The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  As Scáthach watched, the youth trotted up to the end of the bridge. She smiled and turned to Cochar Croibhe. “We will wait to see if he can overcome this obstacle, to assess his worthiness.”

  They waited. The youth came and examined the bridge and then, to their surprise, he sat down on the far shore and built a fire, where he rested.

  “He cannot cross,” chuckled Cochar Croibhe. “He waits for us to go out and show him the way.”

  Scáthach shook her head. “Not so. I think he does but rest from his long journey here; when his strength is recovered, he will attempt the crossing.”

  Sure enough, when the grey mists of evening were approaching, the youth suddenly stood up. He walked back a distance and made a run at the bridge. As soon as his foot touched the end of it, it rose up and flung him backwards. He landed without dignity on his back on the ground. Cochar Croibhe laughed sourly.

  “He is not finished yet,” smiled Scáthach. “Look.”

  The youth tried once more, and again he was flung off the bridge but thankfully not into the foaming waters below. A third time he tried, and with the same result. Then the youth stood for a while in thought. They saw him walk back a distance and run for the bridge.

  “My best sword as a wager that he will be thrown into the sea this time,” cried Cochar Croibhe eagerly.

  “Done! My best shield will answer your wager,” cried Scáthach in reply.

  With the fourth leap, the youth landed on the centre of the bridge. In a fraction of a second, it started to rise but the youth had made a further leap and was safely across and at the gates of Dún Scaith, demanding entrance.

  “Let us go down and admit this young man, for his courage and vigour has won him a place in this academy, whatever his name and station.”

  Grumbling at the loss of his best sword, Cochar Croibhe went and brought the youth in and escorted him into the presence of Scáthach.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am named Setanta, and I am from the kingdom of Ulaidh.”

  Scáthach’s eyes widened as she gazed on the handsome, muscular youth. “I have heard that a youth named Setanta, coming late to a feast at the fortress of Cullan, was confronted by a ferocious hound, which Cullan, thinking his guests were all in the fortress, had loosed to guard the place. This hound was so strong that Cullan had no fear of attack, save only if an entire army marched on his fortress. The story I heard was that when this youth was attacked by the hound, he killed it. And while the warriors of Ulaidh were amazed by the feat, Cullan was sorrowful that his faithful hound had died for the safety of his house. The youth Setanta then offered to guard Cullan’s house until such time as a hound whelp had been trained to take its sire’s place. So Setanta became Cullan’s hound – Cúchullain.”

  “I am that Setanta, the hound of Cullan,” replied the youth solemnly.

  “Then you are thrice welcome, Cúchullain.”

  Cochar Croibhe glowered in the background, for jealousy was in his soul.

  It happened that Scáthach had a beautiful daughter and her name was Uathach, which means “spectre”. It was Uathach’s duty to serve at the table when the students of her mother’s academy were having their evening meal. One evening, therefore, when Uathach was serving meat, she came to the young man Setanta. She held out the dish of meat to him and he took it.

  Their eyes met and, through their eyes, their souls found attraction.

  In this moment, Setanta forgot his strength and, in taking the dish of meat from the girl’s hands, his hand closed upon hers and her finger broke in his grasp.

  Uathach let out a scream of anguish.

  Setanta dropped to his knees before her and asked for her forgiveness. This the girl, in spite of her pain, willingly gave.

  But Cochar Croibhe, the jealous doorkeeper, who had already cause to dislike the young man, came running into the feasting hall in answer to the girl’s cry. Now it was known that Cochar Croibhe coveted Uathach, and his amorous suit had twice been rejected by her, in spite of the fact that he was acclaimed the bravest champion at Dún Scaith . . . with the exception of Scáthach, of course.

  Straightaway he challenged Setanta to single combat, as reparation for the injury.

  Uathach protested that she had already forgiven the young man, but Cochar Croibhe grew insulting and spoke of a boy hiding behind the apron of a girl.

  Setanta stood quietly, for he was not one to lose his temper without just cause.

  Osmiach, the physician, having heard Uathach’s scream, came into the feasting hall and set the girl’s finger and applied pain-killing poultices.

  All the while Cochar Croibhe, in spite of Uathach’s protests, taunted young Setanta. Finally, he pointed out that everyone knew that Setanta had no father, for was it not common knowledge that his mother, Dectera, had vanished one day from the court of Conchobhar Mac Nessa and then reappeared with the boy child, which she named Setanta?

  Now this was true, for Dectera had been beloved of none other than the great god Lugh Lámhfada, and the child was Lugh’s gift to Ulaidh. But Setanta could not bear to hear his mother so insulted.

  “Choose your weapons,” he finally snapped at Cochar Croibhe, who was a master of all weapons, but was incomparable with the spear or javelin.

  “Javelin and buckler!”

  And with that the two went out into the courtyard of Dún Scaith.

  Scáthach had the power to stop the fight but she did not. “We shall see,” mused Scáthach to herself, watching from a window. “If Setanta bests Cochar Croibhe in combat, then it will mean that I am right to have accepted him, for he will become the greatest champion of Ulaidh.”

  And the combat commenced.

  Cochar Croibhe came running forward, buckler before him, javelin held high.

  Setanta merely stood there, watching his coming with a frown. He did not even raise his buckler to defend himself. Yet his muscles tightened on his javelin and moved it back into position. Then Cochar Croibhe halted in his run, halted a split second, dropped his buckler and held back his arm for the throw. At that point, Setanta loosed his own javelin. So fast and so swiftly did it cleave the air that it transfixed Cochar Croibhe before he had time to cast his own spear. Spear and buckler dropped from his grasp and he sank on his knees, staring in horrified surprise. Then he collapsed on his side.

  “Dead,” exclaimed Osmiach the physician dispassionately.

  Setanta’s gaze met that of Uathach, but she was not distressed. Admiration shone from her eyes.

  Scáthach appeared, standing frowning at the young man. “You have slain my gatekeeper,” she said, without emotion.

  “Then as I fulfilled the duties of Cullan’s hound, and guarded Cullan’s fortress, let me now be your gatekeeper for as long as I stay here.”

  So it was, that for a year and a day, Setanta stayed at the martial arts academy of Scáthach and, each night, Uathach warmed his bed. And Scáthach herself taught Setanta all he needed to know to become the greatest warrior in all Éireann, and the fame of Cúchullain, or Cullan’s hound – for as such he was better known than as Setanta – spread far and wide.

  At the end of a year and a day, Scáthach drew Setanta to her and led the way down to a large underground cavern, where none but they were allowed to enter. Inside, lit by brand torches, was a great pool of bubbling sulphur, warm and liquid grey.

  “Here we will make the final test,” Scáthach announced. “We will wrestle and it shall be the winner of three throws who shall be the greater.”

  “I cannot wrestle you!” protested Setanta, for as much as he realised that she was the greatest female champion of Alba, it was against his sense of honour to wrestle a woman.

  “You will wrestle as I direct, or it shall be known that you feared a challenge from me,” she said simply.

  So the two of them stripped off, there and then, and took their places on either side of the sulphur pool. At the first clash, Scáthach threw Setanta. The next time they touched, Seta
nta, no longer fearful to harm her, threw her. And then the third time they came together in the centre of the sulphur pool. They held each other so tightly in an embrace that neither could throw the other. And, after an hour, Scáthach released her hold and said: “The pupil has become the master.”

  Setanta then made love with her, for it is written that the apprentice must show his willingness to marry his vocation.

  In return, Scáthach gave Setanta a special spear, which was called the Gae-Bolg, or belly spear. This spear was thrown by the foot. It made one small wound when it entered a man’s body but then thirty terrible barbs opened so that it filled every limb and crevice with mortal wounds. Scáthach gave this to Setanta and taught him how to cast it.

  And both Scáthach and Uathach knew that the time was now approaching when Setanta would leave Dún Scaith.

  It happened about this time that Scáthach received a challenge to combat from her own sister Aoife, whose name means “radiantly beautiful”. Now she was Scáthach’s twin sister and they had both been born of the goddess of war, the Mórrígán. Each was as proficient as the other in arms, but each claimed to be the superior of the other. Sibling rivalry warped their relationship.

  Aoife had sent Scáthach a message saying: “I hear that you have a new champion at Dún Scaith. Let us test his mettle. My champions and your champions will contest together.”

  When she read this, Scáthach was fearful for the safely of Setanta, for she knew, deep in her heart, that her sister was the greater of the two; that she was the fiercest and strongest champion in the world. But the challenge could not be rejected, and so Scáthach prepared her warriors to go out and meet her sister Aoife.

  The night before they were to set forth, Scáthach called Osmiach the physician to her, and told him to prepare a potion which would send a man to sleep for four-and-twenty hours. And Osmiach prepared the sleeping draught, and it was administered in secret to Setanta.

  The warriors of Scáthach set out to meet the warriors of Aoife.

  What Scáthach overlooked was that the potion, which might have caused an ordinary man to sleep for four and twenty hours, only held Setanta in sleep for one hour.

  As the armies gathered, great was Scáthach’s astonishment when Setanta’s chariot came careering up and he joined her lines, for he had followed Scáthach’s army by the tracks of the chariots.

  The champions met in combat and great deeds were wrought that day. Setanta and two sons of Scáthach fought with six of Aoife’s mightiest warriors and slew them. Several of Scáthach’s pupils were cut down, but they did not fall alone. As the day grew dark, both armies were still evenly matched.

  Then Aoife challenged Scáthach directly to combat to resolve matters.

  Setanta intervened and claimed the champion’s right to meet Aoife in place of Scáthach and such was the ethic of the situation that Scáthach could not refuse him.

  “Before I go,” Setanta said, “tell me what your sister Aoife loves and values most in the world.”

  Scáthach frowned. “Why, she loves her two horses, her chariot and her charioteer, in that order.”

  So Setanta drove out into the battlefield to meet Aoife.

  At first, he was amazed that Aoife was so like Scáthach, but her beauty seemed more radiant than Scáthach’s and she handled her weapons with greater dexterity. It was truly said that she was the greater warrior of the two. They clashed together, Setanta and Aoife. They fought in single combat and tried every champion’s feat they knew. Blow to blow, shield to shield, eye to eye.

  Then skill was with Aoife. She aimed such a blow that the sword of Setanta shattered at the hilt. She raised her sword for the final strike.

  Setanta cried out: “Look! Your horses and chariot have fallen from the cliff into the gorge!”

  Aoife hesitated and glanced round fearfully.

  At once, Setanta rushed forward, seized her around the waist and flung her to the ground. Before she could recover, there was a knife at her throat and Setanta was demanding her surrender. Angrily, she realized that she had no option but to plead for her life and Setanta granted it, on condition that she made a lasting peace with her sister Scáthach and gave Scáthach hostages for the fulfilment of the pledge.

  “You are the first person who has bested me in combat,” Aoife ruefully admitted, staring at the handsome youth. “Albeit, it was by a trick.”

  “Victory is victory, however it was achieved,” replied Setanta calmly.

  “There is wisdom on your tongue,” agreed Aoife. “Come and join me at my fortress, that we may get better acquainted.”

  To this invitation, Setanta agreed.

  Scáthach and her daughter Uathach watched his departure with Aoife in sadness but in resignation of his destiny. He would become Aoife’s lover and she would bear his son, Connla, whom the gods would force him to kill. In sadness, he would stride forth to become the defender of Ulaidh, his name praised in the mouths of all men; charioteers and warriors, kings and sages would recount his deeds and he would win the love of many. He would be Cúchullain. And whenever the name of Cúchullain was spoken, the name of his famous tutor would also drop from the tongue – Scáthach, the Shadowy One, ruler of Dún Scaith on the Isle of Skye.

  15 Princess of the Fomorii

  Long ago, in high-hilled Alba, there dwelt a band of mighty warriors called the Feans. Their chieftain was Fingal. No other warriors could stand against them, for they were the greatest champions in all the five kingdoms of Alba.

  One day, returning from a quest to help the King of the Western Isles, their ship was forced to pass over the Eas-Ruaidh, the Red Cataract, but its waters were suddenly stilled. No wind blew and the surface of the sea became as clear as crystal, without the remotest ripple. The sun shone down brightly and, leaning over the railing of their ship, they could see the salmon beneath the waves, resting before their journey into the great rivers of the mainland.

  As the warriors peered about, wondering why their ship had suddenly been becalmed, a further curious thing happened.

  The land of the Fomorii was revealed to them. Now the Fomorii were the dwellers under the sea, and their country was suddenly seen through the crystal of the sea as if through a piece of glass – like a window. It was a fair country of deep green forests, bright flowers and silver streams. The rocks were of gold and the sands were of silver. Precious jewels were the pebbles of its shores.

  In the deathly hush, the Feans looked down, enraptured but unsure of what this vision could mean.

  Then one of them called softly, pointing to a boat which seemed to float up from the land beneath the waves and approach them. The boat was rowed by a woman of breathtaking beauty, who handled the oars with great dexterity, so that not even a ripple showed where she dipped them into the water. The boat approached and came alongside the warship of the Feans.

  The lovely vision of womanhood stepped out and the Feans could now see that there was a deep sadness on her lovely features.

  “Greetings to you, men of the Feans,” she intoned sweetly.

  Fingal, their chieftain, rose from his seat and came towards her, pausing to salute her, for it seemed to him that she was no ordinary woman who could row her boat from the land beneath the waves into this world.

  “You are welcome, fair lady,” he said. “Speak your name and tell us what country you come from and what it is that you seek among us, the Feans of high-hilled Alba.”

  “Thank you, Fingal the Fair,” replied the young woman. “I am Muirgen, the daughter of the King of the Fomorii, the Dwellers Under the Sea. I have searched for you and the Feans for many months.”

  “You bear an appropriate name, Princess of the Fomorii,” replied Fingal, for Muirgen meant “born of the sea”. “Now tell us why it is that you have searched for us, and what it is that you require from us.”

  “I have come to seek your help, and I am much in need of it. I am pursued by enemies.”

  Fingal at once clapped his hand to his sword and his eye
s darted this way and that, as if seeking the enemies she alluded to. “Fear not of enemies, Princess. You are among warriors who fear no enemy. Tell us, who is it who dares to pursue you?”

  “The Tighearna Dubh is he that pursues me. The Dark Lord, who is the son of the Tighearna Bàn of the Sciatha Ruaidh. He desires to seize my father’s kingdom and, not being able to do so by force, he means to make me his bride. My father, however, is now old and has no male heir and so has weakened in his resolve. He says that the Tighearna Dubh is as good as any other prince and that I must wed him. I have defied him, as I have defied the Tighearna Dubh. Great is your prowess, Fingal. I have taken an oath that none but you shall take me back to my palace under the waves and drive the Dark Lord from it.”

  Oscar, the grandson of Fingal, who was a great warrior and very handsome, came forward. “Princess, even if Fingal was not here, I and all the Feans would protect you from this Dark Lord. He will not dare to seize you.”

  As he spoke, a dark shadow suddenly fell across their ship, causing the entire seascape to be shrouded in darkness, as if it were suddenly night. The Feans peered upward, seeking an explanation, for they had not noticed any storm-clouds gathering. Indeed, the shadow was not caused by clouds, but by a mighty warrior astride a great blue-grey stallion with a white mane and tail, which pranced across the sky snorting with white foam on its nostrils and from its muzzle. On the warrior’s head was a flashing silver helmet, on his left arm was a large silver shield and in his right hand was a mighty sword, whose steel surface flashed like lightning.

  Faster than the mountain torrent sped his mighty horse as it came swiftly towards the ship of the Feans. Now the tranquil seas broke and the waves rose underneath the galloping hooves. The breath of the beast caused the seas to churn, as if before the gusts of an uncontrollable tempest. In fact, the waves drove the great ship of the Feans shorewards, the little boat of the Princess of the Fomorii along with it, bobbing like corks in a tub. The Feans used all their seamanship but the ship sped straight for a sandy shore and was beached. Whereupon Fingal gave the word, and his warriors leapt ashore with shield and swords at the ready to confront this mighty warrior.