Irish Fairy Tales

by Stephens, James

  “These things also must he told,” said he.

  In particular he wished to gather tales which told of the deeds that had been done before the Gospel came to Ireland.

  “For,” said he, “there are very good tales among those ones, and it would be a pity if the people who come after us should be ignorant of what happened long ago, and of the deeds of their fathers.”

  So, whenever a story-teller chanced in that neighbourhood he was directed to the monastery, and there he received a welcome and his fill of all that is good for man.

  The abbot’s manuscript boxes began to fill up, and he used to regard that growing store with pride and joy. In the evenings, when the days grew short and the light went early, he would call for some one of these manuscripts and have it read to him by candle-light, in order that he might satisfy himself that it was as good as he had judged it to be on the previous hearing.

  One day a story-teller came to the monastery, and, like all the others, he was heartily welcomed and given a great deal more than his need.

  He said that his name was Cairidè, and that he had a story to tell which could not be bettered among the stories of Ireland.

  The abbot’s eyes glistened when he heard that. He rubbed his hands together and smiled on his guest.

  “What is the name of your story?” he asked.

  “It is called ‘Mongan’s Frenzy.’ ”

  “I never heard of it before,” cried the abbot joyfully.

  “I am the only man that knows it,” Cairidè replied.

  “But how does that come about?” the abbot inquired.

  “Because it belongs to my family,” the story-teller answered. “There was a Cairidè of my nation with Mongan when he went into Faery. This Cairidè listened to the story when it was first told. Then he told it to his son, and his son told it to his son, and that son’s great-great-grandson’s son told it to his son’s son, and he told it to my father, and my father told it to me.”

  “And you shall tell it to me,” cried the abbot triumphantly.

  “I will indeed,” said Cairidè.

  Vellum was then brought and quills. The copyists sat at their tables. Ale was placed beside the story-teller, and he told this tale to the abbot.

  Chapter 2

  Said Cairidè:

  Mongan’s wife at that time was Brótiarna, the Flame Lady. She was passionate and fierce, and because the blood would flood suddenly to her cheek, so that she who had seemed a lily became, while you looked upon her, a rose, she was called Flame Lady. She loved Mongan with ecstasy and abandon, and for that also he called her Flame Lady.

  But there may have been something of calculation even in her wildest moment, for if she was delighted in her affection she was tormented in it also, as are all those who love the great ones of life and strive to equal themselves where equality is not possible.

  For her husband was at once more than himself and less than himself. He was less than himself because he was now Mongan. He was more than himself because he was one who had long disappeared from the world of men. His lament had been sung and his funeral games played many, many years before, and Brótiarna sensed in him secrets, experiences, knowledges in which she could have no part, and for which she was greedily envious.

  So she was continually asking him little, simple questions à propos of every kind of thing.

  She weighed all that he said on whatever subject, and when he talked in his sleep she listened to his dream.

  The knowledge that she gleaned from those listenings tormented her far more than it satisfied her, for the names of other women were continually on his lips, sometimes in terms of dear affection, sometimes in accents of anger or despair, and in his sleep he spoke familiarly of people whom the story-tellers told of, but who had been dead for centuries. Therefore she was perplexed, and became filled with a very rage of curiosity.

  Among the names which her husband mentioned there was one which, because of the frequency with which it appeared, and because of the tone of anguish and love and longing in which it was uttered, she thought of oftener than the others: this name was Duv Laca. Although she questioned and cross-questioned Cairidè, her story-teller, she could discover nothing about a lady who had been known as the Black Duck. But one night when Mongan seemed to speak with Duv Laca he mentioned her father as Fiachna Duv mac Demain, and the story-teller said that king had been dead for a vast number of years.

  She asked her husband then, boldly, to tell her the story of Duv Laca, and under the influence of their mutual love he promised to tell it to her some time, but each time she reminded him of his promise he became confused, and said that he would tell it some other time.

  As time went on the poor Flame Lady grew more and more jealous of Duv Laca, and more and more certain that, if only she could know what had happened, she would get some ease to her tormented heart and some assuagement of her perfectly natural curiosity. Therefore she lost no opportunity of reminding Mongan of his promise, and on each occasion he renewed the promise and put it back to another time.

  Chapter 3

  In the year when Ciaran the son of the Carpenter died, the same year when Tuathal Maelgariv was killed and the year when Diarmait the son of Cerrbel became king of all Ireland, the year 538 of our era in short, it happened that there was a great gathering of the men of Ireland at the Hill of Uisneach in Royal Meath.

  In addition to the Council which was being held, there were games and tournaments and brilliant deployments of troops, and universal feastings and enjoyments. The gathering lasted for a week, and on the last day of the week Mongan was moving through the crowd with seven guards, his story-teller Cairidè, and his wife.

  It had been a beautiful day, with brilliant sunshine and great sport, but suddenly clouds began to gather in the sky to the west, and others came rushing blackly from the east. When these clouds met the world went dark for a space, and there fell from the sky a shower of hailstones, so large that each man wondered at their size, and so swift and heavy that the women and young people of the host screamed from the pain of the blows they received.

  Mongan’s men made a roof of their shields, and the hailstones battered on the shields so terribly that even under them they were afraid. They began to move away from the host looking for shelter, and when they had gone apart a little way they turned the edge of a small hill and a knoll of trees, and in the twinkling of an eye they were in fair weather.

  One minute they heard the clashing and bashing of the hailstones, the howling of the venomous wind, the screams of women and the uproar of the crowd on the Hill of Uisneach, and the next minute they heard nothing more of those sounds and saw nothing more of these sights, for they had been permitted to go at one step out of the world of men and into the world of Faery.

  Chapter 4

  There is a difference between this world and the world of Faery, but it is not immediately perceptible. Everything that is here is there, but the things that are there are better than those that are here. All things that are bright are there brighter. There is more gold in the sun and more silver in the moon of that land. There is more scent in the flowers, more savour in the fruit. There is more comeliness in the men and more tenderness in the women. Everything in Faery is better by this one wonderful degree, and it is by this betterness you will know that you are there if you should ever happen to get there.

  Mongan and his companions stepped from the world of storm into sunshine and a scented world. The instant they stepped they stood, bewildered, looking at each other silently, questioningly, and then with one accord they turned to look back whence they had come.

  There was no storm behind them. The sunlight drowsed there as it did in front, a peaceful flooding of living gold. They saw the shapes of the country to which their eyes were accustomed, and recognised the well-known landmarks, but it seemed that the distant hills were a trifle higher, and the grass which clothed them and stretched between was greener, was more velvety: that the trees were better clothed and had mo
re of peace as they hung over the quiet ground.

  But Mongan knew what had happened, and he smiled with glee as he watched his astonished companions, and he sniffed that balmy air as one whose nostrils remembered it.

  “You had better come with me,” he said.

  “Where are we?” his wife asked.

  “Why, we are here,” cried Mongan; “where else should we be?”

  He set off then, and the others followed, staring about them cautiously, and each man keeping a hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Are we in Faery?” the Flame Lady asked.

  “We are,” said Mongan.

  When they had gone a little distance they came to a grove of ancient trees. Mightily tall and well-grown these trees were, and the trunk of each could not have been spanned by ten broad men. As they went among these quiet giants into the dappled obscurity and silence, their thoughts became grave, and all the motions of their minds elevated as though they must equal in greatness and dignity those ancient and glorious trees. When they passed through the grove they saw a lovely house before them, built of mellow wood and with a roof of bronze—it was like the dwelling of a king, and over the windows of the Sunny Room there was a balcony. There were ladies on this balcony, and when they saw the travellers approaching they sent messengers to welcome them.

  Mongan and his companions were then brought into the house, and all was done for them that could be done for honoured guests. Everything within the house was as excellent as all without, and it was inhabited by seven men and seven women, and it was evident that Mongan and these people were well acquainted.

  In the evening a feast was prepared, and when they had eaten well there was a banquet. There were seven vats of wine, and as Mongan loved wine he was very happy, and he drank more on that occasion than any one had ever noticed him to drink before.

  It was while he was in this condition of glee and expansion that the Flame Lady put her arms about his neck and begged he would tell her the story of Duv Laca, and, being boisterous then and full of good spirits, he agreed to her request, and he prepared to tell the tale.

  The seven men and seven women of the Fairy Palace then took their places about him in a half-circle; his own seven guards sat behind them; his wife, the Flame Lady, sat by his side; and at the back of all Cairidè his story-teller sat, listening with all his ears, and remembering every word that was uttered.

  Chapter 5

  Said Mongan:

  In the days of long ago and the times that have disappeared for ever, there was one Fiachna Finn the son of Baltan, the son of Murchertach, the son of Muredach, the son of Eogan, the son of Neill. He went from his own country when he was young, for he wished to see the land of Lochlann, and he knew that he would be welcomed by the king of that country, for Fiachna’s father and Eolgarg’s father had done deeds in common and were obliged to each other.

  He was welcomed, and he stayed at the Court of Lochlann in great ease and in the midst of pleasures.

  It then happened that Eolgarg Mor fell sick and the doctors could not cure him. They sent for other doctors, but they could not cure him, nor could any one say what he was suffering from, beyond that he was wasting visibly before their eyes, and would certainly become a shadow and disappear in air unless he was healed and fattened and made visible.

  They sent for more distant doctors, and then for others more distant still, and at last they found a man who claimed that he could make a cure if the king were supplied with the medicine which he would order.

  “What medicine is that?” said they all.

  “This is the medicine,” said the doctor. “Find a perfectly white cow with red ears, and boil it down in the lump, and if the king drinks that rendering he will recover.”

  Before he had well said it messengers were going from the palace in all directions looking for such a cow. They found lots of cows which were nearly like what they wanted, but it was only by chance they came on the cow which would do the work, and that beast belonged to the most notorious and malicious and cantankerous female in Lochlann, the Black Hag. Now the Black Hag was not only those things that have been said; she was also whiskered and warty and one-eyed and obstreperous, and she was notorious and ill-favoured in many other ways also.

  They offered her a cow in the place of her own cow, but she refused to give it. Then they offered a cow for each leg of her cow, but she would not accept that offer unless Fiachna went bail for the payment. He agreed to do so, and they drove the beast away.

  On the return journey he was met by messengers who brought news from Ireland. They said that the King of Ulster was dead, and that he, Fiachna Finn, had been elected king in the dead king’s place. He at once took ship for Ireland, and found that all he had been told was true, and he took up the government of Ulster.

  They offered a cow for each leg of her cow, but she would not accept that

  offer unless Fiachna went bail for the payment

  Chapter 6

  A year passed, and one day as he was sitting at judgement there came a great noise from without, and this noise was so persistent that the people and suitors were scandalised, and Fiachna at last ordered that the noisy person should be brought before him to be judged.

  It was done, and to his surprise the person turned out to be the Black Hag.

  She blamed him in the court before his people, and complained that he had taken away her cow, and that she had not been paid the four cows he had gone bail for, and she demanded judgement from him and justice.

  “If you will consider it to be justice, I will give you twenty cows myself,” said Fiachna.

  “I would not take all the cows in Ulster,” she screamed.

  “Pronounce judgement yourself,” said the king, “and if I can do what you demand I will do it.” For he did not like to be in the wrong, and he did not wish that any person should have an unsatisfied claim upon him.

  The Black Hag then pronounced judgement, and the king had to fulfil it.

  “I have come,” said she, “from the east to the west; you must come from the west to the east and make war for me, and revenge me on the King of Lochlann.”

  Fiachna had to do as she demanded, and, although it was with a heavy heart, he set out in three days’ time for Lochlann, and he brought with him ten battalions.

  He sent messengers before him to Big Eolgarg warning him of his coming, of his intention, and of the number of troops he was bringing; and when he landed Eolgarg met him with an equal force, and they fought together.

  In the first battle three hundred of the men of Lochlann were killed, but in the next battle Eolgarg Mor did not fight fair, for he let some venomous sheep out of a tent, and these attacked the men of Ulster and killed nine hundred of them.

  So vast was the slaughter made by these sheep and so great the terror they caused, that no one could stand before them, but by great good luck there was a wood at hand, and the men of Ulster, warriors and princes and charioteers, were forced to climb up the trees, and they roosted among the branches like great birds, while the venomous sheep ranged below bleating terribly and tearing up the ground.

  Fiachna Finn was also sitting in a tree, very high up, and he was disconsolate.

  “We are disgraced!” said he.

  “It is very lucky,” said the man in the branch below, “that a sheep cannot climb a tree.”

  “We are disgraced for ever!” said the King of Ulster.

  “If those sheep learn how to climb, we are undone surely,” said the man below.

  “I will go down and fight the sheep,” said Fiachna. But the others would not let the king go.

  “It is not right,” they said, “that you should fight sheep.”

  “Some one must fight them,” said Fiachna Finn, “but no more of my men shall die until I fight myself; for if I am fated to die, I will die and I cannot escape it, and if it is the sheep’s fate to die, then die they will; for there is no man can avoid destiny, and there is no sheep can dodge it either.”

&nbs
p; “Praise be to god!” said the warrior that was higher up.

  “Amen!” said the man who was higher than he, and the rest of the warriors wished good luck to the king.

  He started then to climb down the tree with a heavy heart, but while he hung from the last branch and was about to let go, he noticed a tall warrior walking towards him. The king pulled himself up on the branch again and sat dangle-legged on it to see what the warrior would do.

  The stranger was a very tall man, dressed in a green cloak with a silver brooch at the shoulder. He had a golden band about his hair and golden sandals on his feet, and he was laughing heartily at the plight of the men of Ireland.

  Chapter 7

  It is not nice of you to laugh at us,” said Fiachna Finn.

  “Who could help laughing at a king hunkering on a branch and his army roosting around him like hens?” said the stranger.

  “Nevertheless,” the king replied, “it would be courteous of you not to laugh at misfortune.”

  “We laugh when we can,” commented the stranger, “and are thankful for the chance.”

  “You may come up into the tree,” said Fiachna, “for I perceive that you are a mannerly person, and I see that some of the venomous sheep are charging in this direction. I would rather protect you,” he continued, “than see you killed; for,” said he lamentably, “I am getting down now to fight the sheep.”

  “They will not hurt me,” said the stranger.

  “Who are you?” the king asked.

  “I am Manannán, the son of Lir.”

  Fiachna knew then that the stranger could not be hurt.

  “What will you give me if I deliver you from the sheep?” asked Manannán.

  “I will give you anything you ask, if I have that thing.”