For three years or so, when I was between five and nine years old, my father had moved us to a fairly isolated country cottage where he pounded on a large black Remington Standard typewriter, which was so heavy that I could not even begin to lift it. He produced short stories, some serials and articles for a variety of newspapers and magazines. There was no electricity in the cottage and I grew well acquainted with the warmth and light of oil lamps.
To reach the nearest village, it was a stroll across three fields and a bridge over a gushing stream, and then a walk of about three miles along a narrow country road, for the bus passed only once every hour. I walked it often, sometimes insisting on being allowed to carry the empty “accumulator” – the glass battery which ran the radio – and then trying to avoid carrying back the full one. So there was plenty of time for telling tales on such walks as well as on the dark winter’s evenings.
Myths and legends were a staple fare. I remember one of my sisters adapting stories into little plays, which we would put on in a nearby disused barn for the entertainment of the other local children.
This is a long way round to saying that when I grew up, being the youngest, I had no one, in my turn, to tell the stories to and this is probably why I turned to writing them instead.
Because of my father, I grew up with stories of Irish myth and legend as part of the staple fare, so that retelling them is second nature. Our home was also full of books of such tales. I suppose Thomas Crofton Croker (1790–1854), from my father’s home county of Cork, made retelling of Irish myths and legends in English popular. He produced Researches in the South of Ireland (1824) and Fairy Legends & Traditions of South West Ireland (1825), which caused the famous Brothers Grimm to translate the latter into German as Irische Elfenmärchen.
Lady Jane Wilde, the mother of Oscar, was an assiduous collector and her Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland was published in 1887. Jeremiah Curtin’s Myths and Folklore of Ireland (1890) was always a popular book on our shelves, but never replaced Lady Augusta Gregory’s Cuchulain of Muithemne (1902) and Gods and Fighting Men (1904).
Perhaps the most qualified and capable folklorist was Douglas Hyde, who became the first president of the Irish Free State in 1937 under its new constitution. His collections of oral traditions have become classics, such as Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta (1889), Beside the Fire (1890) and Love Songs of Connacht (1893). His magnum opus was, however, a Literary History of Ireland (1899), the first general survey of Irish literature from ancient times.
Dr Hyde laid the groundwork for many who came later and who have added important contributions to such studies. Myles Dillon’s The Cycles of the Kings, Oxford University Press, 1946, and Early Irish Literature, University of Chicago, 1948. The impressive Professor Thomas O’Rahilly’s Early Irish History and Mythology, Dublin Institute of Advanced Studies, 1946. Alwyn and Brinsley Rees’s Celtic Heritage, Thames and London, 1961. These were some of the many titles which impressed me in sorting out the original fabric of the Irish tales.
The following stories are an amalgamation from many sources and varied versions. The first two are in the Leabhar Gabhála, The Book of Invasions. It contains the stories of the mythical invasions of Cesair, before the Deluge, through to the invasions of Partholón, Nemed, the Firbolg, the Tuatha Dé Danaan and finally the Milesian ancestors of the Gaels. It is regarded as the “national epic” of Ireland.
To this “Mythological Cycle” belongs the stories of The Sons of Tuirenn and The Children of Lir. The Sons of Tuirenn appears as Aided Chlainne Tuirenn and there is much spelling confusion of the name, which appears as Tuireall and Tuirill, and also uncertainty as to the identity of Tuirenn. In one text he is described as Danu’s father; in another, her husband; while the goddess Brigid is also placed in this role. The narrative Oidheadh Chlainne Lir (The Tragic Fate of the Children of Lir) survives from a fifteenth-century text and has always been one of my favourite tales. The Love of Fand is based on Serglige Con Culainn, belonging to the Red Branch Cycle, also known as the Ulster Cycle; this is heroic myth comparable to the Iliad in theme and heroic tone, of which the most famous story is the saga of the Táin Bó Cuailnge (The Cattle Raid of Cuailnge).
Lochlann’s Son belongs to the Fenian Cycle, sometimes called the Ossianic Cycle, concerning the deeds of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his Fianna warriors, whose first bold synthesis appeared as a cohesive whole in the twelfth-century Accamh na Senórach (Colloquy of the Ancients). The stories are dated to the third century AD. Next to the Táin, the Fenian Cycle is one of the longest medieval compositions and became very popular with ordinary people during that period.
It was from the Fenian Cycle that many Arthurian stories were later embellished. Although there are nearly a dozen original Arthurian sagas in Irish, the Arthurian stories never displaced stories of Fionn Mac Cumhaill in medieval Irish popular imagination.
The Poet’s Curse concerns historical personages in Mongán and the poet Dallán Forgaill. A discussion of the earliest surviving medieval texts of the story was made by Dr Eleanor Knott in Eriu 8, pp. 155-60. Dalian Forgaill is, by tradition, the author of Amra Choluim Chille, composed c. 600 AD, and is considered one of the oldest survivals in Irish literature.
Finally, Cellachain of Cashel is based on several stories I heard in West Cork in my youth and which I have cross-referenced to a couple of surviving medieval texts: Senchas Fagnála Caisil andso sis agus Beandacht Ríg, a fifteenth-century fragmentary story The Finding of Cashel, preserved in Trinity College, Dublin, and Caithreim Cheallachain Chaisil (The battle-career of Ceallachan of Cashel), written in the twelfth century. It was commissioned by Cormac III MacCarthy of Cashel, some time between 1127–38, and written at Cashel.
The oldest copy, dating to the twelfth century, is in the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin. These are some of the impressive texts that survive from the patronage of the Eóghanacht royal dynasty, who were kings of Munster and later Desmond, reigning from Cashel. The last regnate Eóghanacht king was Donal IX MacCarthy Mór (d. 1596).
Sadly, during this time, Sir George Carew, representing Elizabeth of England, set out not only to destroy native government in Munster but all Irish manuscripts. Many of these old manuscripts were cut up, on his orders, to make covers for English language primers. Many great works were probably destroyed, judging from that which has survived.
The aisling or vision tale, The Vision of Tnugdal, a Cashel warrior, was written in 1149 at Ratisbon (Regensburg) by an Irish monk named Marcus, carrying on the Munster literary traditions. The saga enjoyed great fame in Europe and, as well as an Irish text, some 154 manuscripts of the Latin text dating from the twelfth to the nineteenth centuries have been found in Europe, plus translations into Anglo-Norman, Belorussian, Catalan, Dutch, English, French, German, Icelandic, Italian, Portuguese, Provençal, Serbo-Croat, Spanish and Swedish.
My attempt to rescue one part of the epic of Cellachain, hopefully, puts the kingdom of Munster in its rightful place as having produced a literature equal with the Red Branch Cycle of Ulster. It is my hope that much more of that literature will be recovered.
2 The Sons of Tuirenn
No one knew the reason of the feud between the sons of Cainte and the sons of Tuirenn. Perhaps it had its roots in a sharp word, some affront to honour, but the result was that the three sons of Cainte and the three sons of Tuirenn had sworn to shed each other’s blood, should they ever meet with one another.
So it came about that the eldest son of Cainte, Cian, whose name means “the enduring one”, was crossing the great plain of Muirthemne, on his way to join the Children of Danu at Magh Tuireadh, for the news was that a great battle was being fought against the Fomorii. Cian was alone, for his two brothers, Cú and Céthen, had gone on before him.
It was as he was on the open plain, some way from any shelter, that he saw three warriors heading towards him. Standing tall in his chariot, Cian narrowed his eyes to examine them. There was no mistaking the grim visage of Brían, whose na
me means “exalted one”, and his brothers Iuchar and Iucharba.
Now Cian realized, because he was outnumbered, that discretion was the better part of valour. But there was no cover on the plain, except for a herd of pigs feeding. Being one of the children of Danu, Cian took a Druid wand and changed his shape into that of a pig, also causing his chariot and horses to be likewise transformed.
Brían, son of Tuirenn, chieftain of Ben Eadair, paused and stared across the plain. “Brothers,” he said, turning to Iuchar and Iucharba, “wasn’t there a proud warrior crossing the plain, a moment ago?”
They affirmed that their brother was right.
Brían saw the herd of pigs and he realized that the warrior must have shape-changed. If this were so, then the warrior was no friend to the sons of Tuirenn. Now Brían realised that the herd of pigs belonged to Nuada himself and, if he and his brothers harmed them, Nuada would punish them. So he took his own Druid wand and touched his brothers lightly. Iuchar and Iucharba were changed into two great hounds and straightaway, baying eagerly, they made for the herd, keen noses to the ground.
Cian realized that the hounds would sniff him out and so, still in the shape of a pig, he made a break from the herd. But Brían was standing ready and cast his spear through the pig shape. Cian screamed in agony.
“I am Cian, son of Cainte, and I plead for quarter,” cried the pig.
Brían, now joined by his brothers in their true shapes, stood before the bleeding pig.
“No quarter!” snapped Brían. “We have all sworn an oath that none would survive our encounters, should the sons of Cainte and the sons of Tuirenn meet.”
“Then grant me a last request,” cried Cian in resignation. “Let me resume my human form before you kill me.”
This Brían granted.
Cian smiled triumphantly at him. “You may kill me now but remember this, sons of Tuirenn; had you killed me as a pig, your punishment would have only been the eric fine paid on the unlawful slaughter of a pig. Since you now kill me as a man, then you will have to pay the eric fine of a man. Moreover, as I am Cian the enduring, the son of Cainte, and the father of Lugh of the Long Hand, the punishment that shall be exacted will be great. Even the weapons with which you kill me shall cry out in horror at this deed.”
Brían thought for a while, for it was true that Cian was one of the Children of Danu. Then he smiled sneeringly at Cian. “Then it shall not be with weapons you will be killed, but with stones of the earth.”
So saying, he threw aside his weapons and picked up some stones and hurled them in hate at Cian. He was joined by his brothers and stone after stone flew until Cian was a disfigured and unrecognisable mess of a man. Then the brothers dug a grave and buried the battered body. But six times the earth refused to cover the corpse before, at the seventh time of burying, the earth accepted the body.
Yet as Brían and his brothers rode away, they heard a voice calling from beneath the earth: “The blood is on your hands, sons of Tuirenn, and there it will remain until we meet again.”
The sons of Tuirenn distinguished themselves in the great Battle of the Plain of Towers, in which Bres and the Fomorii were defeated. But everyone remarked that Cian was absent from the battle, which was strange, as it was Cian’s own son who had taken over the leadership of the Children of Danu when Nuada had been killed by the Fomorii, Balor of the Evil Eye. So, after a fruitless search, Lugh Lámhfada finally came to the Plain of Muirthemne and, as he was travelling across it, the stones of the earth started to speak.
“Here lies the body of your father Cian! Killed by the sons of Tuirenn. Blood on their hands, until they meet with Cian again!”
Lugh had his father’s body disinterred and he called his companions together, that they might see how the deed was done. And Lugh swore vengeance. Lugh sang a lament over the body:
Cian’s death, death of a great champion,
Has left me as a walking corpse
Without a soul,
Without strength, without power,
Without a feeling for life.
The Sons of Tuirenn have killed him
Now my hatred will come against them
And follow them to the ends of the world.
And Lugh buried his father’s body with all pomp and ceremony and went back to the great hall of Tara, where he summoned all the people. Even the sons of Tuirenn were among them but Lugh kept his counsel. Instead, he asked those among the gods what they would do to take vengeance on those who had, with malice, slaughtered their fathers.
Each of the gods suggested ways, increasingly more horrible and more bloody, as a means of punishment. And when the last of them had spoken, the assembly roared its approval. Lugh saw that the sons of Tuirenn, not wishing to be conspicuous in the throng, were also applauding.
Then Lugh, with a scowl on his usually sunny countenance, spoke up. “The murderers of Cian have condemned themselves, for they have joined in the agreement of you all as to their punishment. But I am merciful. I will not spill blood in Tara. I claim the right to put an eric fine on the murderers. If they refuse to accept it, then they must meet me, one after the other, in bloody single combat at the door of Tara’s Hall.”
All the while he spoke he was looking at the sons of Tuirenn.
Then Brían moved forward. “It is known there was enmity between us and your father and his brothers Cú and Céthen. Your words seem addressed to us, but Cian was not killed by any weapons of the sons of Tuirenn. Nevertheless, to show that we are honourable, each one of us will accept your eric fine.”
Lugh smiled grimly. “You will not find it difficult. I wish for three apples, the skin of a pig, a spear, two horses and a chariot, seven swine, a hound-pup, a cooking spit and three shouts to be delivered on a hill.”
Not only the sons of Tuirenn stood amazed but the entire assembly could not believe their ears at the little Lugh demanded in compensation for his father’s death. The sons of Tuirenn were visibly relieved and clamoured to accept the fine.
“If you think it is too heavy,” Lugh added, “I will not press the fine.”
“We do not consider it heavy,” replied Brían. “In fact, it seems so light that I suspect some trickery. Are you intending to increase the sum?”
“I swear by our mother, Danu, the divine waters, that the fine will not be increased. And in return for this oath, do you swear you will faithfully complete the eric fine?”
They did so, with mighty acclaim.
“Very well,” Lugh chuckled grimly, after they had sworn. “The three apples must come from the Garden of Hesperides in the East. They are of gold in colour and have immense power and virtue. They are as big as the head of a month-old child and never grow less, no matter how much is eaten from them. They have the taste of honey and a bite will cure a sick or wounded man. A warrior can perform any feat with one for, once cast from his hand, it will return to him.”
The sons of Tuirenn looked thunderstruck.
“The skin of the pig is that owned by Tuis, king of Greece. In whatever stream that pig walked, the water turned to wine, and the wounded and sick became well when they drank of it. These magical properties are enshrouded in that skin.”
The sons of Tuirenn began to look grim.
“The spear is that which belongs to Pisear of Persia, and it is called ‘slaughterer’. It has to be kept in a cauldron of blood to prevent it killing, for only blood cools its angry blade.”
Lugh paused, but the sons of Tuirenn now stood expressionless as they realised the trap that he had set for them.
“The steeds and chariot which I require are those belonging to Dobhar of Siogair. If one of the horses are killed, it will come to life again, if its bones are brought together in the same place.
“The seven swine are those of Easal, King of the Golden Pillars, which, though killed each day for the feast, are found alive the following morning. The hound pup is Failinis, owned by the king of Ioruiadh. The wild beasts are helpless before her. The cooking spit I want is
that from the island of Fianchuibhe, which is protected by mighty women warriors. And the hill on which you must give three shouts is that of Miodchaoin in Lochlainn, which is constantly guarded by Miodchaoin and his three fierce sons, Aedh, Corca and Conn. Their task is solely to prevent any person from raising their voices on the hill.
“This, sons of Tuirenn, is the eric fine I ask of you.”
When Tuirenn heard what had befallen his sons, he was upset, but he went to them and gave them advice.
“No one can set out on this voyage without the magical ship of the god of the oceans, Manánnan Mac Lir. But Lugh owns this ship, the Wave-sweeper, which can navigate itself across the seas. But listen to me, Lugh is under a geis, a sacred proscription never to refuse a second request. So go to him and ask for a loan of Manánnan’s fabulous horse, Aonbharr, which can gallop over land and water. He will refuse. Then ask for the Wave-sweeper, and that he cannot refuse.”
And this they did and it happened as Tuirenn had said. Lugh was forced to give them the loan of Manánnan’s boat. And Tuirenn and his daughter Eithne went to see them off from the harbour at Ben Eadair. Their sister Eithne sang a lament of farewell for, as much as she loved them, she knew that they had done an evil thing and therefore only evil would come of it.
The three warriors climbed into the Wave-sweeper and Brían commanded it to cross to the Garden of Hesperides. The boat leapt forward at his command and ploughed through the white-crested waves more swiftly than if the winds of spring were blowing into its sail. So fast did it travel that, within the wink of an eye, it came safely to the harbour of Hesperides on the extreme western edge of the ocean.
The three brothers climbed out. They learnt that the apple-orchards of Hesperides were so well guarded that they had no chance of entering without discovery. Then Brían drew up his Druid’s wand and changed his brothers and himself into hawks. On his instructions, they rose into the air and circled high above the orchard and then they swooped down, travelling so fast that the arrows and spears of the guards could not hit them. Each in turn, they seized one of the golden apples, rose again into the air and raced back to the harbour where they had left their boat.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 5
