The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  The king, bold in his anger, laughed harshly and signalled to one of his servants.

  “No power? I will show you the power of the King of Connacht.”

  And he had a silver chain placed around the necks of each swan. Then, taking the ends of the chains in his hand, he began to draw them towards the boat.

  Far away on the great Rock of Cashel, where the palace of the Eóganacht kings of Cashel dwelt, Dechtine had been talking with her brother, King Máenach, who was a wise man. He had heard of the story of the children of Lir and Máenach said to her: “A bad thing, is this, sister. This is no ordinary gift that you demand from the King of Connacht to appease your curiosity. In this, you mock the powers of the Otherworld.”

  Now Dechtine was, withal, a kindly and gracious lady, although given to the vanity that sometimes besets a person in so exalted a position. In that moment, she realised that what she had asked for was unjust. So, she agreed with her brother and sent forth a messenger to the palace of the King of Connacht, telling him that she would marry him even without the gift of the four swans. Further, she made haste to follow the messenger with all her entourage, ready for the marriage ceremony.

  That was happening at the very moment when King Laidgnén was trying to drag the four children of Lir to his boat to return to the mainland.

  As that happened, each of the swans began to lose their white downy coats. Slowly, before the eyes of all those gathered there, the four swans grew into human shape and stood under the light of that summer’s day. But instead of returning to what they had once been – four bright, young children, the pride and love of their father, the great god Lir – they stood with the accumulation of the years of their exile. Yet there was dignity in those years, for they were, after all, the children of Lir, the children of a god of the Tuatha Dé Danaan.

  When King Laidgnén saw this, his eyes filled with terror, and he fell on his knees before the aged Fionnghuala.

  “Forgive me, lady. My mind was filled with vanity and avariciousness, for I wanted nothing more than Dechtine to be my wife.”

  Fionnghuala smiled gently at the king.

  “Return to your palace, mighty king. Dechtine will be yours and even now stands at your palace gates, remorseful and penitent that she made such a demand on you. You will be happy and have a long reign.”

  The king and his bodyguard took to their boat, still in awe and trembling at what they had witnessed.

  Not so Cháemmóg who came forward and, children of gods and goddesses or not, he embraced them with love and tenderness.

  “What can I do for you, my children?” he asked, for he was not able to change his mode of addressing those he loved so well.

  “We grow tired,” said Fionnghuala, “and have but a few moments of life left among us. Now our torment is about to end. You must help us and bless us. While I see your sorrow at our deaths, we have long outlasted our allotted span for what was ours and our world is no more. It is right that we go, though we are also in sorrow that we should leave you, our trusted friend.”

  Cháemmóg was tearful. “Tell me what I must do?”

  “No more than bury us all here, here in this sacred spot. Bury us in the tradition of our people, bury us standing, standing facing one another, as so often we have stood in this world.”

  The holy hermit dug the grave as he was instructed and, as he dug, the children of Lir sang their last song. But gone were their beautiful voices that they had had while they were swans. However, their cracked and ancient voices made the words more beautiful than any the hermit had ever heard.

  “Death is near, our pain nearly ended, stretch out a hand of blessing. Soon we shall sleep, so make our bed comfortable that we may lie with the sound of the gentle waves and whispering wind in our ears. Place us together, as so often we were placed, four together, facing each other, a loving hand holding each other in eternal, unbreakable clasp. Death is near, sleep is now come as a joy to end our sorrow.”

  And when the last words of their song were distant whispers on the air, Cháemmóg turned and found them all locked in a last embrace. The tears fell from his eyes like bubbling waterfalls. And as he bent to them, a strange thing occurred. They were children again. Four lovely young children with golden hair and happy faces. They turned radiantly to him and gazed at him for a moment with love. Then they were gone and the bodies of the four ancient ones lay dead at his feet.

  In accordance with their wishes, Cháemmóg took them and washed their bodies, which is the ritual tonach. Then he wrapped their poor corpses in the racholl or the corpse clothes. He placed them in the grave. Fionnghuala was placed at one side with Conn at her right hand and Fiachra at her left and with Aodh standing before her. Their hands were clasped in unbreakable unity. Then over the bodies he placed the traditional branches of broom.

  When this was done, the sorrowing holy hermit raised a leacht, a sepulchre monument, and engraved their names upon the stone and sang the lamentation of sorrow which is the Nuall-guba.

  “My eyelids drop tears and great is my anguish, it is sorrowful for me to be in life after the passing of these souls. Sad is my eye, my heart is withered, since the grave of these souls was dug.”

  It is said, though I cannot vouch for it, that if you still believe in the old gods and goddesses of Éireann, and your boat circles the island of Inis Gluaire on a balmy summer’s evening, if you listen carefully, you may still hear the beautiful sad music of the children of Lir.

  4 The Love of Fand

  Cú Chulainn, the greatest of the champions of Conchobhar Mac Nessa, King of Ulaidh, sat with other members of the Craobh Ríoga, the warriors of the Royal Branch, bodyguards to the king. It should be explained that the Craobh Ríoga, because of the tired eyesight of an ancient scribe, was mis-transcribed long ago as the Craobh Ruadha, or Red Branch warriors. We, however, shall forgive the scribe’s mistake and return those ancient warriors to their real appellation.

  It was a balmy evening and a summer one. The Royal Branch warriors were idling away the early evening before the trumpet would summon them into the feasting hall.

  Cú Chulainn was playing a game of fidchell, or wooden wisdom, a board game at which he especially excelled, in one of the rooms of the fortress of the Royal Branch warriors, which is known as An Eamhain, a place that is now called Navan in Co. Armagh. Outside of the fortress, on the shores of the lake, in front of the fortress, the wives of the warriors were bathing and resting.

  Out of the western sky, a large flock of birds appeared. They circled the lake and landed on it. They were strange birds with feathers of the purest white. None of the women could identify what type of birds they were, for they had never been seen before in any part of the land of Éireann.

  It so happened that Cú Chulainn’s wife, Émer, daughter of Forgall Manach, was at the lakeside. She was engaged in conversation and banter with the wives of the other warriors.

  “Ah, if Cú Chulainn were here, he would catch one of those strange birds as a present for me,” Émer observed.

  The other wives, not to be outdone, claimed that their husbands, each of them fine warriors, would catch the birds for them if they were present.

  Now it so happened that Laeg Mac Riangabur, the charioteer of Cú Chulainn, was walking by. Stung by the remarks of the other women, Émer asked him to go to her husband and say that the women of Ulaidh would like him to catch the strange white birds for them.

  Cú Chulainn was irritated at being interrupted in the middle of his game of fidchell. “Do the women of Ulaidh have nothing better to do than ask me to go chasing birds for them?” he snapped.

  Laeg was uneasy. “It is Émer who asks this of you, Cú Chulainn, and out of love and her pride in you.”

  The great warrior was not mollified. “How so?”

  “It is so because, being in love with you, she has pride in your ability and boasts of it before the other women. If you deny her, then she will be left only with the blemish of shame on her.”

  Cú
Chulainn rose and apologised to his opponent. He did so without enthusiasm, but Laeg’s words had struck a resonance with him. “A fine thing is this that I am asked to do, to go catching birds for women,” he grumbled.

  Still, he turned to Laeg and told him to bring him his weapons and chariot. Laeg came forward with the Carbad Searrdha, the scythed wheeled chariot, which had great knives attached to the axles. Cú Chulainn was the leading champion of Ulaidh, skilled in all athletic forms, deft in the use of sling, javelin and sword and brilliant in the defensive use of his shield. Laeg was his equal in the use of bow and driving the heavy chariot into battle.

  Down to the lake shore thundered the chariot, and along the water’s edge. Using his sling, Cú Chulainn created a current of air which caused the birds to struggle to the edge of the lake, flapping their wings and, before they could take to the air again, Laeg had seized and bound them. Then Cú Chulainn had Laeg drive him to where the women of Ulaidh were waiting and he gave each of them one of the strange birds.

  Émer was standing a little apart and Cú Chulainn had no bird to give her. He had done this deliberately as a way of punishing her for making him do a deed he was not interested in doing. But when he saw she was standing, eyes downcast and sorrowful, he began to regret his petulance.

  “There is anger on your face,” he said sternly, trying to throw his guilt at her.

  “Why should I be angry with you, husband? I asked you to give the birds to the women and you did so. I asked as if it were I who had the power to give them the birds and so it is just that I am rebuked by you. I did it from pride in you, for you are my husband. Those women all love you and it is with them I have to share you, although no one has any share in me except yourself.”

  Now there was a little bitterness in her voice, for it was true that Cú Chulainn was loved by many women, although he had sought out, courted and married only Émer, because he had once said that she had the six gifts of womanhood: the gift of beauty; the gifts of sweet speech and of singing; the gift of needlework; the gift of wisdom and the gift of loving only her husband.

  Émer had chosen Cú Chulainn for her husband on her own terms, and he had been made to pass strict tests to prove himself worthy of her. Her love for him was mature and deep and she knew him well. She accepted that he was pursued by women throughout his life, for he was a handsome and glamorous hero. But now and again she pointed out to Cú Chulainn that his arrogance was childish: as it was now.

  The great warrior blushed with shame before her. He was sorry for his petulance. He climbed down from the chariot and kissed her hands in apology. “The next time any strange birds alight on this lake, they shall be yours, Émer,” he vowed.

  No sooner had he spoken when there came, out of the west, two birds of amazing colours – one had green feathers and the other had crimson. They were more beautiful than any of the strange white birds that had alighted on the lake. Their wings moved slowly and majestically as they circled the lake and their cries made sweet music that lulled the other women to sleep where they stood.

  “Those are your birds, Émer,” declared Cú Chulainn without vanity.

  He asked Laeg for his sling but Émer reached forward and laid a hand on his arm.

  “I am afraid, husband. There is something curious about those birds. Something that bodes ill for those who oppose them. Let them proceed in peace.”

  “I swore that they would be yours, Émer.” So saying, Cú Chulainn aimed his sling and let loose. For the first time since he had taken up the profession of arms, his cast missed. He stared in astonishment.

  Even Laeg was amazed. “That is a strange thing. You have never missed a cast before,” observed the charioteer.

  Annoyed, Cú Chulainn made another cast and yet another. Each time he missed and the strange birds circled lazily above, crying their weird song. In anger, he took up his spears and cast them. They all missed. Then the birds flew off.

  A rage descended on him, almost akin to his battle-rage, and he leapt into the chariot, without waiting for Laeg and whipped up the horses, heeding neither the cries of either Émer nor Laeg. Away he went after the westward-flying birds. How long he followed them, he did not know, for he lost all sense of time. Finally, he came to a great lake and he saw the birds alight on a rocky outcrop and disappear. He searched all around the lake but there was no sign of them

  It was then he realised how exhausted he was. So he lay down by his chariot, his back against an ancient pillar stone, and a weary sleep came over him. As he lay in a semi-dreaming state, he saw two women approaching him from the direction of the lake. One wore a green cloak and the other a crimson cloak. The one in the green cloak carried a rod of rowan and, laughing, she cried: “Unkind you were to cast things at us. This for that.” And she beat him with the rod of rowan. When she finished, the one in the crimson cloak also beat him. Each time the rod touched him, the strength and vigour went out of his body. Then they returned back to the lake.

  The next morning, Laeg and the warriors of the Craobh Ríoga came across him, stretched out by his chariot. They had been hunting for him since dawn for, when he had not returned, a great search had been made for him. They could not rouse him from his semi-sleep.

  “We will take him back to Émer,” Laeg suggested. “She will know what to do.”

  “But Émer has already departed for Cú Chulainn’s fortress at Dún Dealgan, thinking that he might have gone there,” replied one of the warriors.

  Then Cú Chulainn began to babble and, in his fever, he told them to take him to the Speckled Hall of An Emhain and send for Eithne Inguba to nurse him.

  Now his comrades were shocked for Cú Chulainn, before he had married Émer, had had a long relationship with Eithne, who loved him still. Some of his comrades suspected that Eithne might still be his mistress. They wondered what they should do. But his fever and babbling grew worse and so they decided to appease him. They took him to the Speckled Hall, where the warriors kept their most valuable treasures, and there they laid him out on a bed and put his weapons around him.

  And Eithne Inguba was called for. Though she knew many helping remedies, she could do nothing for him. He lay in a strange wasting sickness, growing weaker and weaker, until they began to fear for his life.

  One morning, a tall warrior of astoundingly commanding appearance came to the Speckled Hall and demanded to be taken to Cú Chulainn’s sickbed.

  Laeg demanded to know who he was.

  “I am Aonghus, son of Aedh Abrat.”

  So haughty was his manner that Laeg took him for a foreign prince and they let him in. He went and knelt at the sick warrior’s side and he began to intone a strange song which no one understood. Cú Chulainn heard the words, though he had no understanding of them.

  You have little need to lay in sickness

  When the daughter of Aedh Abrat loves you.

  Tearful is she for your love.

  Fand is her name.

  She waits for you to come to her

  And her sister, ‘the beauty of women’

  Will be your guide.

  Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he simply vanished. They asked what the song could mean. Whatever it meant, Cú Chulainn grew no better and yet grew no worse. Eithne continued with every means of healing at her disposal, but nothing changed Cú Chulainn’s wasting sickness.

  “There is one thing we might try,” Eithne suggested.

  “What is that?” demanded Laeg,

  “Let us take him back to the pillar stone where this sickness began. It might change the course of this illness.”

  Laeg felt guilty for, in all this time, no one had been sent to Dún Dealgan to fetch Émer nor inform her of her husband’s illness. But he thought that Eithne might have the right idea and Cú Chulainn, on his sickbed, was placed in his chariot, and he drove it to the spot where they had discovered him and set him against the pillar stone.

  Laeg, Eithne and his friends who gathered around heard nor saw no sound nor movement.
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  To Cú Chulainn, however, a beautiful woman in a green cloak approached him. It was the same woman he had previously seen in his dream. The same who had chastised him.

  “I am Lí Ban, the beauty of women,” she greeted him in a musical voice and allayed his alarm. “Good that you are here and still in life.”

  “No good to me, since I am still dying,” replied Cú Chulainn.

  “A choice for you,” smiled Lí Ban. “I am the daughter of Aedh Abrat and I have come to tell you that you may be cured, by reason of the fact that you are the beloved of my sister, Fand. She thinks of nothing but you: not even of her own husband, Manánnan Mac Lir, god of the oceans.”

  Cú Chulainn blinked in surprise, but he was not fearful for, it was said, that he was the mortal son of Lugh Lamhfáda, Lugh of the Long Hand and sunny countenance, who was god of all arts and crafts. Nevertheless, the love of the wife of the god of the oceans was not something to receive lightly, when such a powerful god as Manánnan might wreak a vengeance to destroy the entire human world, by causing the seas to rise and a great deluge to wipe away the lands.

  “It would be a foolish man to bring down the vengeance of the ocean god,” Cú Chulainn observed. “Even though my mother, Dechtíre, told me I am born of Lugh of the Long Hand.”

  “Manánnan has forsaken my sister Fand and now she will have no one but you as her lover. My husband says he will send Fand to you, on condition that you fight against his enemies for one day.”

  “And who is your husband?”

  “Labraid Luathlam ar Cledeb, Labraid of the Swift Hand on the Sword, King of Magh Mell, the Pleasant Plain. He has three great enemies – Eochaidh Indh Inbher, Eochaidh Euil and Senach Síaborthe. Fight and defeat them and Fand will be yours.”

  “I am sick: too sick to get up let alone to fight anyone.”

  “You will be cured,” Lí Ban assured him.

  “I know nothing of Magh Mell, nor do I know of Fand, your sister. I will remain here in sickness until I know more. Take Laeg Mac Riangabur, my charioteer, and let him bring me an account, for I trust no one except Laeg in such matters.”