The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  Cellachain saw the point and laid a hand on the shoulder of his comrade.

  “Then go there, Rígbaddán. Find out if she will intercede for us.”

  So Rígbaddán went to the ridge of the hazel wood, which is also called Cnoc Áine, that is today called Knockainey in Co. Limerick and, it being the Midsummer Day, he sat down and concentrated his thoughts. Then he sang his best love poem, hoping to stir the interest of the goddess so that she would emerge from her dwelling under the hill.

  There are arrows that murder sleep

  Remembering you, my love;

  Thinking of nights we spent together

  Recalling our intimate secrets.

  There are arrows that murder sleep,

  Sharp points of love recalled,

  The sweet music of a lover’s tongue

  Lost in the cold night air.

  Suddenly, Rígbaddán realized there was someone standing at his side.

  “What do you seek here, young man?” asked a low melodious voice.

  Rígbaddán looked up and was shocked to see no one but an old beggar-woman looking kindly at him.

  He told her that he was trying to summon Áine and why he was doing so.

  “Go back to Cellachain,” instructed the old woman, “and tell him on the morning of the third day from now, he may go to the gate of Cashel and knock on it with his sword-hilt three times. The door will be opened and he and his men may go inside. Mór shall not be harmed.”

  So Rígbaddán hurried back to Cellachain with this news.

  Alone in her tower, Mór wiped the tears from her eyes and looked down on the encamped army of her lover as it gathered around the Rock. She knew that the reason why the war horns did not sound, nor swords beat on the shields, was that Sitric had said that her life would be forfeited. She was in a black despair, wondering what she could do to help Cellachain overcome the enemies of Mumhan.

  She sang softly, to keep up her spirits, but the words that came forth were sad ones:

  Long as a month, each day,

  Long as a year, each month,

  The music of the forest

  Would be pleasant to me now.

  Oh, why, is he separated from me by a wall?

  A roaring fire

  Has dissolved this head of mine.

  Without him, I cannot live.

  Then the door opened and an old woman hobbled in.

  “If you are a maidservant in Sitric’s house, I want none of you,” Mór told her immediately.

  The old woman chuckled. It was a curious, melodious chuckle and not really that of an old woman at all.

  “I am thinking that you have no liking for Sitric?”

  “Nor any man of Lochlann,” avowed Mór. “I am of the Eóghanachta.”

  “Ah, but do you tell me right?”

  “You have no reason to doubt my word. But if you do, it will not make it any the less the truth.”

  “True for you,” the old woman agreed. “Yes, you do have the Eóghanachta sureness in you.”

  Mór tossed her head in annoyance. “Be about your business, old woman, and leave me to my sorrow.”

  “Your sorrow being that you are separated from your lover, Cellachain?”

  Mór blushed but stuck out her chin defiantly. “Never my lover. Would that it be true. I saw him only once and gave him my heart. But. . .” she shrugged, “he never promised me more than a glance.”

  “Then you are a foolish child. Much may be read in a single glance. On such things are battles fought and won, or lost. And is it not written that you shall bear forth a line of Eóghanachta kings?”

  Mór was startled as to how the old woman would know this.

  “That was once foretold by the goddess Áine to my father, Aedh, when he visited Cnoc Áine.”

  “Indeed.”

  Then the old woman sang softly:

  “Mór will be her name and Great will be her fortune,

  She shall love the Bright-Headed son of Valour,

  The daughter of Fire shall triumph and bear the Raven-chosen king

  A line of great sons who shall rule the Rock until a woman of Red Hair,

  Shall come against them

  And she being of the kingdom of Britons.”

  “How do you know the prophecy?” demanded Mór.

  The old woman shook her head sadly.

  At that moment the door opened and in came Torna the Magician.

  “What are you doing here, woman?” he frowned, catching sight of the old one.

  “I am returning gift for gift,” she replied.

  “What gift has the girl given you, that you must return a gift?”

  “She has given me the gift of generations of Eóghanachta,” smiled the old one.

  With a cry, showing that he recognised her as an enemy, Torna sprang forward, drawing his knife but the old woman dissolved into a black cat and leapt from his grasp. Torna, using his magic power, turned himself into a black cat so that there was no difference between them and jumped at the other. Then the first black cat turned into a giant black raven.

  To and fro, shape-changing, the two creatures sped around the room, so that it made Mór dizzy as she attempted to keep track as to who was who.

  Soon exhaustion overcame the contestants.

  The magician and the old woman paused in their human forms.

  “A truce,” cried Torna. “And a proposition.”

  “What proposition is that?” demanded the old woman.

  “It is unseemly for the likes of us to be fighting over this girl,” Torna said. “Let us resolve the matter in a more gentle form.”

  “What form have you in mind, wizard of Lochlann?”

  “Let us shape-change and change to a similar form and see if the girl can choose between us. If she is able to discern the difference, then, on my honour, she shall be released.”

  The old woman turned to Mór.

  “It is for you to approve the conditions, Mór, daughter of Aedh.”

  With little enthusiasm, but realizing it was the only hope she had of getting out of Sitric’s prison, Mór reluctantly agreed.

  “Remember, your choice is for Cellachain of the bright head and does not my name also mean ‘brightness’?”

  Then, while Mór watched breathlessly, the old woman and Torna the wizard began to shape-change so rapidly, moving quickly around the room, that she grew dizzy again trying to keep track of who they were and where they were.

  Then, when she had shut her eyes to prevent the dizziness overtaking her, she sat back on the edge of the bed and said:

  “No more, no more. The changes have made me so dizzy that I cannot look upon you any more.”

  “We have stopped,” replied a voice.

  Mór looked up.

  Before her sat two black cats, so identical she had no way of telling which was which.

  “You may choose between us,” came the old woman’s voice from one cat.

  “But be assured, nothing is easy,” came the same old woman’s voice from the other.

  Mór was disappointed for she had hoped, in that moment, to have chosen the old woman. But both cats were the same.

  “Come, don’t take all day,” said one of the cats.

  Mór stared from one to another. Then she pursed her lips.

  “I will choose. You are the old woman,” she cried pointing to one of the cats. She did so because that cat’s eyes shone more brightly than those of the other cat, and the old woman had told her that her name meant “brightness”.

  In a flash, the old woman was back. Mór had chosen correctly. She turned to find the evil wizard, Torna, running towards her with a knife upheld in his hand. Before she could scream, the old woman was a great raven and its claws descended into the face of the wizard. He cried loudly and went reeling backwards, dropping his knife on the floor.

  Then the old woman was back and, before Mór had time to adjust to her, a young and radiantly beautiful woman stood in her place.

  “Take my
hand, Mór,” she said sweetly, “and trust in me, for I am Áine, protectoress of all who love truly.”

  There seemed to be a bright light and Mór blinked. When she opened her eyes, she was standing near a tent. Even as she looked on, the handsome, fair-haired figure of Cellachain came out. His surprise was replaced by a look of wondrous rejoicing.

  He simply held out his hands to her. No words needed to be said between them.

  It happened on the third morning that Cellachain went to the gates of Cashel and struck the door three times with the hilt of his sword. The door shuddered and swung open. In marched the warriors of the Eóghanachta, to reclaim their treasured castle and seat of the kingdom of Mumhan.

  So the kingdom of Mumhan was wrested back from the hands of the men of Lochlann and so the Dál gCais went quietly back to Thomond. Cennedig promised to keep the peace with Cashel and this he did. Torna died of his magical confrontation, for there is no action that does not demand a counter-action. And Sitric set sail in his longships back to Lochlann’s shores.

  So did the fortunes of the Eóghanachta rise up once again and Cellachain and Mór gave birth to many sons. As it had been foretold, so it came to be.

  Isle of Man (Ellan Vannin)

  The Isle of Man: Preface

  Until the eighteenth century, it is generally thought that most Manx folklore was transmitted orally. However, I would argue that, prior to the end of the sixteenth century, the evidence, fragmentary as it is, points to the fact that those islanders who were literate in their language would turn to Irish texts.

  There certainly exists a poem in praise of the Manx King, Raghnal I (1187–1226), by an unknown poet, where the language is identified as Middle Irish. We also have the interesting case of Archbishop Aodh Mac Cathmhaoil (1571–1626), appointed Primate of All Ireland. Although he was born in Co. Down, it is recorded that he was sent to the Isle of Man when he was about thirteen years old “to obtain . . . the education that was denied him at home”. We are told that he distinguished himself at his Manx school and remained as a teacher on the Island until he was twenty-six years old.

  Now Mac Cathmhaoil’s poems and prose, seen as part of the Ulster literary ethos, are still highly regarded and his works, such as Scathán Shacramuinte na h-Aithridhe (The Mirror of Penance), were published in Louvain in the early seventeenth century.

  Most printing in Irish was carried out on the Continent during this time, as the language was being systematically repressed in Ireland. Other Irish writers, such as Tuathal O hUiginn (d.1450) had lived and worked on the Island. This, I believe, indicates that a standard literary Gaelic was being used.

  When a distinctive Manx literature began to emerge, the similarities of theme and personality were easily observed. Mannánan Beg, Mac Y Leirr, ny slane coontey yeh Ellan Vannin was written down by John Kelly in 1770. This translates as “Little Mannánan, Son of Leirr, or an account of the Isle of Man”. This is the earliest surviving tale of the ocean god, after whom the Island is said to have been named. Scholars analysing the text of this poem believe that it was first composed in the early sixteenth century, for it describes an event in 1504.

  Even the stories of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and Ossian, the great Irish heroes, were told in the Island. Fin as Oshin was written down by Reverend Philip Moore in 1789. This was transcribed by Moore from the recitation of an old Manx woman and incorporated “King Orry” (the Manx king Godred Crovan – 1079–1095) into the Fenian saga.

  Most of the Manx stories retold in this volume are mainly drawn from oral traditions and they have interesting echoes in tales found in both Ireland, particularly in Donegal, and in Scotland. Island of the Ocean God relates to the hagiography of St Maughold, who appears in the stories of St Patrick as Mac Cuill and Mac Goill.

  Y Chadee, in a variant form, was first recorded by W. Ralf Hall Caine’s Annals of the Magic Isle, Cecil Palmer, 1926. Ralf was the brother of the famous Manx novelist Thomas Hall Caine, to whom the Irishman, Bram Stoker, dedicated his novel Dracula (1897) for he was known as “Little Tommy” to his Manx-speaking family – i.e. “Hommy Beg”. “Y Chadee” is the Manx name for the botanical plant Anaphilis margaritacea, which is known as “pearly everlasting”, and it seems a curious transposition in the story for the name of the young woman.

  The Ben-Varrey (The Mermaid) seems to be a Manx version of a tale which appears both in the Western Isles of Scotland and in Ireland and Brittany, and seems a favourite among Celtic story-tellers. This was passed on to me by Douglas Fargher. Another story he first introduced to me was The Lossyr-ny-Keylley, which is a goldfinch. This certainly has similarities with several stories found in Ireland.

  Poagey Liaur jeh Caillagh is actually a Manx version of a Donegal tale of nearly the same title, The Old Hag’s Long Leather Bag. But the Manx bag is not a long one. Seumas MacManus picked up the Donegal version in his Donegal Fairy Stories collection in 1900. The saga of Gilaspick Qualtrough has moments that are reflective of Barny O’Rierdon, the Navigator, collected in Samuel Lover’s Legends and Stories of Ireland (1831). But Gilaspick is altogether a different character from Barny!

  Most of these versions I noted down from various sources during my visits to the Island.

  I first visited the Isle of Man in 1964, when the late Douglas C. Fargher, the compiler of Fargher’s English-Manx Dictionary, 1979, introduced me to some of the tales. He also introduced me to Mona Douglas, who had been Alfred P. Graves’ secretary. Graves was the father of Robert Graves and an assiduous collector of Irish folktales. Mona Douglas, in turn, was a leading exponent of the Manx language and its culture and also a collector of its folktales.

  In the 1960s there was a great deal of activity on the Island in tracking down the cultural heritage, at a period when the last native speakers of the language were dying out. The last acknowledged native speaker was Ned Maddrell, who died on December 27, 1974, and is buried in his native Rushen. But, of course, a language is not snuffed out in such a fashion and many inhabitants of the island are still fluent speakers of the language.

  However, many texts in Manx were published prior to that time: such as the stories of Neddy Beg Horn Ruy (Edward Faragher of Cregneash – 1831–1908), which were lodged in the Manx National Museum. Some stories were already printed in the early 1950s, due to the efforts of Arthur S. B. Davies of the Cardiff Board of Celtic Studies. These were Skeaalyn Cheeil-Chiolllee (1952) and Juan Doo Shiauilteyr as Daa Skeeal Elley (1954).

  A study on Manx folklore had been published by A. W. Moore as The Folklore of the Isle of Man, back in 1891. However, no popular volume of Manx tales, along the lines found in other Celtic countries, was to be found. So, to some extent, Manx legends tend not to have the same “high profile” as those of other Celtic countries. Things altered somewhat when the Celtic scholar, Dr George Broderick, a Manxman himself, directed Ny Kirree Fo Naightey (The Sheep Under the Snow) for Foillan Films, showing what could be done in bringing Manx to people’s attention.

  I also spent six weeks on the Island in 1988 researching and polishing up some of the tales included here. My thanks for advice and information must go to Leslie Quirk, who was raised by his Manx-speaking grandparents at the age of three and became as near “a native speaker” as anyone can get. At the time, he was the warden of Thie ny Gaelgey, the Manx Language Centre, in the former St Jude’s Schoolhouse. I also enjoyed the warm hospitality of Mrs Joyce Fargher, Douglas Fargher’s widow. Douglas had been of so much help over the years. Dr George Broderick, Adrian Pilgrim, and Dr Brian Stowell were among many other Manx enthusiasts who have helped make my research tasks on the Island into a pleasant occupation.

  8 Island of the Ocean God

  Mac Cuill, which means “son of the hazel”, was, in fact, the son of the great god of eloquence and literacy, Ogma. He had so named his son, for the hazel is a mystical tree, and Ogma used it to signify the third letter of the alphabet which he had devised. And indeed, Mac Cuill was the third son of Ogma, for his brothers were Mac Gréine, “son of t
he sun”, and Mac Cécht, “son of the plough”. The three brothers were married to three sisters; Mac Gréine was married to the goddess Éire, while Mac Cécht was married to her sister Fótla and Mac Cuill was married to the youngest sister, named Banba.

  There came a time when the gods themselves fell from grace, when the sons of Míl conquered them. And it was said that Mac Gréine was slain by the great Druid Amairgen; that Mac Cécht met his end from the sword of Eremon; and that Mac Cuill was slain by the spear of Eber.

  And when the gods were defeated by the sons of Míl, the wives of Mac Gréine, Mac Cécht and Mac Cuill – Éire, Fótla and Banba – went to greet the conquerors of the land of Inisfáil, the Island of Destiny.

  “Welcome, warriors,” cried Éire. “To you who have come from afar, this island shall henceforth belong, and from the setting to the rising sun there is no better land. And your race will be the most perfect the world has ever seen.”

  Amairgen the Druid asked her what she wanted in reward for this blessing.

  “That you name this country after me,” replied Éire. But her sisters chimed in that the country should be named after them. So Amairgen promised that Éire would be the principal name for the country, while the poets of Míl would also hail the land by the names of Fótla and Banba. So it has been until this day.

  Now the sons of Ogma were gods, and therefore “The Ever-Living Ones”. They could not die completely and so their souls were passed on through the aeons. And in the rebirths of Mac Cuill, he began to lament the lost days of power, of the days he had been happy with Banba. He grew bitter and resentful with each rebirth until he was reborn as a petty thief in the kingdom of Ulaidh, which is one of the five provincial kingdoms of Éire. Each province was called cúige or a fifth, and the five made up the whole, and the whole, one and indivisible, was governed by the Ard-Rígh, or High King. There was no better thief in all Ulaidh than Mac Cuill, and he became the terror of the land. His deeds came to the ears of the High King himself and he sent his personal Brehon, or judge, named Dubhtach, to the provincial king of Ulaidh, saying: “Mac Cuill must be captured and punished.”