Fand simply held out her hand to Manánnan Mac Lir and the great god of the ocean reached forward and helped her into his silver chariot.
At that moment Cú Chulainn awoke.
“What is it?” he cried, as he saw Fand riding off into the sky in the great silver chariot.
“Fand is returning to her husband, as you do not love her above all others,” replied Émer bitterly, for there was dismay on his features at losing Fand.
Cú Chulainn gave three great cries of grief and, ignoring Émer and Laeg, went running off along the seashore, gazing into the sea in which the silver chariot of the ocean god disappeared.
They did not see Cú Chulainn in many a month, for he took himself to the mountains, living among the wild animals, scarcely eating nor drinking nor even sleeping. He dwelt on the plains of Luchra and no one would go near him.
Then Émer went to the court of Conchobhar at An Emhain and told the king what had happened. “He still has his sickness on him,” Émer said.
“I know,” agreed Conchobhar, who loved Cú Chulainn as if he were his own son. “I have sent my warriors to persuade him to come back to us, several times, but he attacks and drives them off.”
“Then send your best musicians. Let them sing to him and tell him of the heroic deeds that he once performed here. Let them sing to him about his companions in arms who miss him. Let them sing to him of his wife, Émer, daughter of Forgall, who once he loved and wooed and married.”
And King Conchobhar sent forth his best bards and poets and, when Cú Chulainn was lulled into sleep, they brought him forth to An Emhain. Once there, Cathbad the Druid called upon Manánnan and offered prayers and the ocean god came forth and heard of the tragedy that had seared Cú Chulainn. Being a wise and mighty god, Manánnan took his Cloak of Forgetfulness and shook it between Fand and Cú Chulainn, so that each forgot the other, and thus it was ensured that they would never again meet in any time nor in any world.
Then Cú Chulainn grew well and content with the mortal world again and went back to dwell in Dún Dealgan with Émer. He had entirely forgotten about Fand.
But Émer had not . . .
She grew irritable and expressed anger on the slightest pretext. She recalled that her husband had once loved Fand to the extent that he could not choose between them and that only the intervention of the ocean god, causing him to forget, made him content with his lot. Everywhere she went, especially walking in the woods and seeing strange birds, Émer was reminded of Fand. She became more bitter with each passing day. Cú Chulainn, lacking memory, could not understand her anger to him and he grew ill, trying to recall how he could have offended her.
Émer told Lebharcham, the old nurse of Deirdre, who still dwelt at Conchobhar’s palace. Lebharcham told Conchobhar and Conchobhar in turn told his Druid, Cathbad. Cathbad mixed a potion and, one evening when Conchobhar had invited both Cú Chulainn and Émer to a great feasting at An Emhain, the Druid quietly slipped three drops of his potion in each of their goblets. They drank.
Cú Chulainn and Émer were overcome with sleep and conducted to the guests’ chambers and, when they awoke Cú Chulainn had no memory of his passions but there lingered in him a deep sorrow, the reason for which he could not recall. And when Émer awoke, her anger and jealousies were gone and once more she was her natural self, the sweetest and most loving of wives.
5 Lochlann’s Son
There was once a great warrior king of Lochlann, the land of fjords and lakes which lies north-east of Éireann in cold snowy climes, which is often called the North Land, or Norway. This King’s name was Colgáin Mac Teine. His country was a land of fierce warriors, who ploughed the seas in great ships and often raided and pillaged the coastal lands of Éireann. As fierce as his people were, Colgáin was the fiercest. He was a descendant of the Fomorii, the undersea dwellers, who were once the dark gods of Éireann and who had been driven north into the lands of darkness by the children of the Gael.
It chanced one day that Colgáin was feeling very dissatisfied, for he had not been on a battle voyage in many months. So he called his chief warriors about him.
“Warriors of Lochlann,” he began, “do you find fault with my rule?”
They were worried when he said this, for often a challenger to the kingship of Lochlann would be met by the incumbent king with sword and buckler and soon his head would be mounted over the king’s hearth.
“Not us,” they all cried. “We find no fault with you, sire.”
Colgáin sniffed disparagingly, for he knew there was none who would dare challenge him.
“Well, I find fault with my own rule,” he declared harshly.
“What fault is that?” demanded one warrior, bolder than the rest.
“The fault is this: our ships plough the seas, raiding and demanding tribute from all shores on which we land. All the kings of the lands within the distance of our sailing pay me tribute and call me king of all the kings of the nations.”
“This is so, sire,” agreed the warriors. “What is the fault in that?”
“There is one king and one people who send me no tribute.”
There was an uneasy silence.
“What king would dare do that?” asked a young warrior, too young to know.
Colgáin of Lochlann turned an angry face to the young man. “Why, it is the High King of Éireann and his people. Éireann, the land which was once possessed by my ancestors. It is there that Balor of the One Eye, the first and greatest of my line, fell fighting. Éireann, which saw the graves of noble Fomorii warriors spring forth like the green grass of spring, and from which our forefathers were driven pitilessly northward.”
There was a muttering of discontent among the King of Lochlann’s warriors.
“I am at fault in that I have not taken our ships and brought this arrogant High King of Éireann to my obedience, and forced him and his kind to pay tribute to me and mine.”
Now the warriors of Lochlann set up a clamour, banging their swords against the shields.
“We are with you!” cried one. “Let us take revenge on this upstart king.”
“We shall take the gold of Éireann or we will take the heads of every male Éireannach!” shouted the young warrior, who was too boastful, not having seen a battle before.
So Colgáin, King of Lochlann, gave the orders for all the warriors of his land to gather at the shore and for all the ships that could raise sail to be there, fully provisioned. And when they had all gathered, the warriors went on board; the King of Lochlann went to his ship. Out of the fjords came the great armada, speeding over the deep dark waves, towards the green isle of Éireann. The wind filled the sails and the waves came rolling behind them, speeding the ships forward, until they sighted the green mountains of Ulaidh.
Now the Royal Branch warriors of Ulaidh told their king that the square sails of the ships of Lochlann had been sighted, approaching their shore. The king of this land was Fianchu Araide and when he heard the news, he was not dismayed.
“Send to Cormac Mac Art, who resides at Tara,” he said. “After all, it is Cormac who claims the High Kingship of the five kingdoms of Éireann, so it is he and his warriors who should defend the kingdoms, not me, who am but king in Ulaidh.”
It was true that, since Cormac had established himself as High King in Tara, he had wrested much of the old power of the kings of Ulaidh away from them. He and his warrior élite, the Fianna, claimed to be far stronger than any of the warriors of the kingdoms of Éireann.
So members of the Craobh Ríoga, the Royal Branch warriors of Ulaidh, went to Tara and told Cormac Mac Art that the ships of the King of Lochlann were approaching their shore.
Cormac straightaway sent to Fionn Mac Cumhaill, the commander of the Fianna, and told him that he must gather his warriors and set off to meet the men of Lochlann, as soon as they landed on the shore.
Fionn picked the greatest of his warriors and hurried to the shore, where the ships of Colgáin were beaching, spewing out their great ban
ds of battle-hungry warriors. Without pause, Fionn and his men rushed into the conflict and a bloody battle followed. For several days it raged, without victory on either side.
Then it was that Oscar, the deer-lover, son of Oisín, the “little deer”, who in turn was son of the mighty Fionn himself, found himself in single combat with Colgáin, King of Lochlann. Both men were evenly matched and strong were their weapons. Soon their spears were shattered and then their shields were split asunder so that all they had were their powerful swords. Finally, Oscar came in under the guard of the King of Lochlann and shattered his head with a hard blow.
No sooner did the head of the king roll on the floor than the oldest son of the King of Lochlann rushed forward and fought with Oscar. To and fro they struggled, for the boy was armed with grief and anger which gave strength to his sword-arm. Finally, Oscar used his battle foresight and managed to cleave the young man so that his head was also swept from him, the body falling one way and the head the other.
The reserve battalions of the Fianna, gathering from the four corners of Éireann, had arrived. They rushed forward on the warriors of Lochlann and so wielded their weapons that none escaped back to their boats alive. There was only one son of Lochlann left alive on the battlefield. That was the youngest son of the king, whose name was Míogach Mac Colgáin. It was Fionn Mac Cumhaill himself who took charge of the boy, making him a hostage, for he was but a child who had only been brought along to witness his father’s deeds of bravery. It was the custom for prisoners caught in war to become hostages and in Éireann hostages were well treated.
Fionn took the boy to live in his fortress at Almain, the Hill of Allen, whose ramparts enclosed many white-walled dwellings and a great hall towered in its midst. Here the boy grew to manhood in comfort, but with the remembrance of the defeat of his father and his brother and the men of Lochlann ever lingering.
One day, one of Fionn’s great warriors, Conán Mhaol, the Bald, son of Morna, observing the brooding face of the young man, took Fionn aside. “You are doing a foolish thing, my chief,” he commented.
“How so?” demanded Fionn.
“It is foolish to keep the son of the dead King of Lochlann in your company, now that he has grown to manhood. You must know how much he hates you and Oscar, your grandson. Indeed, he hates all the warriors of the Fianna. Did we not defeat and destroy his father, his brother and all the warriors of Lochlann?”
Fionn thought a moment and then nodded slowly. “You are right, Conán. What should I do?”
“It is the right of hostages of noble birth to be apportioned land to dwell upon and work as they please. Give him land and let him remove himself there. Then he will not be a danger to you.”
“That is a good counsel,” declared Fionn.
Fionn told the youth that he could have such land in Fionn’s domains along the Shannon as he wished. The young man chose an island in the great river and made up the total amount of the land by a small area on the mainland opposite the island. There was a reason he chose this island and the land on the shore. They were both sheltered harbours and the young man was already plotting how he could bring shiploads of warriors from Lochlann and its allies to land there and attack Fionn and his Fianna and destroy them. So great was his hatred of the men of Éireann that he had never ceased plotting his revenge, in all the years he had been Fionn’s hostage.
Míogach Mac Colgáin had a fine comfortable rath built there and received tribute of the people dwelling there. But never did he offer hospitality there to any man of Éireann; no food nor drink would he part with to any who called at his house, unless that person was a stranger to the shores of Éireann.
Some years passed and no more was heard of Míogach, son of the King of Lochlann. Then, one day, Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the leading members of the Fianna were hunting in the southland on Cnoc Fírinne. They had paused in the hunt to take a drink and rest and, while they were doing so, Fionn espied a tall man, large of limb and strongly built, with the accoutrements of a warrior. A shield hung from his shoulder, there was a great sword at his side and he carried a spear of weight and length. He made for Fionn and saluted him.
“Greetings, warrior,” replied Fionn. ‘Who are you?”
Now Conán had been sitting by Fionn and he frowned. “Do you not know him?” he asked his leader in a whisper.
Fionn frowned; although there was something familiar about the young warrior, he shook his head. “I do not.”
“You ought to know him,” replied Conán. “It is for you to know your friends and recognise your enemies. This man is Míogach Mac Colgáin, son of the dead King of Lochlann.”
Fionn rose, recognising his hostage. “You have grown into a fine-looking warrior, Míogach. Do you mean me harm or are your intentions good?”
“My intentions, according to my lights, are good. I came to bid you accept my hospitality at my rath, which stands not far from here, on the shore of the Shannon.”
Conán swiftly intervened. “Beware of this, my chieftain. He has never offered the meat nor drink of hospitality to any champion of Éireann.”
“That is because I had no meat nor drink to offer,” the young man said hastily. “Now I have the hospitality to offer, allow me to make you my first guest, Fionn.”
Now Fionn liked to believe the best of people and so he was satisfied and accepted Míogach’s hospitality. He told his son Oisín to take command of the Fianna when he was away and to encamp them at Sliabh na mBan. He took with him Conán, and Conán’s brother Goll, and Faolán and Glas Mac Aonchearda for his companions, and they followed Míogach to his rath.
Now Míogach’s rath on the banks of the Shannon was a breathtaking sight, but no more noble than its interior. Míogach led them inside and they found the walls all lined with silks of richest red. Every part was in the most spectacular colours that could be imagined. Even the surly Conán was forced to voice his praise of it. In the hallway, they put aside their armour and their weapons – for it was a prohibition of the land to enter a feasting hall with arms.
Then Míogach led them into a great wondrous dining room and pointed to their places at the long oak wood table. Míogach then excused himself, saying he had to tell the servants to make ready the meal and bring them wine, and he went out and closed the door.
For a while, the four heroes stood chatting about the splendours of the house, and then they realised that time was passing.
“Míogach has left us a considerable time without drink and food,” observed Fionn.
“Míogach has not returned,” pointed out Conán. “Where is he?”
“Look to the fire, Fionn,” Goll suddenly cried. “The fire that was blazing well when we entered and giving forth the sweet odour of pine and applewood, now smokes and carries the repugnant stench of rotting corpses.”
“Look at the walls, Fionn,” cried Faolán. “The tapestries which were of softest silk are now decaying rags and beneath them the polished red panels of yew are just rough planks of birch fastened with hazel twigs.”
“Look at the doors, Fionn,” cried Glas. “Where once there were seven doors in this room, there is now no door at all, save one crack to the north which lets in snow and the icy breath of the north wind, even though it was summer when we came here.”
And they all realised that the polished wooden floor had gone, the table and even the chairs they had sat in had vanished and they were sprawled on the cold, damp earth.
“Rise up!” gasped Fionn. “I recognise this magic. We are in the House of Death, which is draining our souls of vigour. Let us rise up and leave this place!”
Conán tried to struggle up but could not move from his place.
“We are pinned to the earth,” cried Goll.
“What can we do?” wailed Faolán, who was brave in battle, but no man was brave against the magic of evil sorcerers.
“I should have listened to Conán,” cried Fionn. “The son of the King of Lochlann has long planned this revenge. We have been brought he
re so that we may be drained of our vitality and die.”
Now in his youth, Fionn had baked the Salmon of Knowledge for Finegas the Druid, who dwelt beside the Boyne. And as Fionn had been turning the spit, his thumb had brushed the flesh of the fish and, on sucking it, he obtained wisdom. So now Fionn sucked his thumb and he knew what fate was in store for Éireann if he and the Fianna perished.
“Míogach has long been plotting his revenge, my friends. He has brought great warriors from Lochlann and all the lands allied to that north kingdom. Even Daire Donn, the King of the World, has come with all his warriors. There is Sinnsior na gCath from Greece, and twenty-six sub-kings with him; and every sub-king has twenty-six battalions of warriors and can fight twenty-six battles before they tire. Each battalion has thirty great champions in them. There are the three kings from Inis Tuile and they are equal to three evil dragons. There are Neim, Aig and Aitceas, champions who can never be taken in battle. It is Neim, Aig and Aitceas who prepared the curse of this house for Míogach. We have only one way to escape from it, only one way to sever the invisible bonds that keep us tied to the earth . . .”
“What is that?” demanded Conán.
“We have to rub our limbs with the blood of the three kings of Inis Tuile.”
“More easily said than done,” pointed out Faolán.
Fionn sat awhile sucking his thumb and then he said: “We are faced with death and must have courage. What is to be done, when we wait for death?”
“Why,” said Conán, “nothing is left but to sing the dord-fhiann while we wait for death.”
The dord-fhiann was a warrior’s chant, often intoned before a battle and accompanied by the beating of the spear-shafts against the shield. But they had no spears nor shields.
“That is what we shall do,” affirmed Fionn. “We will raise our voices in the dord-fhiann and sing as mournfully as we can when we see death approaching.”
So they sang.
On the peak of Sliabh na mBan, Oisín, son of Fionn, turned to his brother Fia. “What is that humming I hear?”
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 11
