The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  Fia listened intently. “It is the dord-fhiann, which is sung only in time of great peril. It is Fionn’s voice which is raised there: Fionn, Conán, Goll, Faolán and Glas. They are in peril.”

  “Go and scout the land and see what ails them,” Oisín instructed.

  So Fia, with Insin Mac Suibhne, rode off towards the Shannon and came to the foreshore near the house of Míogach.

  “It is indeed our Fianna brethren,” cried Insin.

  They approached the walls of the house.

  “Fionn? Are you in there?” hissed Fia through the wall, for they could find no door nor windows.

  “Is that the voice of Fia that I hear?” came Fionn’s response.

  “Indeed, it is.”

  “Do not come near to us, for we are tied to the earth by some black enchantment. Beyond the ford through the river to the island is a mighty army gathering. It means no good to Éireann.”

  Fia turned to Insin and warned him.

  “Who is that with you?” came Fionn’s voice.

  “It is Insin, your foster-son.”

  “You must leave this place and get back to your brother Oisín and tell him what has befallen us.”

  “It is unseemly for us to leave you here, undefended and in danger,” protested Fia.

  There was a silence.

  “Then one of you guard us while the other goes to the camp of Míogach on the island and finds out what is being planned.”

  It fell to Insin’s lot to go down to the ford which separated the shore of the Shannon from the island in midstream, while Fia continued on to the camp of the King of Lochlann’s son on the island.

  It so happened that at that very moment when Fia came to the island, Sinnsior na gCath, the King of Greece, was boasting that he would cross the ford, enter the enchanted house, take off the head of Fionn and bring it back to the gathered enemies of Éireann. He had taken a hundred of his men and began to pass over the ford. Fia missed them in the darkness of the night, for he had circled behind the camp as Sinnsior led his men from the gate.

  So Sinnsior crossed the ford and, in the darkness, saw a young man waiting for him.

  “Hello, boy,” he growled, for Insin was young. “Will you be a guide to me and show me where Míogach’s magic house is, in which Fionn and his companions are? I mean to take his head and those of his companions and bring them back to Daire Donn, King of the World.”

  Insin chuckled dryly. “A bad guard would I be if you did that, for I am Insin of the Fianna. Come to shore and I will greet you with a fine death.”

  Sinnsior gave a great battle-cry and led his warriors racing through the shallows of the ford towards the shore. And a battle-fever came on Insin and he set about him, until all one hundred warriors of Sinnsior were destroyed and only the King of Greece was left alive. Insin was now so full of wounds, having fought so furiously, that he fell dead at Sinnsior’s feet. The king immediately cut off the head and took it for his own trophy.

  “Now I will go back for more men,” Sinnsior said to himself, seeing his warriors stretched into the water and the water red with blood. “I will fetch more men and then I will take the head of Fionn Mac Cumhaill.”

  So he turned and hurried back across the ford to the island.

  It was at that moment that Fia, having finished his scouting, came to the river to pass back again and saw the King of Greece crossing towards him.

  “Who are you?” demanded Fia.

  “I am Sinnsior of Greece. I went across to get the head of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and met a great champion guarding the ford and he killed one hundred of my best men before I was able to slay him.”

  Sinnsior was given to boasting.

  Fia pursed his lips scornfully. “I wonder that you yourself are not marked, nor that you did not fall first, leading your men.”

  “My strength and valour saved me,” replied Sinnsior defiantly.

  “If this champion fell to your sword, you must have something of his to prove it.”

  “I have his head.” The King of Greece took it from his belt and showed it to Fia.

  Fia took the head carefully and he kissed Insin’s forehead. “This head was beautiful, this morning. May it remain in beauty.” Then Fia turned to Sinnsior. “Do you know to whom you have given the head of this champion?”

  Sinnsior shook his head negatively. “I presume that you are one of Míogach’s men.”

  “I am not. Nor will you be, for long.”

  Fia drew out his sword and the two men fell on one another in wrath, hissing like venomous wild beasts, until, with a swift stroke of his sword, Fia severed Sinnsior’s own head and it rolled on the ground before him.

  He picked it up with Insin’s head and made his way back over the ford. He reached the enchanted house and called for Fionn.

  “What was the great noise and shouting at the ford?” came Fionn’s voice.

  “Sinnsior and one hundred warriors came against Insin while I was scouting on the island.”

  “Is Insin hurt?” demanded Fionn, with a heavy heart, for he knew the truth.

  “He was killed, but not before he slew all Sinnsior’s warriors.”

  “Who gave him the mortal blow?”

  “Hard to tell. He died of his wounds. But one man took his head.”

  Fionn and his companions groaned aloud, for all knew Insin and, as the soul reposed in the head, according to the Celtic lore, Insin would not be able to seek rest in the Otherworld while his head was held by enemies. But Fia said, “Have no fear. I have Insin’s head with me and have taken the head of Sinnsior, who took off Insin’s head.”

  “Blessings on you, Fia. It was a great deed that you did. Alas, now only you stand at the ford between us and our enemies. You are our only protection until we can summon the Fianna to our aid.”

  So Fia went back down to the ford while Fionn and his companions raised their voices once again in the dord-fhiann and this time the head of Insin joined in. At the ford, Fia cut a stick of rowan and put Sinnsior’s head on it, looking out to the island, as a warning to Míogach and his allies.

  On the island, there was a warrior called Cairbre Cathmhíle, who had been a friend to Sinnsior. He saw Sinnsior’s head and was angry.

  “My friend went for Fionn’s head,” he exclaimed. “Now I shall complete the deed.”

  He went down to the shore and began to wade across, taking with him four hundred chosen warriors. They halted in midstream when they saw Fia standing there waiting for them.

  “Who stands in our path?” demanded Cairbre.

  “I am Fia, son of Fionn.”

  “Tell us, who made the great noise at this ford a while ago and who has slain Sinnsior and all his men?”

  “That is for you to find out,” replied Fia. “I will not tell you.”

  Cairbre was exceedingly angry and told his hand-picked warriors to cross and take the head of Fia. The combat was fierce and bloody and soon Fia stood surrounded by the bodies of the four hundred warriors of Cairbre. Then Cairbre, in rage, came to him and they fought until Cairbre’s head joined that of Sinnsior on a pole of rowan. Then Fia knelt by the river and bathed himself, for he was full of wounds and covered in the blood of that awesome combat.

  On the island, Míogach Mac Colgáin, son of the King of Lochlann, was angry that so many warriors had not even been able to pass the ford against the youngest of Fionn’s warriors.

  “I will go myself, with five hundred hand-picked warriors,” he declared.

  So Míogach took five hundred men, the best warriors of his allies, and came to the ford. He peered across at the tired and wounded warrior.

  “Is it Fia who stands there?” he called.

  “Indeed, it is,” replied the young warrior.

  “Then it is a good man who guards the ford,” agreed Míogach. “In all the years I was hostage of Fionn, I never saw you bested in combat. Yet, my anger is mightier than your sword. Defend yourself or move aside.”

  “You grew up with the Fianna as
your protectors,” Fia reminded him. “Even though you were a hostage and son of our enemies, we nurtured you in your youth. You should be thankful to the Fianna and not vengeful.”

  Míogach laughed harshly. “Thankful? Thankful to men who slew my father and brother and the men of my country? You must repay me for that. Revenge is a stronger principle than gratitude. I will have my vengeance.”

  “Did we ask your father, the King of Lochlann, to invade the sweet shores of Éireann? He came with sword and fire to destroy us and so he was answered in kind and worsted. He was destroyed by the thing he created. May you not hurt your enemy when he has struck first? Seek no vengeance for what was just, lest the vengeance rebound on you.”

  Míogach grew angry. “Leave the ford or stay, but I am coming across and I will not come in peace.”

  “It is not in peace that I will greet you, if you come with ill intent.”

  Míogach told his men to go forward and Fia, as wounded and exhausted as he was, met them with courage and soon he was surrounded by the bodies of three hundred. Then Míogach told the remaining two hundred to hold back and he himself, with shield and sword raised, rushed forward like a hound towards its prey.

  Far away, on the peak of Sliabh na mBan, Oisín frowned.

  “I still hear the moaning of the dord-fhiann,” he said, listening. “And I hear the voice of Insin joining in. That is curious. Perhaps it is a good dinner that Fionn and his men are having with Míogach, that they are unwilling to leave. They sing songs, perhaps, to entertain their hosts.”

  But it was Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the handsomest of all the Fianna, who had been fostered by Aonghus Og, the god of love, whose sharp hearing caught the sounds. “It is no song of thanksgiving, Oisín. I think Fionn and his men are in danger. I will go and find out what is happening.”

  “Then I will accompany you,” offered Fatha Conán, another of the Fianna.

  The two of them rode with great speed until they came near the ford and heard the sounds of combat and the shouting and cursing of men.

  “That is the battle-cry of Fia, but he is weak and wounded,” cried Diarmuid. “Let us go to his aid.”

  The two rode to a hill overlooking the ford. There was Fia, with all his weapons smashed and broken, his shield split asunder and nothing in his hands. Above him stood the triumphant Míogach, his sword raised to strike off his head.

  “Diarmuid!” cried Fatha Conán, “quickly, save the life of Fia, son of Fionn. If I attempt to cast my spear from this spot, I do not know whether I will hit Fia or Míogach. If we wait until we get nearer them, it will be too late. Only you can cast the spear from this distance.”

  Diarmuid, realising the truth of his words, seized his throwing spear and drew his arm back. The cast he gave sent the spear flying through the air. It hit Míogach in the side. But Míogach was only wounded and he slashed down with his sword, taking off the head of Fia.

  Diarmuid and Fatha Conán raced down to the spot but it was Diarmuid who closed with Míogach first.

  “A pity it was your spear that struck me, Diarmuid,” grunted Míogach. “For you were never at the battle in which my father and brother fell.”

  “I cast it to save Fia’s life. Now I must have my vengeance on you for taking it.”

  The combat was fought without mercy from either man then. And, finally, it was Diarmuid who slew Míogach and took his head from him. He set it up on a rowan pole by the ford with the heads of Sinnsior and Cairbre.

  Diarmuid and Fatha Conán went, taking the head of Fia with them, to the enchanted house and called out. Outside was the moaning head of Insin and they placed the head of Fia by its side.

  “Who stands outside?” came the voice of Fionn.

  “Diarmuid Ua Duibhne and Fatha Conán,” replied Diarmuid.

  “Ah, Diarmuid,” sighed Fionn. “Who made that dreadful noise of combat?”

  “Your son Fia stood at the ford against Cairbre and his warriors and Míogach and his warriors. He felled all who came against him except one.”

  “How is my son, Fia?”

  “He is dead.”

  There was a silence.

  “Who killed my son?”

  “It was Míogach, son of the dead King of Lochlann. I came too late to save Fia’s life.”

  “Did Míogach escape, after this deed?”

  “He did not escape, Fionn. I took his head and placed it on a rowan pole by the ford.”

  “My blessing on you, Diarmuid.” And Fionn told Diarmuid and Fatha Conán all that had taken place. “You are our only means of protection against the forces of Daire Donn, King of the World, until Oisín brings the Fianna to our aid.”

  “We will guard the ford for you.”

  Then Conán Maol spoke up. “The cold earth is draining me of life,” he moaned. “I cannot last much longer without a bite to eat nor wine to drink.”

  “Plenty of food at the ford,” pointed out Fatha Conán. “The warriors of Sinnsior, Cairbre and Míogach all brought provisions with them.”

  “Then bring that food to me, that I may last in this life until the men of the Fianna come here.”

  Diarmuid frowned. “Do you think of your belly at this time, while the great armies of the world march against the ford with only me and Fatha Conán to defend it?”

  “Oh, Diarmuid,” Conán Mhaol moaned piteously, “if I were a beautiful young woman who asked you to bring her food and drink, you would do so, no matter the risk. It is because I am a man that you scorn to do so.”

  Now that was true for, as Diarmuid had been raised by the god of love, Aonghus Og, it was certain that he cared more for the desires of women than for those of men. It shamed him to think so.

  “Conán,” he replied, “I will bring you food and drink. I vow it.”

  So Diarmuid and Fatha Conán returned to the ford.

  “I will gather the food and take it back to the enchanted house, while you guard the ford,” Diarmuid said.

  “Why not I?” demanded Fatha Conán.

  “Because I remember the prophecy of the Druid when you were born. It was said that you would one day dance rings around the ruler of the world. As Daire Donn, the King of the World, is now our enemy, I have a feeling that this day has come. On yonder island stand the armies of the world against us. Do you guard the ford, while I gather food.”

  It was easy to find the food, for the warriors had brought provisions in wagons which now stood discarded.

  But when Diarmuid came with the food to the enchanted house, Conán Mhaol rejected it.

  “This is dead men’s food, and I will not eat it.”

  Diarmuid agreed that the food had been intended for the dead warriors at the ford.

  He went back to the ford. On the island, he could hear feasting of warriors.

  “I will go across and take their food and drink and return with it to Conán Mhaol,” he declared.

  “It may cause your death and only leave myself to guard the ford, then,” Fatha Conán pointed out irritably.

  “Even if it causes my death, I will get the food for Conán Mhaol, that he may last in life until the Fianna arrive.”

  Diarmuid crossed the ford silently until he came to the island in the Shannon. There he found Borb, the son of Sinnsior, and his warriors eating their supper. Each man of them drank from a golden goblet and ate from a silver plate. Seated next to Borb Mac Sinnsior was none other than Daire Donn, the King of the World. Now Diarmuid had the gift of swiftness, as befitted one fostered by gods. So he entered into the circle of feasting, before any man could see him and he seized the great goblet of rich red wine held by Borb and passed on before Borb realized it. He went next to Daire Donn, who was feasting from a great plate of meat. He seized that, while striking the great king in the stomach, and left him winded.

  “Had I not more pressing things to do,” hissed Diarmuid, “I would take your heads as well, but I must return with this food to Conán Mhaol.”

  He came back across the ford and was puzzled when Fatha
Conán made no challenge to him.

  There at the ford he found Fatha Conán fast asleep among the bodies of the slain.

  “If I stop to rouse Fatha Conán, Conán might perish. There must be some curse that causes Fatha to sleep, this night. I will hasten to the enchanted house and return swiftly to rouse Fatha.”

  So saying, Diarmuid pressed on.

  At the wall of the house, Diarmuid called to Conán. “I have brought you the food of the living, of Borb Mac Sinnsior and Daire Donn. But how may I get the food to you?”

  “You must not enter the enchanted house, or you will become as we are,” replied Conán. “I am lying by the north crack, where the snow is. Come there and cast the food towards me. You have not missed a javelin cast yet and so you may cast the food at me.”

  Diarmuid did so and he threw the dish of food into the house where Conán lay. But the plate hit Conán’s nose and the food splattered all over his face.

  “Forgive me. I have made you dirty.”

  Conán was busy scraping the food from his face and devouring it. “A hound never runs from a bone,” he replied with satisfaction.

  “But I can’t make the same cast with the goblet of wine,” Diarmuid observed.

  “Indeed not. You must climb to the roof of this house. The enchantment is only on the inside, so you will not be harmed. Make a hole in the roof above where I am and pour the wine through the hole into my mouth.”

  Diarmuid leapt up to the roof and made the hole. However, he did not find Conán’s mouth and wine spilt on one cheek and then the other. And Conán rebuked Diarmuid, telling him that if he had been a young woman, the pouring would have been more carefully done. Ashamed, Diarmuid was more careful and poured the wine into Conán Mhaol’s mouth.

  It was during this time that the three kings of Inis Tuile decided to raise their companies of warriors and march down to the ford.

  Diarmuid raced back and tried to awake Fatha Conán from his curious sleep, but could not.

  The three kings, with six hundred warriors, marched into the waters of the ford and then halted as they saw Diarmuid.

  “Is that Diarmuid Ua Duibhne we see?” asked one of the kings.