West of Ireland Folk Tales for Children

by Rab Fulton

  ‘But Knockma is not only the most visible of hills, it is the most ancient and magical. Instead of death I experienced transformation. I became a salmon and slipped down the rain-drenched sides of the hill. I slipped and tumbled until I came to a river. There I swam, the waters washing away old age. Then I became a bird and soared above my sorrows. Finally I became a mortal man again.

  ‘I aged, but slowly, so slowly. Where other mortals live no longer than three score years and ten, I lived for millennia. I have seen much and experienced more, but my unique longevity brought terrible loneliness. When the Firbolg arrived in Ireland they shared their company with me, and I shared my knowledge with them. They became my new companions, though I have never forgotten Ceasair and tend her cairn whenever I can.’

  From the testimony of Fintan Mac Bochra the Tuatha Dé Danann learned two things: that Knockma held a deep reserve of magic that could be added to their own considerable powers, and that most humans live no longer than seventy years and need not be feared or even thought about.

  What Heaven’s exiles failed to learn from the ancient’s account was that humans, though mortal and often foolish, are capable of great courage and determination. This flaw in the knowledge of the immortals would be their undoing.

  8

  Of Gods and Men

  The new home of the Tuatha Dé Danann was a place of great beauty. Dark cool forests, flower-and-fowl tapestried meadows, chortling rivers and shorelines where waves snatched at sun darts or tossed and foamed in the wind. It was a land that at times appeared almost as rich and beautiful as Heaven itself. Yet wiser heads among the Tuatha Dé Danann should have recalled how fragile Heaven was and how swiftly it was lost to them.

  Many years passed. It may have been decades, or it may have been centuries or millennia: it is hard to measure time when talking of immortals. But years did pass, and there were many of them. The Tuatha Dé Danann felt secure and unthreatened. They feasted, made music, fell in and out of love, as carefree and innocent as children in a playground, messing and frolicking and inventing all manner of games and stories.

  But even the best of girls and boys can display moments of selfishness and petty cruelty. It is all part of learning and growing, and most children – though sadly not all – come to understand that kindness is a far more effective tool for making friends and earning respect. But the Tuatha Dé Danann lacked the wisdom of children. Their lives were perfect, so what need was there to make new friends or earn respect from others? What need even to share any of the bounty of the island with each other?

  And so they quarrelled among themselves.

  It was during such a petty squabble between two or three of the immortal lords that something quite unexpected happened. They were squabbling over which precise piece of woodland, river, shoreline and stretch of golden sand belonged to which one of the lords, when a new voice spoke up: ‘This is a silly discussion. This land is so big, there is bounty enough for everyone.’

  The lords turned to see who had dared interrupt them. To their amazement they saw that the speaker was a mortal man. He was small, dark and smiling. He was Ith, a poet from the land of the Milesians. But the immortals were not interested in making introductions. Instead, angered that such a minor creature should dare interrupt them, they clenched their powerful fists and fell upon the mortal wordsmith.

  They beat Ith until they thought he was dead, then, laughing, they left him, their silly argument now forgotten. But Ith was not dead. Badly wounded, he made his way back to the coast. There waited his companions, a small band of adventurers who had travelled to this far-off green island to see what they could discover. Having discovered violence, they quickly fled in their small boat, taking dying Ith with them.

  They returned many months later, but this time they were accompanied by a huge armada. Outraged at the killing of a beloved poet, the Milesians vowed to punish the rulers of the green island.

  Seeing the fleet of ships on the horizon, the Tuatha Dé Danann were unconcerned. They had no doubt that their great magical powers would crush those who threatened the land they ruled and loved. There was no need to apologise or make reparation for the killing of Ith. The mortal women and men who stared out from the boats would be destroyed easily and utterly.

  But human courage is greater than any magic. Though they died in their thousands, the mortal warriors refused to be defeated. On they came with swords, spears and axes glinting until, shocked and stupefied by the onslaught, the Tuatha Dé Danann cried out ‘We surrender!’

  The terms of peace that the Milesians offered seemed generous. Each group would take control of one half of the land. Only after the Tuatha Dé Danann agreed did they learn the true meaning of the treaty. The half belonging to the mortal humans was the land above the ground, while the immortal Tuatha Dé Danann were consigned to the lands below.

  Over time the relationship between humans and immortals has evolved and changed, but this first bargain has held firm. To this day we, the descendants of the Milesians, control those places that are touched by the light of the sun, moon and stars. The Tuatha Dé Danann remain in the places of shadow, most notably the hollow places beneath hills and mounds. And so they became the people of the mounds, daoine sídhe, though respectful (and fearful) mortals also refer to them as the daoine maithe, the good people.

  The daoine maithe never lost their love for Ireland. If anything their love became more intense, resulting in occasional angry fits of jealousy and malice towards humans. More positively, this love motivated the fallen angels to reach a deeper understanding and appreciation of every aspect of this island. As shape-shifters they often travelled abroad in a wide variety of forms: beetles, birds, rodents, fish, foxes and sea serpents; sometimes they even journeyed as gusts of wind. In time their understanding of the rhythm and dynamism of nature came to match that of the ancient Cailleach.

  Theirs was and is a great and generous grá for this land. Not only did individual members of the fallen angels specialise in studying different aspects of nature; they were willing to share their hard-won knowledge. The new rulers of Ireland gladly used the expertise of the defeated immortals. Soon they began to pay homage to their immortal teachers. Indeed, for a brief moment Heaven’s exiles were so revered that they were worshipped as gods. Gods of wind. Gods of wheat. Gods of the shoreline. Gods of healing herbs. Gods of death and gods of love.

  But this harmony did not last long.

  9

  End Days

  The problem was that there was an empire called the Roman Empire and it fell. I’m not sure how it fell. My guess is that it was not paying enough attention to where it was going – maybe it was a bit too giddy or maybe it was having a tantrum – and so it did not see the brick, scooter, banana skin, football, or whatever it was in front of it, tripped over the object and fell.

  It was a bad fall. So bad that a lot of people who lived in the Roman Empire thought that the end of the world had arrived. One of those people who feared this was a man called Patrick. Though a Roman Christian, Patrick had lived much of his formative years in pagan Ireland where he had been taken as a slave. Patrick loved Ireland. He wanted to give the Irish the gift of the Christian faith. Now that the world was ending and judgement day was at hand it was really, really important that he return to Ireland. Time was running out; if his beloved Irish did not embrace Christianity then they would be cast into Hell.

  Now, Hell as we know it was invented by a Greek thinker called Plato, who lived about eight hundred or so years before Saint Patrick. A lot of people, when they think of Plato, imagine him as an old bearded guy wearing a dusty robe who spent far too long writing long, boring, barely understandable tracts about really boring things. In my opinion, though, Plato was a wonderful writer: his words bubble and spark with humour, inventiveness and incredible descriptive power. Admittedly, some of his ideas were a wee bit wacky, but wacky in a completely mind-blowing way. Hell is definitely one of his wackier ideas.

  Hell, as proposed
by Plato, was the ideal form of punishment, torture and pain for people who undermined proper authority in this world. It was a punishment that you could never escape as it happened after death. Everybody dies, so everybody can be threatened with Hell. Plato reckoned a belief in Hell could be a good thing as it would stop people arguing with their betters or creating the kind of social and political upheaval that led to the death of Plato’s beloved friend Socrates.

  By the time the Roman Empire fell Plato’s Hell had evolved into a horrifying punishment that only good Christians could hope to avoid. Non-Christians had no chance of escaping the big fire. Patrick suffered great mental pain as he truly believed that the Irish were all going to be sent to Hell unless he converted them, and converted them fast. Thus the conversion of the Irish began with a desperately terrified and terrifying love.

  All other gods and faiths were false, declared Patrick and his followers. Their shrines were to be broken, their worshippers defeated and humiliated. Even nature was a threat to the creed of the One God. According to this ideology forests, hills, rivers, the very shorelines and rocks – all were potential hiding places for evil beings that could snatch or tempt the Irish down to Hell. In this new world there was to be no more co-operation with Heaven’s fallen angels.

  And yet even the new masters of Ireland could not help but be mesmerised by the magical stories that surrounded them. So moved were the monks that they wrote down the stories for future generations to wonder at. It is said that this process began when Patrick ordered his scribes to write down the words of the dying Fianna warrior Oisín, who had returned to Ireland after living centuries on the magical isle of Tír na nÓg. Yet, in the writing the stories changed, much in the way that Ireland changed during Oisín’s absence – the mortal and immortal heroes became reduced to mere characters in tales of wonder to amuse and delight.

  Condemned as demons or fairytale curiosities, the daoine maithe retreated once more into the shadows, hollows and hills of Ireland and Scotland.

  Of all the hills, Knockma remains the most prestigious. Inside it Lord Finnbheara and Lady Oonagh remain, awaiting judgement day and hopefully the end of their exile from Heaven. They and their entourage enjoy life in their hidden realm. They feast and frolic, play music and dance, and make war against any other fairy bands that try to usurp them. Their love of Ireland and nature is as acute as ever, and they often journey above ground in the guise of creatures.

  Over millennia they gained much wisdom about our world and considerable knowledge of the realms beyond this. Understandably they have mixed feelings about the mortals who walk freely in the daylight. They will play cruel jests on us or even kidnap the more beautiful among us. However, the following stories will show that despite their jealousy and bitterness, the immortals are still willing to share their knowledge and insights with those who treat Ireland, nature and the ‘good people’ with respect.

  10

  Lord Kirwan’s Bride

  Once upon a time there was a young lord who was looking for a wife. His name was Lord Kirwan and his family owned the green and fertile land surrounding Knockma. Or, more accurately, his family owned the land above the ground that surrounds Knockma. For, as everybody knows, the territory beneath the ground, the hidden hollows, grottoes and tunnels that stretch over countless miles and dimensions belong to Lord Finnbheara and Lady Oonagh.

  The Kirwans had owned land in this area for hundreds of years, but in the late eighteenth century their wealth and influence increased massively. Like many of the leading Galway families whose emblems flutter in Eyre Square to this day, the Kirwans’ wealth was partly a product of slave labour in the Caribbean. Men, women and children ‘stolen from Africa’, as the bard says, toiled ceaselessly and endured great cruelty to ensure that the finest families of Galway could have money enough to buy estates, horses and political power.

  With this new wealth Lord Kirwan’s grandfather expanded his estate around Knockma and built a fine new home, Castle Hackett House (the family’s previous occasional residence was a rundown Anglo-Norman building, Castle Hackett Tower). Having moved into the fine mansion old Kirwan made sure to pay due respect to the immortal lord and lady who lived inside the nearby hill. Once a year he left a large barrel of finest wine outside the kitchen door, a barrel that would magically vanish overnight.

  The next Lord Kirwan had a closer relationship with Finnbheara, so much so that when the lord found himself in debt, the king of the Connacht fairies rode his horse for him in a race, and won him a fortune.

  The Lord Kirwan of this story, the son of the horse-race gambler, was not as respectful towards the king and queen of the ‘good people’. Perhaps, being more assured of his power and wealth, he felt less need to treat his immortal neighbours with proper courtesy. Yet there were plenty of recent accounts of what the immortals were capable of.

  Just before his grandfather had settled in Castel Hackett House, the alarm was raised in Connacht that an army of Scottish immortals was set to invade the west of Ireland. The invaders took on the shapes of beetles and, having made landfall, set out to destroy every tree, flower and cereal crop in their path. But a fairy host, also in the guise of beetles, led by Finnbheara and Oonagh, poured out from their fastness of Knockma and routed the Scottish invaders. Not for the first time had the military prowess of the Knockma immortals saved Connacht from ruin.

  A more troubling occurrence took place not long after old Lord Kirwan had settled into the new family mansion. He and one of his sons were out riding when they were met by Lady Oonagh, dressed in her finest robes and riding on a great black horse. She took one look at the young lad and demanded he be given into her care. ‘He will live in my palace beneath Knockma. He will dance every night and never grow old.’ But old Lord Kirwan refused to hand his son over. ‘So be it,’ shrugged Lady Oonagh. That very night the boy fell ill. The finest physicians that money could buy were sent for, but to no avail. The boy grew sicker and died within three days. It seemed that a yearly casket of wine was not payment enough for the nobles beneath the hill.

  Yet, even though the boy who had died was his own uncle, the new Lord Kirwan took little heed of such recent history. If asked about the fallen angels next door, he would dismiss them with a flick of his hand. ‘Sure, they can drink wine and ride horses,’ he would say. ‘Any mortal can do the same.’ This then was the man who sent agents around Galway and Mayo to find a suitable wife to live with him in Castle Hackett House.

  It took a while, for there were many women who would be Lord Kirwan’s spouse. Spoilt for choice, the young lord often joked, ‘I would marry them all if I could.’ He no sooner set his mind on one women than his eye would go roving over another. But his advisors insisted a marriage must be made, and made soon. A wife not only brought children, but provided an entirely free household management service. She would look after house and servants, freeing up more of Lord Kirwan’s time for work and pleasure. The lord sat down and consulted his notes. There was one woman who stood out from the rest, and if he must marry, then she would make the perfect bride.

  The woman in question had clever eyes and a wry smile. Her fingers were nimble at sewing and even nimbler at catching false notations in an account ledger. She met with Lord Kirwan, found him suitable for her own ambitions, and agreed that he might call on her, which he did. Theirs was a match based on sound business and financial sense, but the more they met the closer they grew, for love is a hardy rose that, given the opportunity, will bloom in poor soil as well as rich.

  So the pair were wed. It was a fine wedding and the festivities were even finer. The wedding guests were invited to Castle Hackett House for feasting, drinking, music, song and dancing. The house filled with the scent of candles, warm wine and perfumes, and echoed with the gay tinkle of the newest music and the newest gossip. Arm in arm the Lord and Lady Kirwan moved among the guests – landowners, merchants, bankers, politicians and religious leaders – greeting them all and making sure they were merry. However, not all
the great and powerful had been invited to celebrate the marriage. No invitation had been sent to the immortal lord and lady who lived under the hill.

  During the festivities, some of the guests observed a large beetle scuttling about. One moment it was spied on the floor, deftly avoiding dancing feet; then it was seen briefly on a table considering the rich foods there. It was shooed from the table and ran up a curtain. There it sat out of sight and mind of the revellers. But if anyone had cared to look upwards they would have seen the little beast peering out from the topmost folds of the curtain, glancing now and then at the fun and frolics of Ireland’s leading men and women. For the most part, though, the insect’s gaze was fixed on Lady Kirwan as she bowed, danced and exchanged pleasantries.

  A couple of nights after the wedding, Lord Kirwan was making ready to go on his honeymoon. The newlyweds would be leaving at daybreak and there was much still to organise. Lord Kirwan sent a servant to enquire after his wife, but his wife was nowhere to be found. The lord then called for his wife’s maid and asked where her mistress was.

  ‘I last saw her walking towards kitchen, sir. She told me to retire as it was late. So I did so, sir.’

  ‘Why was she going to the kitchen?’

  ‘The cook had reported a problem, sir and wanted her ladyship’s advice.’

  Lord Kirwan dismissed the maid and went down to the kitchen. The cook was finishing up as he entered.

  ‘My wife called on you earlier?’ he asked. ‘You had trouble, I hear?’