by Rab Fulton
For Jennie, Dylan and Callum
First published 2018
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
©Rab Fulton, 2018
Illustrations © Marina Wild, 2018
The right of Rab Fulton to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 7509 8665 6
Typesetting and origination by The History Press
Printed and bound by CPI Group Ltd
eBook converted by Geethik Technologies
Contents
1 The Curious Hill
2 The Nature of Fairies
3 In the Beginning
4 God’s New Policy
5 Punishment and Exile
6 Life on Earth
7 The Testimony of Fintan Mac Bochra
8 Of Gods and Men
9 End Days
10 Lord Kirwan’s Bride
11 The Pooka and the Boy
12 The White Trout
13 The Three Spouses
Notes from the Author
1
The Curious Hill
Knockma is a curious hill. It rises up from the flat fertile plains of North Galway like the beer belly of a giant who drank too much a couple of eons ago and then lay down for a sleep and sank into the ground, leaving only his gigantic round gut sticking out. A gigantic gut that, over the centuries, became blanketed by soil and mulch and oak and ash and edible plants such as Herb Robert.
This is not entirely unlikely, as the west of Ireland was once absolutely stuffed full of mountain-sized people. But, like mountains, the giants all seem to have got a bit sleepy and they had pretty much vanished by the time Saint Patrick arrived on these shores. Imagining Knockma as a giant’s belly is not a sign of foolishness; rather it is proof that you are blessed with a lively imagination and a good appreciation of the legends of the west. However, in actual fact Knockma is not a giant’s belly. Rather, its shape is evidence of something far more magical.
If you take a walk up Knockma, you will encounter clues as to the true nature of the hill. Walkers follow a path that winds around the side of the hill facing the ruins of Castle Hacket. By unspoken agreement people normally follow the path in a clockwise direction. There may be nothing to this, just a simple case of people following the route of those in front of them, for even when it is quiet there are always other people on the hill.
But what is curious is the subtle atmosphere of the hill. Sometimes you may get a little tired – leg-weary, as it were – and think to yourself, ‘I need some refreshment’. At that very instant a gentle flurry of rain will fall on you. Or perhaps the day has too much bleakness and dreichness about it, and your walk is suffering a little too much from the cold and dark. ‘Oh, I wish it was warmer,’ you mutter, and in that very instant the clouds part and strong sunlight wraps itself around you like a blanket or an embrace from the cosmos. It lasts only a moment but it perks you up and gives you the boost you need to continue walking.
The opposite may also happen. You begin your walk on a perfect day, warm with a little breeze. You are feeling in fine fettle, with your favourite walking boots on, a backpack filled with food and water, and good companions to share the journey with. Yet for all this positivity, the walk quickly becomes a drudge. Where there are trees overhead the air is thick and cloying. In the open, the wind is sharp or the sun too eager. Soon you and your friends feel energy and enthusiasm fading away. It is as if, on this particular day, the hill does not want visitors, and is making the point that it would prefer it if you left.
However, if you keep going the drained feeling will pass; soon enough your mood will lift and the walk will become a pleasure once more. If the hill was asking you to leave, it clearly does not want to make too big a deal of it. The hill is subtle and does not want to draw too much attention to the disturbing possibility that it may be able to think and be touched by moods and emotions.
The subtlety of atmospheric conditions on the hill and its surroundings have been commented on by many people. In the 1880s the antiquarian G.H. Kinahan noted that ‘The soft breezes that pass one in an evening in West Galway are … said to be due to the flight of a band of the good people on their way to Cnockmaa (Hill of the Plain), near Castle Hackett, on the east of Lough Corrib … A soft hot blast indicates the presence of a good fairy; while a sudden shiver shows that a bad one is near.’
Knockma is clearly a hill with a reputation. It also has secrets that the path keeps visitors far away from. For the path only stays on the side of the hill facing the ruins of the ancient Castle Hacket Tower. It is a great path for walking, with woods and dips and bumps for exploring or wandering in. One of those dips is referred to as the fairy glen, but most people regard the name as a curiosity rather than a clue. However, what most people do not realise is that there are far more fascinating things to be seen up on the top of the hill, things that you could never guess at if you just followed the path.
If you do leave the path and scramble your way up the mulch-scented slope, past the short wind-sculpted and moss-clad trees, you will soon come to the very top of Knockma and see there the remains of huge prehistoric cairns, some of which may have been built nine thousand years ago. From the top you can look down on a landscape as clear and precise as any map. Look, there are the fertile farmlands that stretch up to Cong; and then from Cong we can follow Lough Corrib glittering its way south and south-east down towards Galway Bay; and beyond the Bay, softened by the vast distance, stand the hills of the Burren in County Clare. This one hill dominates it all.
The view and the great ancient stony mounds are the evidence that this hill has long been regarded as a unique and magical place. And this is rightly so, for Knockma is not merely a hill. It is in fact the palace of a very ancient and powerful being. His name is Finnbheara. He is a being with the power to make crops blossom or make crops wilt and fail. He has the military savvy to defeat the fairy armies that have been sent against him from the kingdoms of Munster, Leinster and Scotland, and yet the happy indifference of a child who laughs off such battles as mere games and momentary pleasures. He is the most powerful fairy in the two kingdoms of Ireland and Scotland, though his influence and power stretches well beyond this world into many others. For as well as being the king of the Connacht fairies, Finnbheara is the Lord of the Dead.
2
The Nature of Fairies
Before examining the history of Finnbheara and his kind, it is well to clarify a number of things. What is of particular importance is that the magical beings who exist alongside us do not approve of the word ‘fairy’. It is a word that has become synonymous with pretty little creatures with gossamer wings and sparkly wands. These little creatures can be a bit naughty, like Tinkerbell in J.M. Barry’s Peter Pan, but in the main they are as sweet as puppies. The creatures who live in Ireland and Scotland are not sweet, and while they can appear pretty, they can also warp into horrific guises that would leave you trembling in fear for the remaining span of your life.
There are better ways of describing
such beings. In Irish they are the daoine sídhe, ‘the people of the mounds’, as they live in hills. It is well also to refer to them politely as the daoine maithe, ‘the good people’, in the hope that they will look well on you, or perhaps at least not look ill upon you. Another way of encouraging the daoine maithe to look on you kindly is to leave little gifts as a mark of respect. These gifts can be as simple as a glass of wine or a cup of milk. In return the daoine maithe are content to allow us mere mortals to evoke their names in other rituals.
I have heard that in the poorer households of Scotland and Ireland there was once a meal-time tradition that involved children leaving a bit of food at the side of their plate for the ‘wee man’. These little scraps of food were in fact what the mother of the household ate after her family had finished their meal. It was a tradition that travelled the world with the hungry emigrants of these two nations. Five years or so ago I was talking to an elderly American woman who was visiting Galway to see the lands her ancestors had left. As we spoke she told me about her own childhood and in particular her Irish grandmother who told her to always remember to leave a little bit of food aside for the ‘wee man’.
So the idea of ‘fairies’ can be used by humans for trickery, but if the trickery carries no ill will towards them, then the daoine maithe are happy enough to ignore it. Certainly there is no account of the daoine maithe having ever being offended by the ‘wee man’ food ritual.
However, it is very important to remember that the daoine maithe are not always helpful. They are a capricious species. If it pleases them to do so, they will bring you good fortune. But, if their mood changes they can be wicked and cruel – their deeds may even be described as ‘evil’. They kidnap the fairest-looking men, women and children. They have poisonous darts that they fire at farmhands and livestock. They ruin crops and rip off roofs.
What is the root of their anger, you may ask? Well, the trouble may be that these magical creatures are old, incredibly old, older even than the earth and the moon and the sun and the stars. Not only are they old, but they may even be immortal. Long after the moon fails and the seas gang dry, still these creatures will carry on existing in some form or other.
3
In the Beginning
Long before time began, long before this physical universe we inhabit came into being, there existed – and still exists – another realm, which for want of adequate words we mere mortals refer to as Heaven.
It is a place that defies description, for even those mortals who have glimpsed it in a vision are so overwhelmed by the experience that they find it impossible to recall any precise details. As Dante, the heartbroken poet, once explained, any impressions of Heaven dissolve as snow beneath the sun, or like prophecies writ on autumn leaves they are scattered and lost by the late-year winds. All that is left is a sense of incredible all-embracing sweetness.
Yet, as Heaven was the first home of the daoine maithe, some attempt must be made to give an impression of that realm. Dante asks us to imagine it as a rose vast beyond measure, with a labyrinth of paths weaving up and down and along its petals. Along these celestial tracks move the inhabitants of Heaven, angels with faces of living flame, wings of gold and robes of a whiteness so intense that ‘no snow could match the whiteness they showed’.
Dante’s Heaven also contains the souls of pious mortals, but we are interested in a far earlier age long before the existence of humans or planets, or even dust. A time when no universe existed, only a great and empty hollow.
Heaven, though, the immeasurable blossom, did exist far above the infinite void. Heaven was a place of perfect beauty, for between its great petals every object existed in its ideal form. The ideal table, the ideal horse, the ideal mountain, forest, river, the ideal sunset. Though whether it has the ideal example of absolutely everything is less uncertain. What about the ideal knee scab, asks the curious child? Does such a thing exist to be peeled off and chewed and delighted in? What about the ideal rude joke about farts and bottoms?
The problem with trying to understand the early history of Heaven is that the information we have about it comes down to us from the accounts of long dead old men with big beards and even bigger bank accounts (or herds of goats, cattle, etc.) who got really annoyed if people asked them questions, particularly if the people asking the question were children or women or came from a different tribe. Of course this does not mean that the old men with big beards were mean or bad. Many of them strike me as quite pleasant and reasonably wise people, the sort of people you’d be quite happy to share a cuppa with or stroll along the beach at Salthill, though admittedly they might – like the Galway priests of recent memory – start twitching when they see women and men swimming in the sea together.
The point I’m trying to make is that while it’s always good to respect our hirsute elders, it’s perhaps not always a good idea to completely trust their take on things. So, yes, Heaven was, is and always shall be a very beautiful place, but it did have, has and always will have its own little problems. Not the least of these is that while an ideal sunset is a hashtag awesome thing to experience, there may be other ideal things that are not so good. For example, the ideal mistake, the ideal argument, the ideal bout of senseless violence. All of these have occurred in Heaven, though we prefer to ignore them in the way we pretend to ignore the fact that little Aoife is chewing her scabs at the dinner table, while Ruaridh’s finger is thrust deeply up his nose.
But I am wandering off a little. All we need to know is that long before humans existed, Heaven was filled with a perfectly beautiful race of beings which we know as angels. All were perfect in form, their skin unblemished by wrinkle or scar, their silken robes resistant to all dirt or stains. As they walked they shone; as they shone they added to the lustre of their realm. Among the ranks of these majestic beings who walked the maze of paths or flew around the great petals like industrious yet happy bees were Finnbheara and his wife Oonagh, as content with life as all the other divine beings.
There was no compulsion on the angels to do anything, though many did find a role for themselves. Gabriel, to pick one example, delighted in transmitting messages across the infinite flower (we can think of him perhaps as the Postmaster General). Meanwhile other angelic beings such as Venus, Tu Er Shen and Hathor were experts in event management, organising parties filled with music, dance and love. Occasionally these parties could, as parties do, get a little too rowdy, with arguments and even fisticuffs. Fortunately, there were many skilled in healing any physical or emotional hurt; one of the most talented being Brigid, a friend of Oonagh and Finnbheara.
In addition to these, there was a band of grim yet handsome angels clad in chainmail and leather, who made sure all was orderly and well in the great blossom and that conflicts were resolved amicably. The leader of these – the Garda Commissioner of Heaven, as it were – was a creature who was as inflexible as he was incorruptible. His name was Lucifer and he was the constant companion of the greatest of all the sacred beings. She was known simply as God and it was her sacred light that gave life to the heavenly rose and all its inhabitants.
Heaven was perfection. But I mentioned earlier that such perfection was not always to the good. For in time, the ideal mistake would be made, the ideal argument would result, and the ideal bout of senseless violence would erupt. How Finnbheara, Oonagh and their companions responded to this would have repercussions that would shape the history and culture of a small country that did not then exist. A country we now know as Ireland.
4
God’s New Policy
Gabriel ran an efficient service for transmitting God’s messages – usually these were minor updates on existing regulations. However, one day Gabriel brought a message that was very different. It called on all angels to attend a meeting where God would announce a new policy. This caused some gossip but no great sense of concern among the heavenly ranks. Certainly there is no record of any of the divine beings feeling worried or even afraid. Whether God herself anticipa
ted the terrible fallout from her policy talk is something that theologians have been arguing about for a long, long time.
On the day of the announcement God stood on a small hill, dressed in glowing raiment. She nodded and smiled politely as arriving angels greeted her. To her side stood Lucifer, his chainmail glittering and his eyes watching the gathering crowd. When all the angels had gathered, God spoke.
‘All of you have the free will to make decisions for good and for ill. However, you have never felt the need to exercise this. Thanks to my bright love, you all live in a perfect and incorruptible place. Thanks to the diligence of Lucifer, any minor mistakes and problems have been resolved before they can escalate. Choice and responsibility are something you are capable of, but up to now have had no reason to think about. And because of this, I fear you may be stunted in your cognitive development.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ quipped one of the angels.
‘What’s a cog-nog-ititiv development?’ whispered another.
‘Shh,’ muttered another, ‘let her finish.’
‘I have decided, therefore,’ continued God in a quiet yet firm voice, ‘that there will be new beings brought into existence.’
Before her the angels became more animated, some looking around to gauge the response of friends, others whispering opinions. One called out, ‘We don’t need new angels. There’s no room for them.’
Lucifer stepped forward and looked at the crowd. The angels fell silent. Lucifer returned to God’s side.
‘These new beings will not be angels, they will be humans. Their bodies will age and sicken and finally fail them. Because of this you immortal beings will be far superior to them.’
‘That’s all right, then. You had us worried for a while there.’ The mood in the crowd lightened.
