his geis never to hunt pig; in others he is silent. The old chieftain certainly knows the danger to Diarmait, which would deliver a widowed Gráinne to her betrothed, but the young man is also a warrior who had been nearly a surrogate son. Diarmait knows what he is entering upon but happily rejoins his brothers-in-arms. But the hunt does not go well: Diarmait’s arms are useless. The boar charges Diarmait as all expect and gores him mortally. This leads to Fionn’s most odious scene in the story. Standing over the wounded Diarmait, Fionn gloats that all the women of Ireland should see him now that his beauty has been so sullied. Nearly breathless, Diarmait nonetheless reminds his old captain that he has the power to heal this grievous wound by carrying water in his magical hands. Fionn’s grandson Oscar seconds this plea for help, with which Fionn reluctantly complies. Finding water nearby, he cups his hands to carry a quantity back to the stricken Diarmait, but when he arrives it has all drained away. This half-hearted attempt to save the rival is repeated twice more until, at last, Diarmait succumbs.

  The remainder of the story is told in many ways. Sometimes Gráinne exhorts her sons to wreak vengeance upon Fionn. In others she wears widow’s weeds, mourning Diarmait until her own death. In still others – the versions that remain popular with English-language adapters of the story – she is reconciled with Fionn. Stories from oral tradition portray Gráinne harshly as a lewd woman, unworthy of Diarmait’s chastity. In the Fenian ballads surviving in the seventeenth-century collection Duanaire Finn, Gráinne puts aside her disgust with Fionn’s age and his vile treatment of Diarmait, and embraces him in marriage.

  COLLOQUY OF THE OLD MEN

  Fionn’s death date of 283 AD is a fiction, of course, but a useful one. While Fenian lore was a part of a living literary tradition, both written and oral, stories about him at different stages of his life, or as a splendid hero, a clown or an oaf, might be told side by side. By barely spoken convention, all the stories about him are happening in the third century, before the advent of Christianity and literacy. The date for St Patrick’s arrival, 432 AD, may be a pious contrivance, but the organized preaching of the Gospels can be demonstrated to have begun in Ireland in the fifth century. The actual date for the beginning of Fenian storytelling is impossible to name, but the early years of the cycle unmistakably coexisted with the rise of what we now call Celtic Christianity, forms of monastic discipline not regulated by the Bishop of Rome. At some time in the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, a time of great literary flowering all over Europe, an unnamed churchman set himself toward a reconciliation between the old heroic tradition and the new learning, as well as between Fionn the warrior-hunter and Fionn the poet. The result is Acallam na Senórach [colloquy/dialogue of the elders/ ancients]. Inspired by the innovating tendencies of his century, the author drew heavily upon volumes of the traditional lore, especially the codified lore of places known as the Dindshenchas, as well as history, lyric poetry, ballad and learned poetry and Christian commentary.

  The interface of Christian practice and pre-Christian or ‘pagan’ heroic lore is not the only aspect that makes the Acallam unusual. Although composed by a single personality, the narrative was copied extensively in different manuscripts, with additions and emendations, all the way down to the nineteenth century. In Modern Irish it is known as Agallamh na Seanórach. None of these manuscripts is ever complete, as they nearly always lack an end and often lack a beginning. Seemingly set in the twelfth-century present, Acallam gives us a 700-year-old St Patrick, very much an ‘ancient’ himself, who contends with 900-year-old warriors of a lost ethos. As for the Fenian protagonists, Caílte mac Rónáin, the runner and steward, and Oisín, they represent what Joseph Nagy (1997) calls a ‘fortuitous glitch in time’, disseminating a once lost, now recovered, lore. He adds, ‘Caílte and his companions transcend time and sequence, paralleling the innumerable anachronistic references which they and the text make…’ Among the most important of these is knowing the location of Mellifont Abbey (founded 1142), a vanguard in twelfth-century reforms.
Surprising also is the author’s favouring of Caílte as the Fenian spokesman while Oisín, nominally a leading companion, sometimes disappears from the scene. Later oral tradition, of course, much prefers Oisín.

  The narrative begins with a pseudo-historical paragraph describing the several catastrophic battles that nearly annihilated the fianna and left them scattered into groups and bands all over Ireland. Only two leading warriors survive, Caílte and Oisín, along with the female chief and custodian, Cáma, who had watched over Fionn from childhood until the day he died. The comrades-in-arms repair to Cáma’s residence for three days and three nights before they begin their journey, each accompanied by nine retainers. It takes them to Druim Derg, possibly Fionn’s burial mound, and the plain between the Boyne and Liffey rivers, where they encounter St Patrick, who is chanting the divine office and praising the Creator. The clerics with Patrick are initially horrified at the size of the old Fenian fighters and their hounds, but the saint calms matters by bringing out his aspergill to shake holy water on the giants, driving away the devils that had been hovering about.

  Conversation begins graciously between pagan and Christian. Over 200 anecdotes of the past are shared. Caílte, it is remembered, had led Patrick to the spring suitable for baptizing the peoples of nearby north Dublin and Meath. At all times Caílte is unwavering in allegiance to Fionn. When Patrick asks if the lord he served was a good man, the old Fenian answers in verse:

  Were but the brown leaf,

  Which the wood sheds from it gold,

  Were but the white billows silver,

  Fionn would have given it all away.

  Despite Patrick’s anxieties about the distraction from prayer that listening to stories requires, he cautiously smiles and repeats the phrase, ‘May victory and blessing attend you.’ His guardian angels soothe his fear when they appear to tell him that the ancient warriors can tell no more than a third of their stories because of their forgetfulness and lack of memory. To delight noblemen of later times who might listen, what is remembered should be written on poets’ staves and in learned men’s words.

  Patrick and Caílte begin their peregrinations around Ireland, first to the south and then to the west. Oisín takes a different route, going north to find his mother. As they pass, Caílte narrates the lore of place, linking myth and legend with specific sites. The old warrior’s ability to cite the older place-name than the one now in use may reflect the contemporary unease that the Normans were displacing earlier strata of civilization. They complete this circuit at Tara, then the court of the ard rí Diarmait mac Cerbaill, leader of the Uí Néill, and reputedly the last pagan monarch of Ireland. Oisín has arrived separately before them. Together they attend the Feast of Tara, currently in progress, where the Fenian comrades relate the brave deeds of earlier times.

  Time after time, the pagan-saint dialogue serves as a frame to introduce stories of the Fianna. Both prose and verse passages have an almost Arthurian flavour, especially with repeated mention of the generosity of Fionn. A discernible anti-clerical humour often portrays Saint Patrick as a bigot, predicting the doom of hell for the Fenians. On the whole, the temper of the Acallam is cheerful, despite Caílte’s decrepitude, loneliness and laments for the vanished heroic past.

  OISÍN AND NIAM

  The tale of Oisín’s sojourn in a pleasure-filled otherworld seems barely connected to the rest of the cycle, although always one of the most popular of Fenian narratives, a staple of Irish and Scottish Gaelic storytellers until the nineteenth century. In the earliest manuscript version, the tale is structured to look like a double of the Acallam na Senórach. An aged Oisín is in a dialogue with St Patrick, explaining how he has reached this state of infirmity. But Oisín the lover cannot be seen as an extrapolation of the persona he projects in most Fenian stories in general or the Acallam in particular. Some of the story’s popularity and free-standing independence can be explained in noting that it is a blend of two international tale types, 470 and 766, and embraces fully five folk motifs, of which D1338.7 is the extended stay in the land of youth. Along with these persistent appeals to the popular imagination, Oisín’s tale benefits by having been smoothed into a more polished format during the eighteenth century. Micheál Coimín [Michael Comyn] (1688–1760) was a member of the Protestant ascendancy with a deep regard for Irish-language tradition, unusual in his caste. His Laoi Oisín i dTír na nÓg [Lay of Oisín in the Land of Youth] (c.1750) is written in Modern Irish, where the fairy lover’s name is spelled Niamh, employing the archaic, accentual metre known as amhrán. Coimín’s Laoi was not translated into English for a hundred years but inspired several elegant adaptations, such as W. B. Yeats’s first long poem, ‘The Wanderings of Oisín’ (1889).

  One day a feeble, blind old man is taken to St Patrick, weakened in body but strong in spirit. He scorns the doctrines of the newcomers and sings the praises of the code of honour and way of life of the fianna. His claim to be Oisín son of Fionn mac Cumhaill looks doubtful to Patrick as more than a span of a full human life has elapsed since the old leader’s death. To convince the saint of his veracity, Oisín relates the following tale.

  After the defeat of the fianna at what is now Garristown in north Co. Dublin, Fionn, Oisín and a few others retreat to Lough Lein [Killarney] in Co. Kerry, a favourite haunt. They have much to lament. Most poignant is the slaughter of Fionn’s favourite grandson, Oscar, Oisín’s son. Fionn weeps. The beauty of the countryside suggests a means of raising the men’s spirits: they will take their hounds on a hunt. They soon espy a young, hornless doe bounding through the forest with the dogs in barking pursuit. Hot on the trail, the men come upon an arresting vision. Instead of a deer it is a beautiful young woman galloping toward them on a nimble white horse. Her startling loveliness suggests something above the human: her gold crown and shining golden hair hanging in loops over her shoulders. Her luxurious cloak, brightened with gold-embroidered stars, hangs down over the silk trappings of her horse. More alluring still is her face: her eyes as clear and blue as a May sky, her glowing white skin and her mouth as sweet as honeyed wine. A silver wreath adorns the horse’s head, and gold glints from the saddle and even from its hoofs. Who had ever seen a finer horse? She identifies herself as Niam Chinn Óir [of the golden hair], daughter of the king of Tír na nÓg. Fionn asks if she has left a husband and why she has come. She has refused many suitors, she explains, because she desires only Oisín, son of Fionn, renowned for his handsomeness and sweet nature.

  Silent until this point, Oisín is initially thunderstruck but then clearly pleased. He agrees to marry her, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She wants not only marriage but for him to come away with her to Tír na nÓg, where he will never grow ill or old, and where he can never die. There he will be crowned and enjoy every imaginable pleasure, food and wine in abundance, fine silks, powerful weapons and jewellery. Tall trees bend low with fruit. Hundreds of gorgeous maidens will sing his praises, and a hundred brave warriors will follow his every command. He will still be able to hunt, accompanied by a hundred keen hunting dogs. And he will have Niam for his wife.

  Tír na nÓg lies to the west. On his journey there with Niam, Oisín encounters an ugly giant carrying a load of deerskins. They struggle for three days and three nights, but, powerful and threatening as the giant is, Oisín overcomes him. Such victory ensures a triumphant welcome for Oisín in Tír na nÓg, with the award of Niam as his consort. In embrace Niam is all the lover her appearance had implied. Their union produces three children, a daughter and two sons, one of them named for the slain Oscar.

  All the wealth, comfort and pleasure does not, however, prevent Oisín from feeling a small measure of homesickness. He longs to see Fionn and his companions again. Niam’s father grants his wish to visit his home, but Niam is perturbed by her husband’s longing. She tells him she will refuse him nothing but fears he may never return to her. He reassures her by reminding her that the white horse knows the way back, and he’s really only going to look aroun
d. Consenting, she gives him a sterner warning. He should never dismount from his horse when he is back in mortal Ireland. If his foot so much as touches the ground there, he will never be able to return to Tír na nÓg. Lastly, sobbing, she tells him he will never be able to see Fionn again, only a crowd of sour-faced monks and holy men. As he mounts his horse, she kisses him and tells him he will never come back to her or the land of youth.

  What Oisín does not quite comprehend is that while he feels he has been in Tír na nÓg only long enough to start a family, it has been 300 years in the lives of earthbound mortals. His white horse takes him to Ireland swiftly, and he arrives in high spirits. They begin to dissipate when he interviews the people he finds there. They all know stories of Fionn mac Cumhaill, more than they could begin to tell. Not only have they never seen Fionn or any Fenians up close, but they perceive Oisín to be a giant, a curiosity. He proceeds to the Hill of Allen in Leinster and finds it a bare hill, overgrown with nettles, chickweed and ragwort. The heartbreaking but unmistakable news can no longer be denied: Fionn is dead, and there is no trace of his companions to be found anywhere.

  Moving on to Glenasmole in County Dublin, favourite hunting ground of the fianna, he answers the shouts of some sturdy men nearby who are trying to lift a heavy stone into a wagon. The name of the glen means ‘Valley of the Ember’, and it lies at the headwaters of the Dodder River, a modest body of water cited in many early Irish stories. As he stoops to help them, the girth around the horse’s belly snaps and Oisín falls to the ground. As Niam had predicted, he is immediately transformed into a very old man, looking all of his 300 years. The crowd of mortals watch in horror because on horseback Oisín had towered over them. Now he lies at their feet, helpless and hopeless, a spent, blind old man.